Conversations with Eckermann

1823

 

Weimar, June 10

I arrived here a few days ago, but did not see Goethe till today. He received me with great cordiality, and made me feel this day as one of the happiest in my life. Yesterday, when I called to inquire, he fixed today at twelve o'clock to see me. I went at that hour, and found a servant waiting to take me to him.

 

The interior of the house impressed me pleasantly: everything was extremely simple and noble; even the casts from antique statues, placed upon the stairs, indicated Goethe's partiality for plastic art, and for Grecian antiquity. I saw several ladies moving busily about in the lower part of the house, and one of Ottilia's beautiful boys [Ottilia was Goethe's daughter-in-law, and the female head of the house. The boys were Walter and Wolfgang], who came familiarly up to me, and looked me fixedly in the face.

 

After I had cast a glance around, I ascended the stairs, with the very talkative servant, to the first floor. He opened a room, on the threshold of which the motto Salve was a good omen of a friendly welcome. He led me through this apartment, and opened another somewhat more spacious where he requested me to wait. The air here was most cool and refreshing; on the floor was spread a carpet: the room was furnished with a crimson sofa and chairs, which gave a cheerful aspect; on one side stood a piano; and the walls were adorned with many pictures and drawings. An open door opposite disclosed a farther room, also hung with pictures, through which the servant had gone to announce me.

 

It was not long before Goethe came in, in a blue frock-coat, and with shoes: an impressive figure. He soon dispelled uneasiness by the kindest words. We sat on the sofa. I felt in a happy perplexity, and could say little or nothing.

 

He began by speaking of my manuscript. "I have just come from you," said he; "I have been reading your writing all the morning; it needs no recommendation - it recommends itself" He praised the clearness of the style, the flow of the thought, and the peculiarity that all rested on a solid basis and had been thoroughly considered. "I will soon forward it," said he; "I shall write to Cotta by post today, and send him the parcel tomorrow."

 

We talked of my proposed excursion. I told him my design was to go into the Rhineland, where I intended to stay at a suitable place, and write something new. First, however, I would go to Jena, and there await Herr von Cotta's an­swer.

 

Goethe asked whether I had acquaintance in Jena. I replied that I hoped to come in contact with Herr von Knebel; on which he promised me a letter which would ensure me a favourable reception. "And, indeed," said he, "while you are in Jena, we shall be near neighbours, and can see or write to one another as often as we please."

 

We sat a long while together, in a tranquil affectionate mood. I forgot to speak for looking at him - I could not look enough. His face is powerful and brown - full of wrinkles, and each wrinkle full of expression! He spoke in a slow, composed manner, such as you would expect from an aged monarch who reposes upon himself, and is elevated above both praise and blame. I felt becalmed like one who, after many toils and tedious expectations, finally sees his dearest wishes gratified.

 

He then spoke of my letter, and remarked that a person able to treat one mat­ter with clearness is fitted for many things besides.

 

"None can tell what turn this may take," said he; "I have many good friends in Berlin, and have lately thought of you in that quarter." Here he smiled pleas­antly to himself. He then pointed out to me what I ought now to see in Weimar, and said he would desire secretary Krauter to be my cicerone. Above all, I must not fail to visit the theatre. He asked me where I lodged, saying that he should like to see me once more, and would send for me at a suitable time.

 

We bade each other an affectionate farewell; I felt that he liked me.

 

Wednesday, June 11

This morning, a card from Goethe, written by his own hand, desired me to come to him. I went and stayed an hour. He seemed quite different from 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 go from us so soon; let us become better acquainted. 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 critiques written at that time. These are not marked; but, as you are familiar with my style and tone of thought, you will easily distinguish them from the others. I would have you examine somewhat more closely 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. From my present self these things stand so far, that I have no judgment about them. But you younger people can tell whether they are to you of any value, and how far they suit our present point of view. I have already had copies taken, which you can have by and by to compare with the originals. Afterwards we might ascertain whether here and there some trifle might not be left out, or touched up without injuring the whole."

I replied, I would gladly make the attempt.

 

"You will find yourself perfectly competent," said he, "when you have once entered on the task; it will come quite naturally."

 

He then told me he intended to set off for Marienbad in a week; and t should be glad if I could remain at Weimar till then, that we might become better acquainted.

 

"I wish, too," said he, "you would not merely pass a few days or weeks in Jena, but live there all the summer, till I return from Marienbad towards the autumn. Already I have written about a lodging for you and other things necessary to make your stay pleasant.

 

"You will find there the most various resources and means for further studies, and a very cultivated circle; besides, the country has so many aspects, that you may take fifty walks, each different from the others, each pleasant, and a most all suited for undisturbed thought. You will find there plenty of leisure to write many new things for yourself, and also to accomplish my designs."

 

I could make no objection to such good proposals, and consented joyfully. When I departed, he was especially amiable, and fixed an hour the day after tomorrow for further converse.

 

Monday, June 16

I have lately been frequently with Goethe. Today, I declared my opinion of his Frankfort criticisms, calling them echoes of his academic years: an expression that seemed to please him.

 

He then gave me the first eleven numbers of Kunst und Alterthum, (Art and Antiquity) to take with me to Jena, with the Frankfort critiques as a second task.

 

"I wish," said he, "you would study carefully these numbers, and not only make a general index of contents but also set down what subjects are not to be looked upon as concluded - that I may thus see at once what threads I have to take up again and spin longer. This will be a great assistance to me, and so far an advantage to you, that you will more keenly observe and apprehend the im­port of each treatise than if you read merely from inclination."

 

I said that I would willingly undertake this labour also.

 

Thursday, June 19

I was to have gone to Jena today; but Goethe yesterday requested earnestly that I would stay till Sunday, and then go by the post. He gave me yesterday the 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, have visited there, and always with delight; and even now it is the union­-point of 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."

 

I felt grateful for so much care, and was very happy to see that Goethe re­garded me as his own.

 

Saturday, June 21, I bade farewell to Goethe; and on the following day I went to Jena, where I established myself in a rural dwelling, with good respectable folk. In the families of von Knebel and Frommann, I found, on Goethe's rec­ommendation, a cordial reception and cultured society. I made the best possible progress with the work I had taken with me, and had, besides, the pleasure of receiving a letter from Herr von Cotta, in which he not only declared him­self ready to publish my manuscript which had been sent him, but promised me a handsome remuneration, adding that I myself should superintend the printing at Jena.

 

Thus my subsistence was secured for at least a year; and I felt the liveliest desire to produce something new at this time, and so to found my future pros­perity as an author. I hoped that, in my Beytriige zur Poesie, I had already come to an end with theory and criticism; and I had plans for innumerable poems and dramas of various sorts.

 

But I was not long content in Jena; my life there was too quiet and uniform. I longed for a great city, where there was not only a good theatre, but where life was lived on a great scale. In such a town, too, I hoped to live quite unobserved, and to be free always to isolate myself for undisturbed production. Meanwhile, I had sketched the index for Goethe's Kunst und Alterthum, and sent it to Marienbad with a letter, to which I received the following answer:

 

"The index arrived just at the right time, and corresponds precisely with my wishes and intentions. Let me, when I return, find the Frankfort criticisms ar­ranged in like manner, and receive my best thanks – which I already silently pay beforehand, by carrying about with me your views, situation, wishes, aims, and plans; so that, on my return, I may be able to discuss your future more thoroughly. Today I will say no more. My departure from Marienbad gives me much to think of and to do; while my stay, all too brief, with persons of interest, occasions painful feelings.

 

"May I find you in that state of tranquil activity, from which, after all, worldviews and experiences are most surely and clearly evolved. Farewell. Rejoice with me in the anticipation of a prolonged and more intimate acquaint­ance.

 

"GOETHE.

"Marienbad, August 14,1823."

 

These lines of Goethe's determined me to take no step for myself, but to be wholly resigned to his will and counsel. Meanwhile, I wrote some little poems, finished arranging the Frankfort criticisms, and expressed my opinion of them in a short treatise intended for Goethe. I looked forward with eagerness to his return from Marienbad; for my Beyträge zur Poesie was almost through the press, and I wished at all events to refresh myself this autumn by going for a few weeks to the Rhine.

 

Jena, September 15

Goethe is returned safe from Marienbad; but, as his country-house here is not so convenient as he requires, he will stay only a few days. He is well and active, so that he can take walks several miles long.

 

He began on my affairs:

 

"To speak out plainly, it is my wish that you should pass this winter with me in Weimar. With respect to poetry and criticism: you have a natural foundation for them. They are your profession, to which you must adhere, and which will soon bring you a good livelihood. But yet there is much, not strictly appertain­ing to this department, that you ought to know. However, you should get over it quickly this winter in Weimar: and you will wonder at the progress you have made by Easter; because you will have the best means, which are in my hands. Thus you will have laid a firm foundation for life. You will have attained com­fort, and will be able td go forward with confidence."

 

I replied that I would regulate myself entirely by his wishes.

 

"With a home in my neighbourhood," continued Goethe, "I will provide you; you shall pass no unprofitable moment during the whole winter. Much that is good is brought together in Weimar; and you will find, in the higher circles, a society equal to the best in any great city. Besides, many eminent men are personally connected with me. With them you will make acquaintance, and you will find their conversation in the highest degree useful."

 

Goethe mentioned many distinguished men, indicating the peculiar merits of each.

 

"Where else," he continued, "would you find so much good in such a nar­row space? We also possess an excellent library, and a theatre which yields to none in Germany. Therefore, I repeat, stay with us; and not only this winter, but make Weimar your home. Thence proceed highways to all quarters of the globe. In summer you can travel and see what you wish. I have lived there fifty years; and where have I not been? But I was always glad to return to Weimar."

 

Jena, Thursday, September 18

Yesterday morning, before Goethe's return to Weimar, I had the happiness of another interview with him. What he said at that time was to me quite invalu­able. All the young poets of Germany should know it.

 

He began by asking whether I had written any poems this summer. I said I had indeed written some, but on the whole I lacked the necessary ease. "Be­ware," said he, "of attempting a large work. That is what injures our best minds, even those finest in talent and most earnest in effort. I have suffered from this cause, and know how much it injured me. What have I not 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; the thoughts and feelings which daily press upon the poet will and should be expressed. But, if you have a great work in your head, nothing else thrives near it; all other thoughts are repelled, and the pleasure of life itself is for the time lost. What exertion and expenditure of men­tal force are required to arrange and round off a great whole! and then what powers, and what a tranquil situation, to express it with the proper fluency! If you have erred as to the whole, all your toil is lost; and further, if, treating so extensive a subject, you are not perfectly master of your material in the details, the whole will be defective, and censure will be incurred. Thus, for all his toil and sacrifice, the poet gets, instead of reward and pleasure, nothing but dis­comfort and a paralysis of his powers. But if he daily seizes the present, and always treats with a freshness of feeling what is offered him, he always makes sure of something good; and, if he sometimes does not succeed, has at least lost nothing.

 

"There is August Hagen, in Königsberg, a splendid talent: have you ever read his Olfried und Lisena? There you may find passages that could not be bet­ter; the situations on the Baltic, and the other particulars of that locality, are all masterly. But these are only fine passages; as a whole, it pleases nobody. And what labour and power he has lavished upon it! Indeed, he has almost ex­hausted himself. Now, he has been writing a tragedy." Here Goethe smiled, and paused for a moment. I took up the discourse, and said that, if I was not mistaken, he had advised Hagen (in Kunst und Alterthum) to treat only small subjects. "I did so, indeed," he replied; "but do people conform to the instruc­tions of us old ones? Each thinks he must know best about himself, and thus many are lost entirely, and many for a long time go astray. Past is the time for blundering about - that belonged to us old ones; and what was the use of all our seeking and blundering, if you young people choose to go the very same way over again? In this way we can never get on at all. Our errors were endured because we found no beaten path; he that comes later must not be seeking and blundering, but should use the instructions of the old ones to proceed at once on the right path. It is not enough to take steps which may some day lead to a goal; each step must be itself a goal.

 

"Carry these words about with you, and see how you can apply them. Not that I really feel uneasy about you, but perhaps by advice I help you quickly over a period not suitable to your present situation. If at present you treat only small subjects, freshly dashing off what every day offers you, you will gener­ally produce something good, and each day will bring you pleasure. Give what you do to the pocket - volumes and periodicals, but never submit yourself to the requirements of others; always follow your own sense.

 

"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 occasioned; that is to say, reality must give both impulse and material. A particular event becomes universal and poetic by the very circumstance that it is treated by a poet. All my poems are occasioned poems, suggested by real life, and having therein a firm founda­tion. I attach no value to poems snatched out of the air.

 

"Let none say that reality wants poetical interest; for in this the poet proves his vocation, that he has the art to win from a common subject an interesting side. Reality must give the motive, the points to be expressed - the kernel; but to work out of it a beautiful animated whole belongs to the poet. You know Fürnstein, called the Poet of Nature; he has written the prettiest poem possi­ble, on the cultivation of hops. I have now proposed to him to make songs for the different crafts of workingmen, particularly a weaver's song; and I am sure he will do it well, for he has lived among such people from his youth: he under­stands the subject thoroughly, and is therefore master of his material. That is exactly the advantage of small works; you need only choose those subjects of which you are master. With a great poem, this cannot be: no part can be evaded; all that belongs to the unification of the whole, and is interwoven into the plan, must be represented with precision. In youth, however, the knowledge of things is one-sided: a great work requires many-sidedness; so comes shipwreck. "

 

I told Goethe I had contemplated writing a great poem upon the seasons, in which I might interweave the employments and amusements of all classes. "Here is the very case in point," replied Goethe; "you may succeed in many parts, but fail in others that refer to what you have not investigated. Perhaps you would do the fisherman well, and the huntsman ill; and if you fail any­where, the whole is a failure – however good single parts may be – and you have not produced a perfect work. Give separately the single parts to which you are equal, and you make sure of something good.

 

"I especially warn you against great inventions of your own; for then you would try to give a view of things, and for that purpose youth is seldom ripe. Further, character and views detach themselves as sides from the poet's mind, and deprive him of the fullness requisite for future productions. And, finally, how much time is lost in invention, internal arrangement, and combination! for which nobody thanks us, even supposing our work happily accomplished.

 

"With a given material, on the other hand, all goes easier and better. Facts and characters being provided, the poet has only the task of animating the whole. He preserves his own fullness, for he needs to part with but little of himself; and there is much less loss of time and power, since he has only the trouble of execution. Indeed, I advise the choice of subjects that have been worked before. How many Iphigenias have been written! Yet they are all different; each writer considers and arranges 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; and for the attainment of this, the working out of small subjects is the best expedient."

 

We had been walking up and down the room. I could but assent, feeling the truth of each word. At each step I felt lighter and happier; for I must confess that grand schemes, of which I had not as yet been able to take a clear view, had been no little burden to me.

 

I feel years wiser through these words of Goethe's, and perceive the good fortune of meeting with a true master.

 

Weimar, Thursday, October 2

I came here yesterday from Jena, favoured by agreeable weather. Immediately after my arrival, Goethe, by way of welcoming me to Weimar, sent me a season-ticket for the theatre. I passed yesterday in making my domestic arrange­ments, as they were very busy at Goethe's; for the French Ambassador from Frankfort, Count Reinhard, and the Prussian State Counsellor, Schultz, from Berlin, had come to visit him.

 

This forenoon I was again at Goethe's. As I was about to take my leave, he said he would first make me acquainted with the State Counsellor, Schultz. In the next room we found that gentleman looking at the works of art. Goethe introduced me, and left us together.

 

Tuesday, October 14

This evening, I went for the first time to a large tea-party at Goethe's. I arrived first, and enjoyed the view of the brilliantly lighted apartments, which, through open doors, led one into the other. In one of the farthest, I found Goethe, dressed in black, and wearing his star - which became him so well. We were for a while alone, and went into the so-called "covered room" (Deckenzimmer), where the picture of the Aldobrandine Marriage, which was hung above a red couch, especially attracted my attention. On the green curtains being drawn aside, the picture was before my eyes in a broad light, and I was delighted to contemplate it quietly.

 

"Yes," said Goethe, "the ancients had not only great intentions, but they car­ried them into effect. We moderns have also great intentions, but are seldom able to bring them out with such power and freshness as we have 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, also entered. The rooms filled gradually, and there was life and cheerfulness in them all. Some pretty youthful foreigners were present, with whom Goethe spoke French.

 

All, free and unconstrained, laughed and talked. I had a lively conversation with young Goethe [Goethe's only son, August] about Houwald's Bild (Picture), [a drama of some celebrity] which was given a few days since. I was greatly pleased to see this young man expound the points with so much animation and intelligence.

 

Goethe himself went about from one to another; he seemed to prefer listen­ing, and hearing his guests talk, to talking much himself Frau von Goethe would often come and lean upon him, and kiss him. I had lately said to him that I enjoyed the theatre highly, and that I felt great pleasure in giving myself up to the impression of the piece, without reflecting much upon it. This to him seemed right, and suited to my present state.

 

He came to me with Frau von Goethe. "This is my daughter-in-law," said he; "do you know each other?"

 

We told him that we had just become acquainted.

 

"He is as much a child about the theatre as you, Ottilia!" said he; and we ex­changed congratulations upon this taste which we had in common. "My daughter," continued he, "never misses an evening."

 

"That is all very well," said I, "as long as they give good lively pieces; but when the pieces are bad, they try the patience."

 

"But," said Goethe, "it is a good thing that you cannot leave, and must hear and see even what is bad. By this means you are penetrated with the hatred for the bad, and come to a clearer insight into the good. In reading, it is not so­ you throw aside the book if it displeases you; but at the theatre you must en­dure."

 

We now separated, and joined the rest, who were loudly and merrily amusing themselves about us - now in this room, now in that. Goethe went to the ladies; and I joined Riemer and Meyer, who told us much about Italy.

 

Afterwards, Counsellor Schmidt seated himself at the piano, and played some of Beethoven's pieces, which seemed received with deep sympathy. An intelligent lady then related many interesting particulars respecting Beetho­ven. Ten 0' clock came, and thus had passed an extremely pleasant evening.

 

Sunday, October 19

Today, I dined for the first time with Goethe. No others were present except Frau von Goethe, Fraulein Ulrica [Ottilia’s sister], and little Walter; and thus we were all very comfortable. Goethe appeared now solely as father of a family, helping to all the dishes, carving the roast fowls with great dexterity, and 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; Fraulein Ulrica was espe­cially lively and entertaining. Goethe was generally silent, coming out only now and then with some pertinent remark. From time to time he glanced at the newspaper, reading us some passages, especially about the progress of the Greeks.

 

They then talked about the necessity of my learning English; and Goethe earnestly advised me to do so, particularly on account of Lord Byron - saying that a character of such eminence had never existed before, and probably would never come again. They discussed the merits of teachers here, but found none with thoroughly good pronunciation; on which account they deemed it better to go to some young Englishman.

 

After dinner, Goethe showed me some experiments relating to his theory of colours. The subject was, however, new to me; I understood neither the phe­nomena nor what he said about them. Nevertheless, I hoped that the future would afford me leisure to initiate myself into this science.

 

Tuesday, October 21

I went to see Goethe this evening. We talked of his Pandora. I asked him whether this poem was to be regarded as a whole, or whether there was any­ thing further. He said there was nothing further in existence, and that he had written no more because the first part was planned on so large a scale that he could not afterwards get through a second. Besides, what was done might be regarded as a whole, so he felt easy.

 

I said that I had penetrated the meaning of this difficult poem only by de­grees, after I had read it so many times as almost to know it by heart. Goethe smiled, and said, "I can well believe that; for its parts are wedged one within another."

 

I added that I could not be perfectly satisfied with what Schubarth said about this poem: that there was there united all that had been said separately in Werther, Wilhelm Meister, Faust, and the Elective Affinities – thus making the matter very incomprehensible and difficult. "Schubarth," said Goethe, "often goes a little deep; but he is very clever, and all his words are pregnant."

 

We spoke of Uhland; and Goethe said, "When I see great effects, I am apt to suppose great causes; and, with a popularity so extensive as that of Uhland, there must be something superior about him. However, I can scarcely form a judgment as to his poems. 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 plainly see that there was some foundation for his celebrity."

 

I then asked Goethe his opinion as to the kind of verse proper for German tragedy. "People in Germany," he replied, "will scarcely come to an agreement on that point. Everyone does just as he likes, what he finds suitable to his sub­ject. The Iambic trimeter would be the most dignified measure; but it is too long for us Germans, who, for want of epithets, generally find five feet quite enough. The English, on account of their many monosyllables, cannot even get on so far as we do."

 

Goethe then showed me some copperplates, and afterwards talked about old German architecture; adding that, by degrees, he would show me a great deal in this way.

 

"We see in the works of the old German architecture," he said, "the flower of an extraordinary state of things. Whoever comes immediately close to such a flower, will only stare at it with astonishment; but he who sees into the secret inner life of the plant, into the stirring of its powers, and observes how the flower gradually unfolds itself, sees the matter with quite different eyes – he knows what he sees.

 

"I will take care that in the course of this winter you attain more insight into this important subject, that when you visit the Rhine next summer, the sight of the Minster of Strasburg and the Cathedral of Cologne may do you some good."

 

Saturday, October25

At twilight, I passed half an hour at Goethe's. He sat in a wooden armchair before his table. I found him in a gentle mood, as one who is filled with celestial peace or is recalling a delicious happiness he has enjoyed. Stadelmann gave me a seat near him.

 

We talked of the theatre, which was one of the topics that chiefly interested me this winter. The Night on Earth of Raupach was the last piece I had seen. I gave my opinion that the piece was not brought before us as it existed in the mind of the poet; that the Idea was predominant over the Life; that it was rather lyric than dramatic; and that what was spun out through five acts would have been far better in two or three. Goethe added that the idea of the whole, which turned upon aristocracy and democracy, was by no means of universal interest.

 

I then praised those pieces of Kotzebue's which I had seen – namely, his Affinities, and his Reconciliation. I praised in them the quick eye for real life, the dexterity at seizing its interesting side, and the genuine and forcible represen­tation of it. Goethe agreed with me. "What has kept its place for twenty years, and enjoys the favour of the people," said he, "must have something in it. When Kotzebue contented himself with his own sphere, and did not go be­yond his powers, he usually did well. It was the same with him as with Chodowiecky; who always succeeded perfectly with the scenes of common citi­zens' life, while if he attempted to paint Greek or Roman heroes it proved a failure. "

 

He named several other good pieces of Kotzebue's, especially The Two Klingsbergs. "None can deny," said he, "that Kotzebue has looked about a great deal in life, and ever kept his eyes open.

 

"Intellect, and some poetry, cannot be denied to our modern tragic poets; but most of them are incapable of an easy, living representation – they strive after something beyond their powers; and for that reason I might call them forced talents."

 

"I doubt," said I, "whether such poets could write a piece in prose, and am of opinion that this would be the true touchstone of their talent." Goethe agreed with me; adding that versification enhanced, and even called forth, poetic feeling.

 

We then talked about his Journey through Frankfort and Stuttgart to Switzerland, which he has lying by him in three parts, in sheets, and which he will send me, that I may read the details and plan how they may be formed into a whole. You will see," said he, "that it was written on the impulse of the moment; there was no thought of plan or artistical rounding: it was like pouring water from a bucket. "

 

Monday, October 27

This morning, 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 persons to be invited from which I saw that the company would be very large and brilliant. He said' a young Polish lady had arrived, who would play on the piano.

 

Afterwards the bill for the theatre was brought, and I saw that the Chess-machine was to be played. I knew nothing of this piece; but my landlady was so lavish in its praise, that I was seized with a great desire to see It. Besides, I had not been in my best mood all day, and the feeling grew upon me that I was more fit for a merry comedy than for such good society.

 

In the evening, an hour before the theatre opened, I went to Goethe. All, was already in movement throughout the house. As I passed, I heard them tuning the piano in the great room, as preparation for the musical entertainment.

 

I found Goethe alone in his chamber; he was already dressed, and I seemed to him to have arrived at the right moment. "You shall stay with me here," he said "and we will entertain one another till the arrival of the others." I thought, "Now I shall not be able to get away: stop I must; and, though it is very pleasant to be with Goethe alone, yet, when a quantity of strange gentlemen and ladles come, I shall feel out of my element."

 

I walked up and down the room with Goethe: Soon the theatre became the subject of our discourse, and I had an opportunity of repeating that it was to me a source of new delight. "Indeed," added I, "I feel so much about it, that I have had a severe contest with myself, notwithstanding the great attractions of your evening party."

 

"Well," said Goethe, stopping short, and looking at me with kindness and dignity, "go then; do not constrain yourself; if the lively play this evening suits you best, is more suitable to your mood, go there. You have music here, and that you will often have again." "Then," said I, "I will go; it will, perhaps, 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."

 

Stadelmann brought in two wax lights, which he set on the table. 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 go back a little for a circumstance connected with this poem. Im­mediately 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 been inspired with a passion for her. When her voice was heard in the Brunnen-Allee, he had always seized his hat, and hastened to join her. He had missed no opportunity of being in her society, and had passed happy days: the parting had been very painful, and he had, in this excited state, written a most beautiful poem; which, however, he looked upon as a conse­crated thing, and kept hid from every eye.

 

I believed this story, because it perfectly accorded not only with his bodily vigour, but also with the productive force of his mind and the freshness of his heart. I had, therefore, to congratulate myself on the fortunate moment which brought the poem before me.

 

He had, with his own hand, written these verses in Roman characters on fine vellum paper, and fastened them with a silken cord into a red morocco case; so that, from the outside, it was obvious that he prized this manuscript above all the rest.

 

I read it with great delight, and found that every line confirmed the common report. The first verse, however, intimated that the acquaintance was not first made, but only renewed, at this time. The poem revolved constantly on its axis, and seemed always to return to the point where it began. The close, won­derfully broken off, made a singular impression.

 

When I had finished, Goethe came to me again. "Well," said he, "there I have shown you something good. But you shall tell me what you think a few days hence." I was glad he excused me from passing a judgment at the moment. Goethe promised to let me see it again in some tranquil hour.

 

The Chess-machine was, perhaps, a good piece, well acted; but I saw it not – ­ my thoughts were with Goethe. When the play was over, I passed by his house; it was all lighted up; I heard music from within, and regretted that I had not stayed there.

 

The next day, I was told that the young Polish lady, Madame Szymanowska, in whose honour the party had been given, had played on the piano to the en­chantment of the whole company. I learned also that Goethe became ac­quainted with her last summer at Marienbad.

 

At noon, Goethe sent me a little manuscript, Studies by Zauper. I sent him  some poems I had written this summer at Jena.

 

Wednesday, October 29

This evening I went to Goethe just as they were lighting the candles. I found him in a very animated state of mind: his eyes sparkled with the reflection of the candlelight; his whole expression was one of cheerfulness, youth, and power.

 

As he walked up and down with me, he began to speak of the poems I sent him yesterday.

 

"I understand now," said he, "why you talked to me, at Jena, of writing a poem on the seasons. I now advise you to do so; begin at once with Winter. You seem to have a special sense and feeling for natural objects.

 

"Only two words would I say about your poems. You stand now at that point where you must break through to the high and difficult part of art – ap­prehension of what is individual. You must do some violence to yourself to get out of the Idea. You have talent, and have got so far; now you must do this. You have been lately at Tiefurt; that might now afford a subject for the attempt. You may perhaps go to Tiefurt and look at it three or four times before you win from it the characteristic side, and bring all your motif together; but spare not your toil; study it throughout, and then represent it; the subject is well worth this trouble. I should have used it long ago, but I could not; for I have lived through those important circumstances, and my being is so interwoven with them, that details press unduly upon me. But you come as a stranger; let the Castell an tell you the past, and you will see only what is present, prominent, and significant."

 

I promised to try, but could not deny that this subject seemed far out of my way, and very difficult.

 

"I know well," said he, "that it is difficult; but apprehension and representa­tion of the individual is the very life of art. Besides, while you content yourself with generalities, everybody can imitate you; but, in the particular, none can­ and why? because no others have experienced exactly the same thing.

 

"And you need not fear lest what is peculiar should not meet with sympathy. Each character, however peculiar it may be, and each object you can represent, from the stone up to man, has generality; for there is repetition everywhere, and there is nothing to be found only once in the world.

 

"At this step of representing what is individual," continued Goethe, "be­gins, at the same time, what we call composition."

 

This was not at once clear to me, though I refrained from questions. "Per­haps," thought I, "he means the blending of the Ideal with the Real - the union of that which is external with that which is innate. 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, to know why this was so important. "Your poems will thus serve," he said, "as a diary of your progress. I have done it for many years, and I 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 john of Finland, by Frau von Weissenthurn.

 

The piece did not lack effective situations; but it was so overloaded with pa­thos, and the design was so obvious in every part, that the whole did not im­press me favourably. The last act, however, pleased me much, and reconciled me to the rest.

 

Monday, November 3

I went to Goethe at five o'clock. I heard them, as I came upstairs, laughing very loud, and talking in the great room. The servant said that the Polish lady dined there today, and that the company had not yet left the table. I was going away; but he said he had orders to announce me, and that perhaps his master would be glad of my arrival, as it was now late. I waited a while, after which Goethe came out in a very cheerful mood, and took me to the opposite room. He had a bottle of wine brought, and filled for me, and occasionally for himself.

 

"Before I forget it," said he, looking about the table for something, "let me give you a concert-ticket. Madame Szymanowska gives, tomorrow 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. "They say she plays very well," I added. "Admirably," said Goethe. "As well as Hummel?" asked 1. "You must remember," said Goethe, "that she is not only a great performer, but a beautiful woman; and this lends a charm to all she does. Her execution is masterly - astonishing, indeed." "And has she also great power?" said 1. "Yes," said he, "great power; and that is what we do not often find in ladies."

 

Secretary Krauter came in to consult about the library. When he left us, Goethe praised his talent and integrity in business.

 

I then turned the conversation to the Journey through Frankfort and Stuttgart to Switzerland, in 1797, the manuscript of which he had lately given me, and which I had already diligently studied. I spoke of Goethe's and Meyer's reflec­tions on the subjects of plastic art.

 

"Ay," said Goethe, "what can be more important than the subject, and what is all the science of art without it? All talent is wasted if the subject is unsuitable. It is because modern artists have no worthy subjects, that people are so ham­pered in all the art of modern times. From this cause we all suffer. I myself have not been able to renounce my modernness.

 

"Very few artists," he continued, "are clear on this point, or know what will really be satisfactory. For instance, they take my Fisherman as the subject of a picture, and do not think that it cannot be painted. In this ballad, nothing is expressed but the charm in water which tempts us to bathe in summer; there is nothing else in it: and how can that be painted?"

 

I mentioned how pleased I was to see how, in that journey, he had taken an interest in everything: shape and situation of mountains, with their species of stone; soil, rivers, clouds, air, wind, and weather; then cities with their origin and growth, architecture, painting, theatres, municipal regulations and police, trade, economy, laying out of streets, varieties of human race, manner of liv­ing, peculiarities; then again, politics, martial affairs, and a hundred things beside.

 

He answered, "But you find no word upon music, because that was not within my sphere. Each traveller should know what he has to see, and what properly belongs to him, on a journey."

The Chancellor [Friedrich von Muller] came in. He talked a little with Goethe; and then spoke to me, kindly and with much acuteness, about a little paper he had lately read. He soon returned to the ladies, among whom I heard the sound of a piano.

 

When he had left us, Goethe spoke highly of him, and said, "All these excellent men, with whom you are now placed in so pleasant a relation, make what I call a home, to which one is always willing to return."

 

I said I already began to perceive the beneficial effect of my present situation, and found myself gradually leaving my ideal and theoretic tendencies and more and more able to appreciate the value of the present moment.

 

"It would be a pity," said Goethe, "if it were not so. Only persist in this, and hold fast by the present. Every situation – nay, every moment – is of infinite worth; for it is the representative of a whole eternity."

 

After a short pause, I turned the conversation to Tiefurt. "The subject," said I, "is complex, and it will be difficult to give it proper form. It would be most convenient to me to treat it in prose."

 

"For that" said Goethe, "the subject is not sufficiently significant. The so called didactic, descriptive form, would, on the whole, be eligible; but even that is not perfectly appropriate. The best method will be to treat the subject in ten or twelve separate little poems – in rhyme; but in various measures and forms, such as the various sides and views demand, by which means light will be given to the whole." This advice I at once adopted as judicious. "Why, indeed," continued he, "should you not for once use dramatic means, and write a conversation or so with the gardener? By this fragmentary method you make your task easy, and can better bring out the characteristic sides of the subject. A great, comprehensive whole, on the other hand, is always difficult; and he who attempts it seldom produces anything complete.

 

Monday, November 10

Goethe has not been very well for the last few days; it seems he cannot get rid of a very bad cold. He coughs a great deal, very loud, and with much force; the cough seems to be painful, for he generally has his hand on his left side.

 

I passed half an hour with him this evening before the theatre. He sat in an armchair, with his back sunk in a cushion, and seemed to speak with difficulty.

 

After we had talked a little, he wished me to read a poem with which he in­tended to open a new number of Kunst und Alterthum. He remained sitting, and showed me where it was kept. I took the light, and sat down at his writing-table to read it, at a little distance.

 

This poem was singular; and, though I did not fully understand it on the first reading, it affected me strangely. The glorification of the Paria was its subject, and it was treated as a Trilogy. The prevailing tone seemed that of another world, and the mode of representation was such that I found it very difficult to form a notion of the subject. The presence of Goethe was also unfavourable to thorough abstraction: now I heard him cough; now I heard him sigh; and thus I was, as it were, divided in two - one half read, and the other felt his presence. I was forced to read the poem again and again, to get near it. However, the more I penetrated into it, the more significant and the higher in art did it seem.

 

At last I spoke to Goethe, as to both subject and treatment; and he gave me new light.

 

"Indeed," said he, "the treatment is very terse, and you must go deep into it to seize upon its meaning. It seems, even 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 has had time to get clear of everything extraneous."

 

"It will produce an effect," said I, "when it comes before the public."

 

"Ah, the public!" sighed Goethe.

 

"Would it not be well," said I, "to add an explanation as we do to pictures, when we endeavour to give life to what is present, by describing the preceding circumstances?"

 

"I think not," said he. "With pictures it is another matter; but, as a poem is already expressed in words, one word only cancels another."

 

I thought Goethe was here very happy in pointing out the rock on which those who interpret poems are commonly wrecked. Still it may be questioned whether it be not possible to avoid this rock, and to affix some explanatory words to a poem without injuring the delicacy of its inner life.

 

When I went away, he asked me to take the sheets of Kunst und Alterthum home with me, that I might read the poem again, and also the Roses from the East of Rückert, a poet whom he seems to value highly, and to regard with great expectation.

 

Wednesday, November 12

Towards evening, I went to see Goethe; but heard, before I went upstairs, that the prussian minister, von Humboldt, was with him - at which I was pleased, being convinced that this visit of an old friend would cheer him up and do him good.

 

I then went to the theatre, where The Sisters of Prague, got up to perfection, was done admirably, so that it was impossible to leave off laughing through­out.

 

Thursday, November 13

Some days ago, as I was walking one fine afternoon towards Erfurt, I was joined by an elderly man; whom I supposed, from his appearance, to be an op­ulent citizen. We had not talked together long, before I asked him whether he knew Goethe. "Know him?" said he, with delight; "I was his valet almost twenty years!" He then launched into the praises of his former master. 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 might have been about twenty­ seven years old; he was thin, nimble, 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, had not been very gay. Certainly," replied he; "he was always gay with the gay, but never when they passed a certain limit; in that case he usually became grave. Always work­ing and seeking; his mind always bent on art and science; that was generally the way with my master. The duke often visited him in the evening, and then they often talked on learned topics till late at night, so that I got extremely tired, and wondered when the duke would go. Even then he was interested in natural science.

 

"One time he rang in the middle of the night; and when I entered his room I found he had rolled his iron bed to the window, and was lying there, looking out upon the heavens. 'Have you seen nothing in the sky?' asked he; and when I answered 'No,' he bade me run to the guard-house, and ask the man on duty if he had seen nothing. I went there; the guard said he had seen nothing, and I returned with this answer to my master, who was still in the same position, lying in his bed, and gazing upon the sky. 'Listen,' said he; '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."

 

"It was very cloudy," he replied; "very still and sultry."

 

I asked if he at once believed there was an earthquake on Goethe's word.

 

"Yes," said he, "I believed it, for things always happened as he said they would. Next day he related his observations at court, when a lady whispered to her neighbour, 'Only listen, Goethe is dreaming.' But the duke, and all the men present, believed Goethe, and the correctness of his observations was soon confirmed; for, in a few weeks, the news came that a part of Messina, on that night, had been destroyed by an earthquake."

 

Friday, November 14

Towards evening, Goethe sent me an invitation to call upon him. Humboldt, he said, was at court, and therefore I should be all the more welcome. I found him, as I did some days ago, sitting in his armchair. The chancellor soon joined us. We sat near Goethe, and carried on a light conversation, that he might only have to listen. The physician, Counsellor Rehbein, soon came also. To use his own expression, he found Goethe's pulse quite lively and easy. At this we were highly pleased, and joked with Goethe on the subject. "If I could only get rid of the pain in my left side!" he said. Rehbein prescribed a plaster; we talked on the good effect of such a remedy, and Goethe consented to it. Reh­bein turned the conversation to Marienbad, and this appeared to awaken pleas­ant reminiscences in Goethe. Arrangements were made to go there again; it was said that the grand-duke would join the party, and these prospects put Goethe in the most cheerful mood. They also talked about Madame Szyma­nowska, and mentioned the time when she was here and all the men were solic­itors for her favour.

 

When Rehbein was gone, the chancellor read the Indian poems, and Goethe meanwhile talked to me about the Marienbad Elegy.

 

At eight 0' clock, the chancellor went; and I was going too, but Goethe bade me stop a little, and I sat down. The conversation turned on the stage, and the fact that Wallenstein was to be done tomorrow. This gave occasion to talk about 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 that violates the truth of nature, and I can go no further. I feel this even in reading Wallenstein. I cannot but think that Schiller's turn for philoso­phy injured his poetry, because this led him to consider the idea far higher than all nature; indeed, thus to annihilate nature. What he could conceive must hap­pen, whether it were in conformity with nature or not."

 

"It was sad," said Goethe, "to see how so highly gifted a man tormented himself with philosophical disquisitions which could in no way profit him. Humboldt has shown me letters Schiller wrote to him in those unblest days of speculation. There we see how he plagued himself with the design of perfectly separating sentimental from naive poetry. For the former he could find no proper soil, and this brought him into unspeakable perplexity. As if," con­tinued he, smiling, "sentimental poetry could exist at all without the naive ground in which it has its root.

 

"It was not Schiller's plan," continued Goethe, "to go to work instinctively; he was forced to reflect on all he did. Hence he never could leave off talking about his poetical projects; and thus he discussed with me all his late pieces, scene after scene.

 

"On the other hand, it was contrary to my nature to talk over my poetic plans with anybody – even with Schiller. I carried everything about with me in silence, and usually nothing was known to anyone till the whole was completed. When I showed Schiller my Hermann and Dorothea finished, he was as­tonished, for I had said not a syllable to him of any such plan.

 

"But I am curious to hear what you will say of Wallenstein tomorrow. You will see noble forms, and the piece will make an impression on you such as you probably do not dream of."

 

Saturday, November 15

In the evening I was in the theatre, where I for the first time saw Wallenstein. Goethe had not said too much; the impression was great, and stirred my in­most soul. The actors, who had almost all belonged to the time when they were under the personal influence of Schiller and Goethe, gave an ensemble of sig­nificant personages, such as on a mere reading were not presented to my imag­ination. I could not get it out of my head the whole night.

 

Sunday, November 16

In the evening at Goethe's; he was still sitting in his elbow-chair, and seemed rather weak. His first question was about Wallenstein. I gave him an account, which he heard with visible satisfaction.

 

M. Soret came in, led in by Frau von Goethe, and remained about an hour. He brought from the duke some gold medals, and by showing and talking about these seemed to entertain Goethe. Frau von Goethe and M. Soret went to court, and I was left alone with Goethe.

 

Remembering his promise to show me his Marienbad Elegy again, Goethe arose, put a light on the table, and gave me the poem. He quietly seated himself again, and left me to an undisturbed perusal.

 

After I had been reading a while, I turned to say something, but he seemed asleep. I therefore used the opportunity to read the poem again and again with rare delight. The most youthful glow of love, tempered by moral elevation of the mind, seemed to me its pervading characteristic. Then I thought that the feelings were more strongly expressed than we are accustomed to find in Goethe's other poems, and imputed this to the influence of Byron - which Goethe did not deny.

 

"You see the product of a highly impassioned mood," said he. "While I was in it I would not for the world have been without it, and now I would not for any consideration fall into it again.

 

"I wr