1824

 

Friday, January 2

Dined at Goethe's, and enjoyed cheerful conversation. Mention was made of a young beauty belonging to the Weimar society, when one of the guests remarked that he was on the point of falling in love with her although her understanding could not exactly be called brilliant.

 

"Pshaw," said Goethe, laughing, "as if love had anything to do with the un­derstanding. The things that we love in a young lady are something very dif­ferent from the understanding. We love in her: beauty, youthfulness, playfulness, trustingness, her character, her faults, her caprices, and God knows what 'je ne sais quoi' besides; but we do not love her understanding. We respect her understanding when it is brilliant, and by it the worth of a girl can be infinitely enhanced in our eyes. Understanding may also serve to fix our affections when we already love; but the understanding is not that which is capable of firing our hearts, and awakening a passion."

 

After dinner, and when the rest of the party had departed, I remained sitting with Goethe.

 

We discoursed upon English literature, on the greatness of Shakespeare, and on the unfavourable position held by all English dramatic authors who had ap­peared after that poetical giant.

 

"A dramatic talent of any importance," said Goethe, "could not forbear to notice Shakespeare's works; nay, could not forbear to study them. Having studied them, he must be aware that Shakespeare has already exhausted the whole of human nature in all its tendencies, in all its heights and depths, and that in fact there remains for him, the aftercomer, nothing more to do. And how get courage only to put pen to paper, if conscious, in an earnest appreci­ating spirit, that such unfathomable and unattainable excellences were already in existence!

 

"It fared better with me fifty years ago in my own dear Germany. I could soon come to an end with all that then existed; it could not long awe me, or occupy my attention. I soon left German literature behind me, and turned to life and to production. So on and on I went in my own natural development, and at every step my standard was not much higher than what at such step I was able to attain. But had I been born an Englishman, and had all those numerous masterpieces been brought before me in all their power, at my first dawn of youthful consciousness, they would have overpowered me, and I should not have known what to do. I could not have gone on with such fresh lightheartedness; but should have had to bethink myself, and look about for a long time, to find some new outlet."

 

I turned the conversation back to Shakespeare. "When he is disengaged from English literature," said I, "and considered as transformed into a Ger­man, his greatness seems a miracle. But in the soil of his country, and the at­mosphere of his century, studied with his contemporaries and immediate successors - Ben Jonson, Massinger, Marlowe, and Beaumont and Fletcher­Shakespeare, though still a being of the most exalted magnitude, appears in some measure accessible. Much is due to the powerfully productive atmosphere of his time."

"You are right," returned Goethe. "It is with Shakespeare as with the moun­tains of Switzerland. Transplant Mont Blanc at once into the large plain of Luneburg Heath, and we should find no words to express our wonder at its magnitude. Seek it, however, in its gigantic home; go to it over its immense neighbours, the Jungfrau, the Finsteraarhorn, the Eiger, the Wetterhorn, St. Gothard, and Monte Rosa; Mont Blanc will indeed still remain a giant, but it will no longer produce in us such amazement.

 

"Besides, let him who will not believe," continued Goethe, "that much of Shakespeare's greatness appertains to his great vigorous time, only ask himself the question, whether a phenomenon so astounding would be possible in the present England of I 824, in these evil days of criticizing and hairsplitting journals?

 

"That undisturbed, innocent, somnambulatory production, by which alone anything great can thrive, is no longer possible. Our talents lie before the pub­lic. Daily criticisms in fIfty different places, and gossip caused by them, prevent the appearance of any sound production. He who does not keep aloof from all this, and isolate himself by main force, is lost. Through the bad, chiefly negative, esthetical and critical tone of the journals, a sort of half-culture finds its way into the masses; but to productive talent it is a noxious mist, a dropping poison, which destroys the tree of creative power - from the ornamental green leaves, to the deepest pith and the most hidden fibres.

 

"And then how tame and weak has life itself become during the last two shabby centuries. Where do we now meet an original nature? Where is the man with strength to be true, and to show himself as he is? This, however, affects the poet, who must fmd all within himself, while he is left in the lurch by all without. "

 

The conversation now turned on Werther. "That," said Goethe, "is a creation which I, like the pelican, fed with the blood of my own heart. It contains so much from the innermost recesses of my breast that it might easily be spread into a novel of ten such volumes. Besides, I have only read the book once since its appearance, and have taken good care not to read it again. It is a mass of con­greve-rockets. I am uncomfortable when I look at it; and I dread lest I should once more experience the peculiar mental state from which it was produced."

 

I reminded him of his conversation with Napoleon, of which I knew by the sketch amongst his unpublished papers, which I had repeatedly urged him to give more in detail. "Napoleon," said I, "pointed out to you a passage in Werther, which, it appeared to him, would not stand a strict examination; and this you allowed. 1 should much like to know what passage he meant." "Guess!" said Goethe, with a mysterious smile.

 

"Now," said I, "I almost think it is where Charlotte sends the pistols to Werther, without saying a word to Albert, and without imparting to him her misgivings and apprehensions. You have given yourself great trouble to find a motive for this silence, but it does not appear to hold good against the urgent necessity where the life of the friend was at stake."

 

"Your remark," returned Goethe, "is really not bad; but I do not think it right to reveal whether Napoleon meant this passage or another. However, be that as it may, your observation is quite as correct as his."

 

I asked whether the great effect produced by the appearance of Werther were really to be attributed to the period. "I cannot," said I, "reconcile to myself this view, though it is so extensively spread. Werther made an epoch because it appeared – not because it appeared at a certain time. There is in every period so much unexpressed sorrow - so much secret discontent and disgust with life, and in single individuals there are so many disagreements with the world – so many conflicts between their natures and civil regulations, that Werther would make an epoch even if it appeared today for the first time."

 

"You are quite right," said Goethe; "it is on that account that the book to this day influences youth of a certain age, as it did formerly. It was scarcely neces­sary for me to deduce my own youthful dejection from the general influence of my time, and from the reading of a few English authors. Rather was it owing to individual and immediate circumstances which touched me to the quick, and gave me a great deal of trouble, and indeed brought me into that frame of mind which produced Werther. I had lived, loved, and suffered much – that was it.

 

"On considering more closely the much-talked-of Werther period, we dis­cover that it belongs, not to the course of universal culture, but to the career of every individual who, with an innate free natural instinct, must accommodate himself to the narrow limits of an antiquated world. Obstructed fortune restrained activity, unfulfilled wishes, are the calamities not of any particular time but of every individual man; and it would be bad indeed if everybody had not, once in his life, known a time when Werther seemed as if it had been written for him alone."

 

Sunday, January 4

Today, after dinner, Goethe went with me through a portfolio of works by Raphael. He often busies himself with Raphael, in order to keep up intercourse with what is best. At the same time, it gives him pleasure to introduce me to such things.

 

We afterwards spoke about the Divan [Goethe's West-östliche (west-eastern) Divan, one of the twelve divisions of which is entitled Das Buch des Unmuths (The Book of Ill-Humour). – J. O.] – especially about the "book of ill-humour," in which much that he carried in his heart against his enemies is poured forth.

 

"I have, however," continued he, "been very moderate: if I had uttered all that vexed me or gave me trouble, the few pages would soon have swelled to a volume.

 

"People were never thoroughly contented with me, but always wished me otherwise than it has pleased God to make me. They were also seldom con­tented with my productions. When I had long exerted my whole soul to favour the world with a new work, it still desired that I should thank it into the bargain for considering the work endurable. If anybody praised me, I was not allowed to receive it as a well-merited tribute; but people expected from me some mod­est expression, humbly setting forth the total unworthiness of my person and my work. I should have been a miserable hypocrite if I had so tried to lie and dissemble. Since I was strong enough to show myself m my whole truth, just as I felt, I was deemed proud, and am considered so to the present day.

 

"In religious, scientific, and political matters, I generally brought trouble upon myself, because I was no hypocrite, and had the courage to express what I felt. 

 

"I believed in God and in Nature, and in the triumph of good over evil; but this was not enough for pious souls: I was also required to believe other points, which were opposed to the feeling of my soul for truth; besides, I did not see that these would be of the slightest service to me.

 

"It was also prejudicial to me that I discovered Newton's theory of light and colour to be an error, and that I had the courage to contradict the universal creed. I discovered light in its purity and truth, and I considered it my duty to fight for it. The opposite party, however, did their utmost to darken the light; for they maintained that shade is a part of light. It sounds absurd when I express it; but so it is: for they said that colours, which are shadow and the result of shade, are light itself, or, which amounts to the same thing, are the beams of light, broken now in one way, now in another." 

 

Goethe was silent, whilst an ironical smile spread over his expressive countenance. He continued:

 

"And now for political matters. What trouble I have taken, and what I have suffered, on that account, I cannot tell you. Do you know my Aufgeregten [(The Agitated, in a political sense) is an unfinished drama by Goethe.-J. O.]?"

 

"Yesterday, for the first time," returned I, "I read the piece, in consequence of the new edition of your works; and I regret from my heart that it remains unfinished. But, even as it is, every right-thinking person must coincide with your sentiments."

 

"I wrote it at the time of the French Revolution," continued Goethe; "and it may be regarded as my political confession of faith at that time. I have taken the countess as a type of the nobility; and, with the words put into her mouth, I have expressed how the nobility really ought to think. The countess has just returned from Paris; she has there been an eyewitness of the revolutionary events, and has drawn, therefore, for herself, no bad doctrine. She has con­vinced herself that the people may be ruled, but not oppressed, and that the revolutionary outbreaks of the lower classes are the consequence of the injus­tice of the higher classes. 'I will for the future,' says she, 'strenuously avoid every action that appears to me unjust, and will, both in society and at court, loudly express my opinion concerning such actions in others. In no case of in­ justice will I be silent, even though I should be cried down as a democrat.'

 

"I should have thought this sentiment perfectly respectable," continued Goethe; "it was mine at that time, and it is so still; but as a reward for it, I was endowed with all sorts of titles, which I do not care to repeat."

 

"We need only read Egmont," answered I, "to discover what you think. I know no German piece in which the freedom of the people is more advo­cated. "

 

"Sometimes," said Goethe, "people do not like to look on me as I am but turn their glances from everything that could show me in my true light. Schiller, on the contrary – who, between ourselves, was much more of an aris­tocrat than I am, but who considered what he said more than I – had the won­derful fortune to be looked upon as a particular friend of the people. I give it up to him with all my heart, and console myself with the thought that others be­fore me have fared no better.

 

"It is true that I could be no friend to the French Revolution; its horrors were too near me, and shocked me daily and hourly, whilst its benefits were not then apparent. Neither could I be indifferent to the endeavours of Germans to bring about, here, artificially, such scenes as were, in France, the consequence of a great necessity.

 

"But I was as little a friend to arbitrary rule. Indeed, I was perfectly con­vinced that a great revolution is never a fault of the people, but always of the government. Revolutions are utterly impossible as long as governments are constantly just and constantly vigilant; so that they may anticipate them by im­provements at the right time, and not hold out until they are forced to yield by the pressure from beneath.

 

"Because I hated the Revolution, the name of the 'Friend of the established or­der' was bestowed upon me. That is, however, a very ambiguous title, which I beg to decline. Since, with much that is good, there is also much that is bad unjust, and imperfect, a friend of the established order means often little les~ than the friend of the obsolete and bad.

 

"But human affairs wear every fifty years a different aspect; so that an arrangement which in the year 1800 was perfection may perhaps in the year 1850 be a defect.

 

"And, furthermore, nothing is good for a nation but that which arises from its own core and its own general wants, without apish imitation of another; since what to one race of people, of a certain age, is nutriment, may prove poi­son for another. All endeavours to introduce any foreign innovation, the ne­cessity for which is not rooted in the core of the nation itself, are therefore fool­ish; and all premeditated revolutions of the kind are unsuccessful, for they are without God, who keeps aloof from such bungling. If, however, there exists an actual necessity for a great reform amongst a people, God is with it, and it prospers. He was visibly with Christ and his first adherents; for the appearance of the new doctrine of love was a necessity to the people. He was also visibly with Luther; for the purification of the doctrine corrupted by the priests was no less a necessity. Neither of the great powers whom I have named was, however, a friend of the established order; much more were both of them convinced that the old leaven must be got rid of, and that it would be impossible to go on and remain in the untrue, unjust, and defective way."

 

Tuesday, January 27

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 the youthful epoch of Dichtung und Wahrheit [Poetry and Truth, the title of Goethe's autobiography. – J. O.] "I must," said he, "treat this later period more in the fashion of annals; my outward actions must appear rather than my inward life. Altogether, the most im­portant part of an individual's life is that of development, and mine is con­cluded in the detailed volumes of Dichtung und Wahrheit. Afterwards begins the conflict with the world, and that is interesting only in its results.

 

"And then the life of a learned German - what is it? What may have been really good in my case cannot be communicated, and what can be communi­cated is not worth the trouble. Besides, where are the hearers whom one could entertain with any satisfaction?

 

"When I look back to the earlier and middle periods of my life, and now in my old age think how few are left of those who were young with me, I think of a summer residence at a bathing-place. When you arrive, you make friends of those who have already been there some time, and who leave in a few weeks. The loss is painful. Then you turn to the second generation, with which you live a good while, and become most intimate. But this goes also, and leaves us alone with the third, which comes just as we are going away, and with which we have really nothing to do.

 

"I have ever been esteemed one of Fortune's chiefest favourites; nor will I complain or find fault with the course my life has taken. Yet, truly, there has been nothing but toil and care; and I may say that, in all my seventy-five years, I have never had a month of genuine comfort. It has been the perpetual rolling of a stone, which I have always had to raise anew. My annals will render clear what I now say. The claims upon my activity, from both within and without, were too numerous.

 

"My real happiness was my poetic meditation and production. But how was this disturbed, limited, and hindered by my external position! Had I been able to abstain more from public business, and to live more in solitude, I should have been happier, and should have accomplished much more as a poet. But, soon after my Goetz and Werther, that saying of a sage was verified for me – 'If you do anything for the sake of the world, it will take good care that you shall not do it a second time.'

 

"A widespread celebrity, an elevated position in life, are good things. But, for all my rank and celebrity, I am still obliged to be silent as to the opinion of others, that I may not give offence. This would be but poor sport, if by this means I had not the advantage of learning the thoughts of others without their being able to learn mine."

 

Sunday, February 15

Goethe invited me to take a walk before dinner today. I found him at breakfast when I entered the room: he seemed in excellent spirits.

 

"I have had a pleasant visit," said he cheerfully. "A promising young West­phalian, named Meyer, has just been with me. He has written poems that war­rant high expectations. He is only eighteen, and has made incredible progress.

 

"I am glad," continued he, smiling, "that I am not eighteen now. When I was eighteen, Germany was in its teens also, and something could be done; but now an incredible deal is demanded, and every avenue is barred.

 

"Germany itself stands so high in every department, that we can scarcely survey all it has done; and now we must be Greeks and Latins, and English and French into the bargain. Not content with this, some have the madness of pointing to the East also; and surely this is enough to confuse a young man's head!

 

"I have, by way of consolation, shown him my colossal Juno, as a token that he had best stick to the Greeks, and find consolation there. He is a fine young man; and, if he takes care not to dissipate his energies, something will be made of him. However, as I said before, I thank Heaven that I am not young in so thoroughly finished a time. I could not stay here. Nay, if I sought refuge in America, I should come too late, for there is now too much light even there."

 

Sunday, February 22

Dined with Goethe and his son. The latter related some pleasant stories of the time when he was a student at Heidelberg. He had often been with his friends on an excursion along the Rhine, in his vacations, and especially cherished the remembrance of a landlord at whose house he and ten other students had once passed the night and who provided them with wine gratis – merely that he might share the pleasures of a "Commerz" ['The academical word for a students' drinking party. – J. O.]

 

After dinner, Goethe showed us some coloured drawings of Italian scenery; especially that of Northern Italy, with the adjoining Swiss mountains, and the Lago Maggiore. The Borromean Isles were reflected in the water; near the shore were skiffs and fishing-tackle, which led Goethe to remark that this was the lake in the Wanderjahre. On the northwest, towards Monte Rosa, stood the hills bordering the lake in black-blue heavy masses, as we see them soon after sunset.

 

I remarked that, to me, who had been born in the plains, the gloomy sublim­ity of these masses produced an uncomfortable feeling, and that I by no means desired to explore such wild recesses.

 

"That feeling is natural," said Goethe. "Really that state alone is suitable to man, in which and for which he was born. He who is not led abroad by great objects is far happier at home. Switzerland, at first, made so great an impres­sion upon me, that it disturbed and confused me. Only after repeated visits­ only in after years, when I visited those mountains merely as a mineralogist­ could I feel at my ease among them."

 

Afterwards we looked at a long series of copperplates from pictures by mod­ern artists in one of the French galleries. The invention displayed in these pic­tures was almost uniformly weak, and among forty we found barely four or five good ones. These were: a girl dictating 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 Poussin's manner was not bad; on looking at this, Goethe said, "Such artists get a general idea of Poussin's landscapes, and work upon that. We cannot style their pictures good or bad: they are not bad, because through every part you catch glimpses of an excellent model. But you cannot call them good, because the artists usually want the great personal peculiarity of Poussin. It is just so among poets, and there are some who for instance would make a very poor figure in Shakespeare's grand style."

 

We ended by examining, and talking over for a long while, Rauch's model of Goethe's statue, which is designed for Frankfort.

 

Tuesday, February 24

I went to Goethe's at one o'clock today. He showed me some manuscripts, which he had dictated for the first number of the fifth volume of Kunst und Al­terthum. I found that he had written an appendix to my critique of the German Paria, in reference both to the French tragedy and to his own lyrical trilogy, by which this subject was to a certain extent completed.

 

"You were quite right," said he, "to avail yourself of the occasion of your critique to become acquainted with Indian matters, since in the end we retain from our studies only that which we practically apply."

 

I agreed with him, and said that I had made this experience at the university; since, of all that was said in the lectures, I had only retained that of which I could make a practical application; on the contrary, I had completely forgotten all that I had been unable to reduce to practice. "I have," said I, "heard Heeren's lectures on ancient and modern history, and know now nothing about the mat­ter. But if I studied a period of history for the sake of treating it dramatically, what I learned would be safely secured to me forever."

 

"Altogether," said Goethe, "they teach in academies far too many things, and far too much that is useless. Then the individual professors extend their departments too much – far beyond the wants of their hearers. In former days lectures were read in chemistry and botany as belonging to medicine, and the physician could manage them. Now, both these have become so extensive that each of them requires a life; yet acquaintance with both is expected from the physician. Nothing can come of this; one thing must be neglected and forgot­ten for the sake of the other. He who is wise puts aside all claims that may dissipate his attention, confines himself to one branch, and excels there."

 

As to Byron's Cain, Goethe then showed me a short critique he had written.

 

"We see," he said, "how the inadequate dogmas of the church work upon a free mind like Byron's, and how by such a piece he struggles to get rid of a doc­trine which has been forced upon him. The English clergy will not thank him; but I shall be surprised if he does not go on treating biblical subjects of similar import, and if he lets slip a subject like the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah."

 

After these literary observations, Goethe directed my attention to plastic art, by showing me an antique gem of which he had expressed admiration the day before. I was enchanted to observe the naïveté of the design. I saw a man who had taken a heavy vessel from his shoulder to give a boy drink. But the boy finds it is not bent down conveniently for him; the drink will not flow; and while he has laid both his little hands on the vessel, he looks up to the man, and seems to ask him to incline it a little more towards him.

 

"Now, how do you like that?" said Goethe. "We moderns," continued he, "fell well enough the beauty of such a perfectly natural, naïve motif; we have the knowledge how such a thing is to be brought about, but we cannot do it; the understanding is always uppermost, and this enchanting grace is always wanting. "

 

We looked then at a medal by Brandt of Berlin, representing young Theseus taking the arms of his father from under the stone. The attitude had much that was commendable, but we found the limbs not sufficiently strained to lift such a burden. It seemed, too, a mistake for the youth to have the arms in one hand while he lifted the stone with the other; for, according to the nature of things, he would first roll aside the heavy stone, and then take up the arms. "By way of contrast," said Goethe, "I will show you a gem whereon the same subject is treated by an ancient."

 

He bade Stadelmann bring a box containing several hundred copies of an­tique gems, which he had brought with him from Rome, on the occasion of his travels in Italy. I then saw the same subject, treated by an old Greek - and how different it was! The youth was exerting his whole strength upon the stone, and was equal to the task; for the weight was already visibly overcome, and the stone was raised to that point where it would soon be cast aside. All his bodily powers were directed by the young hero against the heavy mass; only his looks were fixed on the arms which lay beneath.

 

"Meyer," said Goethe, laughing, "always says, 'If thinking were not so hard.' And the worst is, that all the thinking in the world does not bring us to thought; we must be right by nature, so that good thoughts may come before us like free children of God, and cry, 'Here we are.'"

 

Wednesday, February 25

Today, Goethe showed me two remarkable poems; both highly moral in their tendency, but in their several motifs so unreservedly natural and true, that they are of the kind which the world styles immoral. On this account, he keeps them to himself, and does not intend to publish them.

 

"Could intellect and high cultivation," said he, "become the property of all, the poet would have fair play; he could be always thoroughly true, and would not be compelled to fear uttering his best thoughts. But, as it is, he must always keep on a certain level; must remember that his works will fall into the hands of a mixed society, and must therefore take care lest by over-great openness he may give offence to the majority of good men. Then, Time is a whimsical ty­rant, which in every century has a different face for all that one says and does. We cannot with propriety say things that were permitted to the ancient Greeks; and the Englishmen of 1820 cannot endure what suited the vigorous contem­poraries of Shakespeare, so that at the present day it is found necessary to have a Family Shakespeare."

 

"Then," said I, "there is much in the form also. Of these two poems, the one composed in the style and metre of the ancients would be far less offensive than the other. Isolated parts would displease, but the treatment throws so much grandeur and dignity over the whole that we seem to hear a strong ancient and to be carried back to the age of the Greek heroes. But the other, being in the style and metre of Messer Ariosto, is far more hazardous. It relates an event of our day in the language of our day; and, as it thus comes quite unveiled into our presence, the particular features seem far more audacious."

 

"You are right," said he; "mysterious and great effects are produced by dif­ferent poetical forms. If the import of my Roman elegies were put into the measure and style of Byron's Don Juan, the whole would be found infamous."

 

The French newspapers were brought. The campaign of the French in Spain under the duke D' Angoulême, which was just ended, had great interest for Goethe. "I must praise the Bourbons for this measure," said he; "they had not really gained the throne till they had gained the army, and that is now accom­plished. The soldier returns with loyalty to his king; for he has, from his own victories and the discomfitures of the many-headed Spanish host, learned the difference between obeying one and many. The army has sustained its ancient fame, and shown that it is brave in itself and can conquer without Napoleon."

 

Goethe then talked of the Prussian army in the Seven Years' War; which, ac­customed by Frederick the Great to constant victory, grew careless, so that in after days it lost many battles from overconfidence. All the minutest details were present to his mind, and I had reason to admire his excellent memory.

 

"I had the great advantage," said he, "of being born at a time when the great­est events that agitated the world occurred, and such have continued to occur during my long life; so that I am a living witness of the Seven Years' War, of the separation of America from England, of the French Revolution, and of the whole Napoleon era - with the downfall of that hero, and the events that fol­lowed. Thus I have attained results and insight impossible to those who are born now and must learn all these things from books that they will not under­stand.

 

"What the next years will bring I cannot predict; but I fear we shall not soon have repose. It is not given to the world to be contented; the great are not such that there will be no abuse of power; the masses not such that in hope of gradual improvement they will be contented with a moderate condition. Could we perfect human nature, we might also expect a perfect state of things; but, as it is, there will always be a wavering hither and thither; one part must suffer while the other is at ease, envy and egotism will be always at work like bad demons, and party strife will be without end.

 

"The most reasonable way is for everybody to follow his own vocation, to which he has been born and which he has learned, and to avoid hindering oth­ers from following theirs. Let the shoemaker abide by his last, the peasant by his plough, and let the king know how to govern; for this also is a business which must be learned, and with which nobody who does not understand it should meddle."

 

Returning to the French papers, Goethe said, "The liberals may speak, for when they are reasonable we like to hear them; but with the royalists, who have the executive power in their hands, talking comes amiss - they should act. They may march troops, and behead and hang - that is all right; but attacking opinions, and justifying their measures in public prints, does not become them. If there were a public of kings, they might talk.

 

"For myself," he continued, "I have always been a royalist. I have let others babble, and have done as I saw fit. I understood my course, and knew my own object. If I committed a fault as a single individual, I could make it good again; but if I committed it jointly with three or four others, it would be impossible to make it good, for among many there are many opinions."

 

He showed me Frau von Spiegel's album, in which he had written some very beautiful verses. A place had been left open for him for two years, and he re­joiced at having been able to perform at last an old promise. After I had read the Poem to Frau von Spiegel, I turned over the leaves of the book, in which I found many distinguished names. On the very next page was a poem by Tiedge, written in the very spirit and style of his Urania. "In a saucy mood," said Goethe, "I was on the point of writing some verses beneath those; but I am glad I did not. It would not have been the first time that by rash expressions I had repelled good people and spoiled the effect of my best works.

 

"However," continued Goethe, "I have had to endure not a little from Tiedge's Urania; for at one time nothing was sung and nothing was declaimed but this same Urania. Wherever you went, you found Urania on the table. Ura­nia and immortality were the topics of every conversation. I would by no means dispense with the happiness of believing in a future existence, and in­deed would say with Lorenzo de Medici that those are dead even for this life who hope for no other. But such incomprehensible matters lie too far off to be a theme of daily speculation. Let him who believes in immortality enjoy his happiness in silence, he has no reason to give himself airs about it. The occasion ofTiedge's Urania led me to observe that piety, like nobility, has its aristocracy. I met stupid women, who plumed themselves on believing, with Tiedge, in immortality; and I was forced to bear much dark examination on this point. They were vexed by my saying I should be well pleased if after the close of this life we were blessed with another, only I hoped I should hereafter meet none of those who had believed in it here. For how should I be tormented! The pious would throng around me, and say, 'Were we not right? Did we not predict it? Has not it happened just as we said?' And so there would be ennui without end even in the other world.

 

"This preoccupation with immortality," he continued, "is for people of rank, and especially ladies, who have nothing to do. But an able man, who has something regular to do here, and must toil and struggle and produce day by day, leaves the future world to itself, and is active and useful in this. Thoughts about immortality are also good for those who have not been very successful here; and I would wager that, if the good Tiedge had enjoyed a better lot, he would also have had better thoughts."

 

Thursday, February 26

I dined with Goethe. After the cloth had been removed, he bade Stadelmann bring in some large portfolios of copperplates. Some dust had collected on the covers, and, as no suitable cloths were at hand to wipe it away, Goethe was much displeased, and scolded Stadelmann. "I tell you for the last time," said he, "if you do not go this very day to buy the cloths for which I have asked so often, I will go myself tomorrow; and you shall see that I will keep my word." Stadelmann went.

 

"A similar case occurred to me with Becker, the actor," added Goethe to me, in a lively tone, "when he refused to take the part of a trooper in Wallenstein. I gave him warning that, if he would not play the part, I would play it myself That did the business; for they knew me at the theatre well enough, and were aware that I did not understand jesting in such matters, and also that I was mad enough to keep my word."

 

"And would you really have played the part?" asked I.

 

"Yes," said Goethe, "I would have played it, and would have eclipsed Herr Becker too, for I knew the part better than he did."

 

We then opened the portfolios. "This," said Goethe, "is the way to cultivate taste. Taste is only to be educated by contemplation, not of the tolerably good, but of the truly excellent. I show you only the best works; and, when you are grounded in these, you will have a standard for the rest, which you will know how to value, without overrating them. And I show you the best in each class, that you may perceive that no class is to be despised, but that each gives delight when a man of genius attains its highest point. For instance, this piece, by a French artist, is galant, to a degree you see nowhere else, and is therefore a model in its way."

 

Goethe handed me the engraving: a beautiful room in a summer residence, with open doors and windows looking into a garden, where the most graceful figures were visible. A handsome lady, aged about thirty, was sitting with a music book, from which she seemed to have just sung. Sitting by her, a little farther back, was a girl of about fifteen. At the open window behind stood an­other young lady, holding a lute, which she seemed still to be sounding. At this moment a young gentleman was entering, to whom the eyes of the ladies were directed. He seemed to have interrupted the music; and his slight bow gave the notion that he was making an apology, which the ladies were gratified to hear.

 

"That, I think," said Goethe, "is as galant as any piece of Calderon's; and you have now seen the very best thing of this kind. But what say you to this?"

 

He handed me some etchings by Roos, the famous painter of animals; they were all of sheep, in every posture and situation. The simplicity of their coun­tenances, the ugliness and shagginess of the fleece, were represented with the utmost fidelity to nature.

 

"I always feel uneasy," said Goethe, "when I look at these beasts. Their state, so limited, dull, gaping, and dreaming, excites in me such sympathy, that I fear I shall become a sheep, and almost think the artist must have been one. At all events, it is most wonderful how Roos has been able to think and feel himself into the very soul of these creatures, so as to make the internal character peer with such force through the outward covering. Here you see what a great talent can do when it keeps steady to subjects which are congenial with its nature."

 

"Has not, then," said I, "this artist also painted dogs, cats, and beasts of prey, with similar truth; nay, with this great gift of assuming a mental state foreign to himself, has he not been able to delineate human character with equal fidel­ity?"

 

"No," said Goethe, "all that layout of his sphere; but the gentle grass-eating animals – sheep, goats, cows, and the like - he was never weary of repeating; this was the peculiar province of his talent, which he did not quit during the whole course of his life. And in this he did well. A sympathy with these animals was born with him, a knowledge of their psychological condition was given him, and thus he had so fine an eye for their bodily structure. Other creatures were perhaps not so transparent to him, and therefore he felt no impulse to paint them."

 

By this remark of Goethe's, much that was analogous was revived within me, and was presented in all its liveliness to my mind. Thus, he had said to me, not long before, that knowledge of the world is inborn with the genuine poet, and that he needs not much experience or varied observation to represent it ad­equately. "I wrote Goetz von Berlichingen," said he, "at two-and-twenty, and was astonished ten years later at the truth of my delineation. I had not experi­enced nor seen anything of the kind, and therefore I must have acquired the knowledge of various human conditions by way of anticipation.

 

"Generally, I only took pleasure in painting my inward world before I be­came acquainted with the outer one. But when I found, in actual life, that the world was really just what I had fancied, it vexed me, and I no more felt delight in representing it. Indeed, I may say that if I had waited till I knew the world before I represented it, my representation would have had the appearance of persiflage.

 

"There is in every character," said he, another time, "a certain necessity, a sequence, which, together with this or that leading feature, causes secondary features. Observation teaches this sufficiently; but with some persons this knowledge may be innate. Whether with me experience and innate faculty are united, I will not inquire; but this I know, if I have talked with any man a quar­ter of an hour, I will let him talk two hours."

 

Goethe had likewise said of Lord Byron, that the world to him was trans­parent and that he could paint by way of anticipation. I expressed some doubts whether Byron would succeed in painting, for instance, a subordinate animal nature; for his individuality seemed too powerful for him to give himself up to such a subject. Goethe admitted this, and replied that the anticipation only went so far as the objects were analogous to the talent; and we agreed that, In proportion as the anticipation is confined or extended, the representing talent is of greater or smaller compass.

 

"If your excellency," said I, "maintains that the world is inborn with the poet, you of course mean only the interior world, not the empirical world of appearances and conventions; if the poet is to give a representation of this also, an investigation into the actual will surely be requisite."

 

"Certainly," replied Goethe; "the region of love, hate, hope, despair, or by whatever other names you may call the moods and passions of the soul, is in­nate with the poet, and he succeeds in representing it. But it is not born with him to know by instinct how courts are held, or how a parliament or a corona­tion is managed; and, if he will not offend against truth while treating such subjects, he must have recourse to experience or tradition. Thus, in Faust, I could by anticipation know how to describe my hero's gloomy weariness of life, and the emotions of love in the heart of Gretchen; but the lines,

 

Wie traurig steigt die unvollkommne Scheibe

Des späten Monds mit feuchter Glut heran!

 

How gloomily does the imperfect disk

Of the late moon with humid glow arise!

 

required some observation of nature."

 

"Yet," said I, "every line of Faust bears marks, not to be mistaken, of a care­ful study of life and the world; nor is it for a moment doubted that the whole is only the result of the amplest experience."

 

"Perhaps so," replied Goethe; "yet, had I not the world already in my soul through anticipation, I should have remained blind with seeing eyes, and all experience and observation would have been unproductive labour. The light is there, and the colours surround us; but, if we had no light and no colours in our own eyes, we should not perceive the outward phenomena."

 

Saturday, February 28

"There are," said Goethe, "excellent men, who are unable to do anything im­promptu, or superficially, but whose nature demands that they should quietly and deeply penetrate into every subject they may take in hand. Such minds often make us impatient, for we seldom get from them what we want at the moment; but in this way alone the noblest tasks are accomplished."

 

I turned the conversation to Ramberg. "He," said Goethe, "is an artist of quite a different stamp, of a most genial talent, and indeed unequalled in his power of impromptu. At Dresden, he once asked me to give him a subject. I gave him Agamemnon, at the moment when, on his return home from Troy, he is descending from his chariot, and is seized with a gloomy feeling, on touching the threshold of his house. You will agree that this is a subject of a most difficult kind, and, with another artist, would have demanded the most mature deliberation. But the words had scarcely passed my lips, before Ram­berg began to draw, and I was struck with admiration to see how correctly he at once apprehended his subject. I cannot deny that I should like to possess some drawings by Ramberg."

 

We talked then of other artists, who set to work in a superficial way, and thus degenerated into mannerism.

 

"Mannerism," said Goethe, "is always longing to have done, and has no true enjoyment in work. A really great talent, on the other hand, finds its great­est happiness in execution. Roos is unwearied in drawing ~he hair and wool of his goats and sheep; and you see by his infinite details that he enjoyed the purest felicity in doing his work, and had no wish to bring it to an end.

 

"Inferior talents do not enjoy art for its own sake; while at work they have nothing before their eyes but the profit they hope to make when they have done. With such worldly views and tendencies, nothing great was ever yet produced."

 

Sunday, February 29

At twelve 0' clock, I went to Goethe, who had invited me to take a drive before dinner. I found him at breakfast when I entered, and, taking my seat opposite him, turned the conversation upon those productions which occupy us both on account of the new edition of his works. I counselled him to insert both his Gods, Heroes, and Wieland, and his Letters of a Pastor, in this new edition.

 

"I cannot," said Goethe, "from my present point of view, judge of those youthful productions. You younger people may. Yet I will not fmd fault with those beginnings; I was, indeed, then in the dark, and struggled on, uncon­scious of what I was seeking so earnestly; but I had a feeling of the right, a divining-rod, that showed me where gold was to be found."

 

The horses had, in the meanwhile, been put to, and we rode towards Jena. Goethe mentioned the last French newspapers. "The constitution of France," said he, "belonging to a people who have within themselves so many elements of corruption, rests upon a basis very different from that of England. Every­thing may be done in France by bribery; indeed the whole French Revolution was directed by such means."

 

He then spoke of the death of Eugene Napoleon (Duke of Leuchtenberg), the news of which had arrived that morning. "He was one of those great char­acters," said Goethe, "which are becoming more and more rare; and the world is once more one important man the poorer. I knew him; only last summer I was with him at Marienbad. He was a handsome man, about forty-two; though he looked older, which was not to be wondered at when we call to mind all he went through, and how, through all his life, one campaign and one great deed pressed on another. At Marienbad he conversed with me much on the union of the Rhine with the Danube, by means of a canal – a gigantic enter­prise, when you consider the obstacles offered by the locality. But to a man who has served under Napoleon, and with him shaken the world, nothing ap­pears impossible. Charlemagne had the same plan, and even began the work, but it soon came to a standstill. The sand would not hold, the banks were al­ways falling in on both sides."

 

Monday, March 22

Today, before dinner, I went with Goethe into his garden.

 

The situation of this garden, on the other side of the Ilm, near the park, and on the western declivity of a hill, is most inviting. It is protected from the north and east winds, but open to the cheering influences of the south and west; which makes it a most delightful abode, especially in spring and autumn.

 

You are so near the town, which lies northwest, that you can be there in a few minutes; and yet you cannot see the top of a building, or even a spire; the tall and thickly planted trees of the park shut out every other object on that side. Under the name of the "Star," they go to the left, towards the north, close to the carriageway, which leads immediately from the garden.

 

Towards the west and southwest, there is a free view over a spacious meadow, through which, a bowshot away, the 11m winds silently. On the op­posite side of the river, the bank rises like a hill; on the summit and sides of which spreads the broad park, with the mixed foliage of alders, ash-trees, poplars, and birches, bounding the view at an agreeable distance on south and west.

 

This view of the park over the meadow gives a sense, especially in summer, of being near a wood that extends for leagues. Every moment it seems possible that there will be deer bounding out upon the meadows. It is as the peace of the deepest natural solitude; the silence often uninterrupted, except by the notes of the blackbird, or the frequently suspended song of the wood-thrush.

 

Out of this dream of profound solitude, we are, however, awakened by the striking of the tower-clock, the screaming of the peacocks from the park, or the drums and horns of the military in the barracks. And this is not unpleasant; for such tones comfortably recall the neighbourhood of the friendly city, which had seemed many miles distant.

 

At certain seasons these meadows are the reverse of lonely. Sometimes country people are going to Weimar to market, or to work, and returning thence; sometimes loungers of all sorts are walking along the windings of the 11m, especially in the direction towards Upper Weimar, which is on certain days much visited. The haymaking season also animates the scene very agree­ably. In the background, flocks of sheep are grazing, and sometimes the stately Swiss cows of the neighbouring farm.

 

To-day, however, there was no trace of these summer phenomena. On the meadows, some streaks of green were scarcely visible; the trees of the park as yet could boast nothing but brown twigs and buds; yet the note of the finch, with the occasional song of the blackbird and thrush, announced the approach of spring. A very mild southwest wind was blowing. Small isolated thunder­clouds passed along the clear sky; high above might be observed the dispersing cirrus-streaks. The massive clouds of the lower region were likewise dispers­ing; from which Goethe inferred that the barometer must be rising.

 

Goethe then spoke much about the rising and falling of the barometer, which he called the affirmative and negative of water. He spoke of the inhaling and exhaling processes of the earth, according to eternal laws; of a possible del­uge, if the "water-affirmative" continued. He said, besides, that, though each place has its proper atmosphere, there is great uniformity in the state of the ba­rometer throughout: Europe Nature, he said, was incommensurable; and, with her great irregularities, it was often difficult to find her laws.

 

While he thus instructed me on such high subjects, we were walking up and down the broad gravel-walk of the garden. We came near the garden-house, which he bade the servant open, that he might show me the interior. Without, the whitewashed walls were covered with rose-bushes, on espaliers, to the roof. I went round the house, and saw on the branches of these rose-bushes, against the wall, a great number of birds' nests, there since the preceding sum­mer, and, now that the bushes were bare of leaves, exposed to the eye. There were especially to be observed the nests of the linnet and of various kinds of hedge-sparrows, built high or low according to the habits of the birds.

 

Goethe then took me inside the house, which I had not seen since last sum­mer. In the lower story I found only one habitable room, on the walls of which were hung some charts and engravings; besides a portrait of Goethe, as large as life, painted by Meyer shortly after the return of both friends from Italy.

 

Goethe here appears in the prime of his powers and his manhood, very brown, and rather stout. The expression of the countenance is not very animated, and is very serious; that of a man on whose mind lies the weight of future deeds.

 

We ascended the stairs to the upper rooms. I found three, and one little cabi­net; but all very small, and not very convenient. Goethe said that in former years he had passed a great deal of his time here with pleasure, and had worked very peacefully.

 

These rooms were rather cool, and we returned into the open air, which was mild. As we walked up and down the chief pathway in the noonday sun, our conversation turned on modern literature, Schelling, and some new plays by Count Platen.

 

We soon returned to the natural objects. The crown-imperials and lilies were already far advanced; the mallows on both sides of the park were already green.

 

The upper part of the garden, on the declivity of the hill, is covered with grass, and here and there a few fruit-trees. Paths run along the summit, and then return to the foot; which made me wish to ascend them and look about me. Goethe walked swiftly before me, and I was rejoiced to see how active he was.

 

On the hedge above we found a peahen, which seemed to have come from the prince's park; and Goethe remarked that, in summer time, he was accus­tomed to allure the peacocks with their favourite food.

 

Descending on the winding path on the other side of the hill, I found a stone, surrounded by shrubs, on which was carved this line from the well-known poem:

 

Hier im stillen gedachte der Liebende seiner Geliebten.

 

Here in silence reflected the lover upon his beloved.

and I felt as if I were on classic ground.

 

Near this was a thicket of half-grown oaks, firs, birches, and beech-trees. Beneath the firs, I found the castings of a bird of prey. I showed these to Goethe, who said he had often seen such in this place. I concluded that these firs were an abode of owls, frequently seen in this place.

 

Passing round this thicket, we found ourselves once more on the broad path near the house. The oaks, firs, birches, and beeches, which we had just gone round, being mingled together, here form a semicircle, overarching like a grotto the inner space, in which we sat down on little chairs, placed about a round table. The sun was so strong that the shade even of these leafless trees was agreeable. "I know," said Goethe, "no better refuge, in the heats of sum­mer, than this spot. I planted all the trees, forty years ago, with my own hand; I have had the pleasure of watching their growth, and have now for a long time enjoyed their refreshing shade. The foliage of these oaks and beeches is impervious to the most potent sun. In hot summer days, I like to sit here after dinner; and often over the meadows and the whole park such stillness reigns, that the ancients would say, 'Pan sleeps.'"

 

We now heard the town-clock striking two, and returned to the house.

 

Tuesday, March 30

This evening I was with Goethe alone; we talked, and drank a bottle of wine. We spoke of the French drama, as contrasted with the German.

 

"It will be very difficult," said Goethe, "for the German public to come to a right judgment, as they do in Italy and France. We have a special obstacle, in the circumstance that on our stage a medley of all sorts of things is represented. On the same boards where we saw Hamlet yesterday, we see Staberl [A Viennese buffoon. – J.O.] today; and, if tomorrow we are delighted with Zauberflöte, the day after we shall be charmed with the oddities of the next lucky night. Hence the public becomes confused, mingling together various species, which it never learns rightly to appreciate and to understand. Furthermore, everyone has his own demands and personal wishes, and returns to the spot where he finds them realized. On the tree where he has plucked figs today, he would pluck them again tomorrow, and would make a long face if sloes had grown in their stead during the night. If anyone is a friend to sloes, he goes to the thorns.

 

"Schiller had the happy thought of building a house for tragedy alone, and of giving a piece every week for the male sex exclusively. But this notion presupposed a large city, and could not be realized with our humble means.

 

We talked about the plays of Iffland and Kotzebue, which, in their way, Goethe highly commended. "From this very fault," said he, "that people do not perfectly distinguish between kinds in art, the pieces of these men are often unjustly censured. We may wait a long time before a couple of such popular talents come again."

 

I praised Iffland's Hagestolz (Old Bachelor), with which I have been highly pleased on the stage. "It is unquestionably Iffland’s best piece," said Goethe, "It is the only one in which he goes from prose into the ideal.

 

He then told me of a piece he and Schiller had made as a continuation to the Hagestolz; that is to say, in conversation, without writing it down. Goethe told me the progress of the action scene by scene; very pleasant and cheerful.

 

Goethe then spoke of some new plays by Platen. "In these pieces," said he, "we may see the influence of Calderon. They are very clever, and, in a certain sense, complete; but they want specific gravity, a certain weight of import. They are not of a kind to excite in the mind of the reader a deep and abiding interest; the strings of the soul are touched but lightly and transiently. They are like cork which swims on the water, making no impression.

 

"The German requires a certain earnestness, a certain grandeur of thought, and a certain fulness of sentiment. It is on this account that Schiller is so highly esteemed by all. I do not in the least doubt the abilities of Platen; but those, probably from mistaken views of art, are not manifested here. He shows distinguished culture, intellect, pungent wit, and artistical completeness, but these, especially in Germany, are not enough.

 

"Generally, the personal character of the writer influences the public rather than his talents as an artist. Napoleon said of Corneille, ‘S’il vivait, je Ie ferias prince'; yet he never read him. Racine he read, but did not say this of him. La Fontaine, too, is looked upon with a high degree of esteem by the French – on account, not of his poetic merits, but of the greatness of character manifested in his writings."

 

We then talked of the Elective Affinities (Wahlverwandtschaften); and Goethe told me of a travelling Englishman, who meant to be separated from his wife when he returned to England. He laughed at such folly, and gave me several examples of persons who had been separated, and afterwards could not let each other alone.

 

"The late Reinhard of Dresden," said he, "often wondered that I had such severe principles with respect to marriage, while I was so tolerant in every­thing else."

 

This expression of Goethe's was remarkable to me, because it clearly showed what he really intended by that often misunderstood work (Die Wahl­venvandtschaflen).

 

We then talked about Tieck, and his personal relation to Goethe.

 

"I entertain the greatest kindness for Tieck," said Goethe; "and I think that, on the whole, he is well disposed towards me. Still, there is something not as it ought to be in his relation to me. This is neither my fault nor his, but proceeds from causes altogether foreign.

 

"When the Schlegels began to make themselves important, I was too strong for them; and, to balance me, they were forced to look about for some man of talent whom they might set up in opposition. They found Tieck; and so that, when placed in contrast to me, he might appear sufficiently important in the eyes of the public, they were forced to make more of him than he really was. This injured our mutual relation; for Tieck, without being properly conscious of it himself, was thus placed in a false position with respect to me.

 

"Tieck is a talent of great importance, and nobody can be more sensible than myself of his extraordinary merits; only when they raise him above himself, and place him on a level with me, they are in error. I can speak this out plainly; it matters nothing to me, for I did not make myself I might just as well com­pare myself to Shakespeare, who likewise did not make himself, and who is nevertheless a being of a higher order, to whom I must look up with rever­ence."

 

Goethe was this evening full of energy and gaiety. He brought some manu­script poems, which he read aloud. Not only did the original force and fresh­ness of the poems excite me to a high degree; but also, by his manner of reading them, he showed himself to me in a phase hitherto unknown but highly im­portant. What variety and force in his voice! What life and expression in the noble countenance, so full of wrinkles! And what eyes!

 

Wednesday, April 14

I went out walking with Goethe about one. We discussed the styles of various writers.

 

"On the whole," said Goethe, "philosophical speculation is an injury to the Germans, as it tends to make their style vague, difficult, and obscure. The stronger their attachment to certain philosophical schools, the worse they write. Those Germans who, as men of business and actual life, confine themselves to the practical, write the best. Schiller's style is most noble and impres­sive whenever he leaves off philosophizing; as I observe every day in his highly interesting letters, with which I am now busy.

 

"There are likewise, among the German women, genial beings who write a really excellent style, and indeed in that respect surpass many of our celebrated male writers.

 

"The English almost always write well; being born orators and practical men, with a tendency to the real.

 

"The French, in their style, remain true to their general character. They are of a social nature, and therefore never forget the public whom they address; they strive to be clear, that they may convince their reader - agreeable, that they may please him.

 

"Altogether, the style of a writer is a faithful representative of his mind; therefore, if any man wish to write a clear style, let him be first clear in his thoughts; and if any would write in a noble style, let him first possess a noble soul. "

 

Goethe then spoke of his antagonists as a race that would never become ex­tinct. "Their number," said he, "is legion; yet they may be in some degree classified. First, there are my antagonists from stupidity - those who do not understand me, and find fault with me without knowing me. This large company has wearied me much in the course of my life; yet shall they be forgiven, for they knew not what they did.

 

"The second large class is composed of those who envy me. These grudge me the fortune and the dignified station I have attained through my talents.

 

"They pluck at my fame, and would like to destroy me. If I were poor and miserable, they would assail me no more.

 

"There are many who have been my adversaries, because they themselves have failed. In this class are men of fine talent, but they cannot forgive me for casting them into the shade.

 

"Fourthly, there are my antagonists from reasons. For, as I am a human being, and as such have human faults and weaknesses, my writings cannot be free from them. Yet, as I was constantly bent on my own improvement, and always striving to ennoble myself, I was in a state of constant progress, and it often happened that they blamed me for faults I had long since left behind. These good folks have injured me least of any, as they shot at me when I was already miles distant. Generally, when a work was finished, it became uninter­esting to me; I thought of it no more, but busied myself with some new plan.

 

"Another large class comprises those who are adversaries because they differ from me in their views and modes of thought. It is said of the leaves on a tree, that you will scarcely find two perfectly alike; and thus, among a thousand men, you will scarce find two who harmonize entirely in their views and ways of thinking. This being allowed, I ought less to wonder at having so many op­ponents, than at having so many friends and adherents. My tendencies were opposed to those of my time, which were wholly subjective; while, in my objective efforts, I stood alone to my own disadvantage.

 

"Schiller had, in this respect, great advantage over me. Hence, a certain well-meaning general once gave me plainly to understand, that I ought to write like Schiller. I replied by analyzing Schiller's merits, for I knew them better than he. I went quietly on in my own way; not troubling myself further about success, and taking as little notice as possible of my opponents."

 

We returned, and had a very pleasant time at dinner. Frau von Goethe talked much of Berlin, where she had lately been. She spoke with especial warmth of the Duchess of Cumberland, who had shown her much kindness. Goethe, with particular interest, remembered this princess, who when very young had passed some time with his mother.

 

In the evening, I had a musical treat of a high order at Goethe's house; where some fine singers, under the superintendence of Eberwein, performed part of Handel's Messiah. The Countess Caroline von Egloffstein, Fräulein von Fro­riep, with Frau von Pogwisch and Frau von Goethe, joined the female singers, and thus kindly gratified a wish which Goethe had entertained long since.

 

Goethe, sitting at some distance, wholly absorbed in hearing, passed a happy evening, full of admiration at this noble work.

 

Monday, April 19

The greatest philologist of our time, Friedrich August Wolf, from Berlin, is here, on his way towards the south of France. Goethe gave, today, on his ac­count, a dinner to his Weimar friends; at which General Superintendent Röhr, Chancellor von Müller, Oberbau-Director Coudray, Professor Riemer, Hof­rath Rehbein, and myself, were present. The conversation was very lively. Wolf was full of witty sallies, Goethe being his opponent. "I cannot," said Goethe to me afterwards, "get on with Wolf at all, without assuming the char­acter of Mephistopheles. Nothing else brings out his hidden treasures."

 

The bon mots at table were too evanescent, and too much the result of the moment, to bear repetition. Wolf was very great in witty turns and repartees, but nevertheless it seemed to me that Goethe always maintained a certain su­periority over him.

 

The hours at table flew by as if with wings, and six 0' clock came before we were aware. I went with young Goethe to the theatre, where Zaubeiflöte was played. Afterwards I saw Wolf in the box, with the Grand Duke Carl August.

 

Wolf remained in Weimar till the 25th, when he set out for the south of France. The state of his health was such that Goethe did not conceal the greatest anxiety about him.

 

Sunday, May 2

Goethe reproved me for not having visited a certain family of distinction. "You might," said he, "have passed there, during the winter, many delightful evenings, and have made the acquaintance of many interesting strangers; all which you have lost from God knows what caprice."

 

"With my excitable temperament," I replied, "and with my disposition to a broad sympathy with others, nothing can be more burdensome and hurtful to me than an overabundance of new impressions. I am neither by education nor by habi