The Autobiography of Goethe Truth and Poetry · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
ELEVENTH BOOK.
From my childhood upwards I had been a witness of such movements, when the clergy now offended their authorities, now their congregations. I had therefore established it as a principle in my young mind, that the state--the legislator--had the right to determine a worship, according to which the clergy should teach and conduct themselves, and the laity, on the other hand, should direct themselves publicly and externally; while there should be no question about any one's thoughts, feelings, or notions. Thus I believed that I had at once got rid of all collisions. I therefore chose for my _disputation_ the first half of this theme, namely, that the legislator was not only authorised, but bound to establish a certain worship, from which neither the clergy nor the laity might free themselves. I carried out this theme partly historically, partly argumentatively, showing that all public religions had been introduced by leaders of armies, kings, and powerful men; that this had even been the case with Christianity. The example of Protestantism lay quite close at hand. I went to work at this task with so much the more boldness, as I really only wrote it to satisfy my father, and desired and hoped nothing more ardently than that it might not pass the censorship.
I had imbibed from Behrisch an unconquerable dislike to see anything of mine in print, and my intercourse with Herder had discovered to mo but too plainly my own insufficiency, nay, a certain mistrust in myself had through this means been perfectly matured. As I drew this work almost entirely out of myself, and wrote and spoke Latin with fluency, the time which I expended on the treatise passed very agreeably. The matter had at least some foundation, the style, naturally speaking, was not bad, the whole was pretty well rounded off. As soon as I had finished it, I went through it with a good Latin scholar, who, although he could not, on the whole, improve my style, yet easily removed all striking defects, so that something was produced that was fit to be shown. A fair copy was at once sent to my father, who disapproved of one thing, namely, that none of the subjects previously taken in hand had been worked out, but nevertheless, as a thorough Protestant, he was well pleased with the boldness of the plan. My singularities were tolerated, my exertions were praised, and he promised himself an important effect from the publication of the work. [Side-note: The "Disputation."]
I now handed over my papers to the faculty, who fortunately behaved in a manner as prudent as it was polite. The dean, a lively, clever man, began with many laudations of my work, then went on to what was doubtful, which he contrived gradually to change into something dangerous, and concluded by saying that it might not be advisable to publish this work as an academical dissertation. The _aspirant_ had shown himself to the faculty as a thinking young man, of whom they might hope the best; they would willingly, not to delay the affair, allow me to dispute on _theses._ I could afterwards publish my treatise, either in its present condition or more elaborated, in Latin, or in another language. This would everywhere be easy to me as a private man and a Protestant, and I should have the pleasure of an applause more pure and more general. I scarcely concealed from the good man what a stone his discourse rolled from my heart; at every new argument which he advanced, that he might not trouble me nor make me angry by his refusal, my mind grew more and more easy, and so did his own at last, when, quite unexpectedly, I offered no resistance to his reasons, but, on the contrary, found them extremely obvious, and promised to conduct myself according to his counsel and guidance. I therefore sat down again with my _repetent._ _Theses_ were chosen and printed, and the disputation, with the opposition of my fellow-boarders, went off with great merriment, and even with facility, for my old habit of turning over the _Corpus Juris_ was very serviceable to me, and I could pass for a well instructed man. A good feast, according to custom, concluded the solemnity.
My father, however, was very dissatisfied that the little work had not been regularly printed as a _disputation_, because he had hoped that I should gain honour by it on my entrance into Frankfort. He therefore wished to publish it specially, but I represented to him that the subject, which was only sketched, could be more completely carried out at some future time. He put up the manuscript carefully for this purpose, and many years afterwards I saw it among his papers. [Side-note: Schöpflin.] I took my degree on the 6th August, 1771; and on the following day Schöpflin died, in the 75th year of his age. Even without closer contact, he had had an important influence upon me; for eminent contemporaries may be compared to the greater stars, towards which, so long as they merely stand above the horizon, our eye is turned, and feels strengthened and cultivated, if it is only allowed to take such perfections into itself. Bountiful nature had given Schöpflin an advantageous exterior, a slender form, kindly eyes, a ready mouth, and a thoroughly agreeable presence. Neither had she been sparing in gifts of mind to her favourite; and his good fortune was the result of innate and carefully-cultivated merits, without any troublesome exertion. He was one of those happy men, who are inclined to unite the past and the present, and understand how to connect historical knowledge with the interests of life. Born in the Baden territory, educated at Basle and Strasburg, he quite properly belonged to the paradisiacal valley of the Rhine, as an extensive and well-situated fatherland. His mind being directed to historical and antiquarian objects, he readily seized upon them with a felicitous power of representation, and retained them by the most convenient memory.
Desirous as he was both of learning and of teaching, he pursued a course of study and of life which equally advanced. He soon emerges and rises above the rest, without any kind of interruption; diffuses himself with ease through the literary and citizen-world, for historical knowledge passes everywhere, and affability attaches itself everywhere. He travels through Germany, Holland, France. Italy; he comes in contact with all the learned men of his time; he amuses princes, and it is only when, by his lively loquacity, the hours of the table or of audience are lengthened, that he is tedious to the people at court. On the other hand, he acquires the confidence of the statesmen, works out for them the most profound legal questions, and thus finds everywhere a field for his talent. In many places they attempt to retain him, but he remains faithful to Strasburg and the French court. His immoveable German honesty is recognised even there, he is even protected against the powerful Prætor Klingling, who is secretly his enemy. Sociable and talkative by nature, he extends his intercourse with the world, as well as his knowledge and occupations; and we should hardly be able to understand whence he got all his time, did we not know that a dislike to women accompanied him through his whole life; and that thus he gained many days and hours which are happily thrown away by those who are well-disposed towards the ladies.
For the rest, he belongs, as an author, to the ordinary sort of character, and, as an orator, to the multitude. His programme, his speeches, and addresses are devoted to the particular day--to the approaching solemnity; nay, his great work, _Alsatia Illustrata_, belongs to life, as he recalls the past, freshens up faded forms, reanimates the hewn and the formed stone, and brings obliterated broken inscriptions for a second time before the eyes and mind of his reader. In such a manner, his activity fills all Alsatia and the neighbouring country; in Baden and the Palatinate he preserves to an extreme old age an uninterrupted influence; at Mannheim he founds the Academy of Sciences, and remains president of it till his death. I never approached this eminent man, excepting on one night, when we gave him a torch-serenade. Our pitch-torches more filled with smoke than lighted the court-yard of the old chapter-house, which was over-arched by linden-trees. When the noise of the music had ended, he came forward and stepped into the midst of us; and here also was in his right place. The slender, well-grown, cheerful old man stood with his light, free manners, venerably before us, and held us worthy the honour of a well-considered address, which he delivered to us in an amiable paternal manner, without a trace of restraint or pedantry, so that we really thought ourselves something for the moment; for, indeed, he treated us like the kings and princes whom he had been so often called upon to address in public. We testified our satisfaction aloud, trumpets and drums repeatedly sounded, and the dear, hopeful academical _plebs_ then found its way home with hearty satisfaction.
Schöpflin, who for his whole lifetime had moved in the higher sphere of political law, and well knew the great influence which such and kindred studies are likely to procure for a sound head, in courts and cabinets, felt an insuperable, nay, unjust aversion from the situation of a civilian, and had inspired his scholars 'with the like sentiments. The above-mentioned two men, friends of Salzmann, had taken notice of me in a most friendly manner. My impassioned grasping at external objects, the manner in which I continued to bring forward their advantages, and to communicate to them a particular interest, they prized higher than I did myself. My slight, and I may say, my scanty occupation with the civil law, had not remained unobserved by them; they were well enough acquainted with me to know how easily I was to be influenced; I had made no secret of my liking for an academical life, and they therefore thought to gain me over to history, political law, and rhetoric, at first for a time, but after wards more decidedly. Strasbourg itself offered advantages enough. The prospect of the German Chancery at Versailles, the precedent of Schöpflin, whose merits, indeed, seemed to me unattainable, were to incite to emulation, if not to imitation; and perhaps a similar talent was thus to be cultivated, which might be both profitable to him who could boast of it, and useful to others who might choose to employ it on their own account. These, my patrons, and Salzmann with them, set a great value on my memory and my capacity for apprehending the sense of languages, and chiefly by these sought to further their views and plans.
I now intend to describe, at length, how all this came to nothing, and how it happened that I again passed over from the French to the German side. Let me be allowed, as hitherto, some general reflections, by way of transition. There are few biographies which can represent a pure, quiet, steady progress of the individual. Our life, as well as all in which we are contained, is, in an incomprehensible manner, composed of freedom and necessity. Our will is a prediction of what we shall do, under all circumstances. But these circumstances lay hold on us in their own fashion. The _what_ lies in us, the _how_ seldom depends on us, after the _wherefore_ we dare not ask, and on this account we are rightly referred to the _quia._ The French tongue I had liked from my youth upwards; I had learned to know the language through a bustling life, and a bustling life through the language. It had become my own, like a second mother-tongue, without grammar and instruction--by mere intercourse and practice. I now wished to use it with still greater fluency, and gave Strasburg the preference, as a second university residence, to other high schools; but, alas! it was just there that I had to experience the very reverse of my hopes, and to be turned rather from than to this language and these manners.
The French, who generally aim at good behaviour, are indulgent towards foreigners who begin to speak their language; they will not laugh any one out of countenance at a fault, or blame him in direct terms. However, since they cannot endure sins committed against their language, they have a manner of repeating, and, as it were, courteously confirming what has been said with another turn, at the same time making use of the expression which should properly have been employed; thus leading the intelligent and the attentive to what is right and proper. [Side-note: Difficulty with the French Language.] Now although, if one is in earnest--if one has self-denial enough to profess oneself a pupil, one gains a great deal, and is much advanced by this plan, one nevertheless always feels in some degree humiliated; and, since one talks for the sake of the subject-matter also, often too much interrupted, or even distracted, so that one impatiently lets the conversation drop. This happened with me more than with others, as I always thought that I had to say something interesting, and, on the other hand, to hear something important, and did not wish to be always brought back merely to the expression,--a case which often occurred with me, as my French was just as motley as that of any other foreigner. I had observed the accent and idiom of footmen, valets, guards, young and old actors, theatrical lovers, peasants, and heroes; and this Babylonish idiom was rendered still more confused by another odd ingredient, as I liked to hear the French reformed clergy, and visited their churches the more willingly, as a Sunday walk to Bockenheim was on this account not only permitted but ordered. But even this was not enough; for as in my youthful years, I had always been chiefly directed to the German of the 16th century, I soon included the French also of that noble epoch among the objects of my inclination. Montaigne, Amyot, Rabelais, Marot, were my friends, and excited in me sympathy and delight. Now all these different elements moved in my discourse chaotically one with another, so that for the hearer the meaning was lost in the oddity of the expression; nay an educated Frenchman could no more courteously correct me, but had to censure me and tutor me in plain terms. It therefore happened with me here once more as it had happened in Leipzig, only that on this occasion I could not appeal to the right of my native place to speak idiomatically, as well as other provinces; but being on a foreign ground and soil, was forced to adapt myself to traditional laws.
Perhaps we might even have resigned ourselves to this, if an evil genius had not whispered into our ears that all endeavours by a foreigner to speak French would remain unsuccessful; for a practised ear can perfectly well detect a German, Italian, or Englishman under a French mask. One is tolerated, but never received into the bosom of the only church of language. Only a few exceptions were granted. They named to us a Herr von Grimm; but even Schöpflin, it seemed, did not reach the summit. They allowed that he had early seen the necessity of expressing himself in French to perfection; they approved of his inclination to converse with every one, and especially to entertain the great and persons of rank; they praised him, that living in the place where he was, he had made the language of the country his own, and had endeavoured as much as possible to render himself a Frenchman of society and orator. But what does he gain by the denial of his mother-tongue, and his endeavours after a foreign one? He cannot make it right with anybody. In society they are pleased to deem him vain; as if any one would or could converse with others without some feeling for self and self-complacency! Then the refined connoisseurs of the world and of language assert that there is in him more of dissertation and dialogue than of conversation, properly so called. The former was generally recognised as the original and fundamental sin of the Germans, the latter as the cardinal virtue of the French. As a public orator he fares no better. If he prints a well-elaborated address to the king or the princes, the Jesuits, who are ill-disposed to him as a Protestant, lay wait for him, and show that his terms of expression are _not French._
Instead of consoling ourselves with this, and bearing as green wood that which had been laid upon the dry, we were annoyed at such pedantic injustice. We fall into despair, and, by this striking example, are the more convinced that it is a vain endeavour to try to satisfy the French by the matter itself, as they are too closely bound to the external conditions under which everything is to appear. We therefore embrace the opposite resolution of getting rid of the French language altogether, and of directing ourselves more than ever, with might and earnestness, to our own mother-tongue. And for this we found opportunity and sympathy in actual life. Alsace had not been connected with France so long that an affectionate adherence to the old constitution, manners, language, and costume did not still exist with old and young. If the conquered party loses half his existence by compulsion, he looks upon it as disgraceful voluntarily to part with the other half. He therefore holds fast to all that can recall to him the good old time, and foster in him the hope that a better epoch will return. Very many inhabitants of Strasburg formed little circles, separate, indeed, but nevertheless united in spirit, which were always increased and recruited by the numerous subjects of German princes who held considerable lands under French sovereignty, since fathers and sons, either for the sake of study or business, resided for a longer or shorter time at Strasburg.
At our table nothing but German was spoken. Salzmann expressed himself in French with much fluency and elegance; but, with respect to his endeavours and acts, was a perfect German. Lerse might have been set up as a pattern of a German youth. Meyer, of Lindau, liked to get on with good German too well to shine in good French; and if, among the rest, many were inclined to the Gallic speech and manners, they yet, while they were with us, allowed the general tone to prevail with them. [Side-note: Dislike to the French.] From the language we turned to political affairs. We had not, indeed, much to say in praise of our own imperial constitution. We granted that it consisted of mere legal contradictions; but exalted ourselves so much the more above the present French constitution, which lost itself in mere lawless abuses, while the government only showed its energy in the wrong place, and was forced to admit that a complete change in affairs was already publicly prophesied with black forebodings. If, on the other hand, we looked towards the north, we were shone upon by Frederic, the polar-star, who seemed to turn about himself Germany, Europe, nay, the whole world. His preponderance in everything was most strongly manifested when the Prussian exercise and even the Prussian stick was introduced into the French army. As for the rest, we forgave him his predilection for a foreign language, since we felt satisfaction that his French poets, philosophers, and _littérateurs_ continued to annoy him, and often declared that he was to be considered and treated only as an intruder.
But what, more than all, forcibly alienated us from the French, was the unpolite opinion, repeatedly maintained, that the Germans in general, as well as the king, who was striving after French cultivation, were deficient in taste. With respect to this kind of talk, which followed every judgment like a burden, we endeavoured to solace ourselves with contempt; but we could so much the less come to a clear understanding about it, as we were assured that Menage had already said, that the French writers possessed everything but taste; and had also learned from the then living Paris, that all the authors were wanting in taste, and that Voltaire himself could not escape this severest of reproaches. Having been before and often directed to nature, we would allow of nothing but truth and uprightness of feeling, and the quick, blunt expression of it. "Friendship, love, and brotherhood, Are they not self-understood?" was the watchword and cry of battle, by which the members of our little academical horde used to know and enliven each other. This maxim lay at the foundation of all our social banquets, on the occasions of which we did not fail to pay many an evening visit to Cousin Michel,[3] in his well-known _Germanhood._ If, in what has hitherto been described, only external contingent causes and personal peculiarities are found, the French literature had in itself certain qualities which were rather repulsive than attractive to an aspiring youth. It was advanced in years and genteel; and by neither of these qualities can youth, which looks about for enjoyment of life and for freedom, be delighted.
Since the sixteenth century, the course of French literature had never been seen to be completely interrupted; nay, the internal and religious disturbances, as well as the external wars, had accelerated its progress; but, as we heard generally maintained, it was a hundred years ago that it had existed in its full bloom. Through favourable circumstances, they said, an abundant harvest had at once ripened, and had been happily gathered in, so that the great talents of the eighteenth century had to be moderately contented with mere gleanings. In the meanwhile, however, much had become antiquated: first of all comedy, which had to be freshened up to adapt itself, less perfectly, indeed, but still with new interest, to actual life and manners. Of the tragedies, many had vanished from the stage, and Voltaire did not let slip the important opportunity which offered of editing Corneille's works, that he might show how defective his predecessor had been, whom, according to the general voice, he had not equalled. [Side-note: Voltaire.]
And even this very Voltaire, the wonder of his time, had grown old, like the literature, which, for nearly a century, he had animated and governed. By his side still existed and vegetated many _littérateurs_, in a more or less active and happy old age, who one by one disappeared. The influence of society upon authors increased more and more; for the best society, consisting of persons of birth, rank, and property, chose for one of their chief recreations literature, which thus became quite social and genteel. Persons of rank and _littérateurs_ mutually cultivated and necessarily perverted each other; for the genteel has always something excluding in its nature; and excluding also was the French criticism, being negative, detracting, and fault-finding. The higher class made use of such judgments against the authors; the authors, with somewhat less decorum, proceeded in the same manner against each other, nay, against their patrons. If the public was not to be awed, they endeavoured to take it by surprise, or gain it by humility; and thus--apart from the movements which shook church and state to their inmost core--there arose such a literary ferment, that Voltaire himself stood in need of his full activity, and his whole preponderance, to keep himself above the torrent of general disesteem.
Already he was openly called an old capricious child; his endeavours, carried on indefatigably, were regarded as the vain efforts of a decrepid age; certain principles, on which he had stood during his whole life, and to the spread of which he had devoted his days, were no more held in esteem and honour; nay, his Deity, by acknowledging whom he continued to declare himself free from atheism, was not conceded him; and thus he himself, the grandsire and patriarch, was forced, like his youngest competitor, to watch the present moment, to catch at new power--to do his friends too much good, and his enemies too much harm; and under the appearance of a passionate striving for the love of truth, to act deceitfully and falsely. Was it worth the trouble to have led such a great active life, if it was to end in greater dependence than it had begun? How insupportable such a position was, did not escape his high mind, his delicate sensibility. He often relieved himself by leaps and thrusts, gave the reins to his humour, and carried a few of his sword-cuts too far,--at which friends and enemies, for the most part, showed themselves indignant; for every one thought he could play the superior to him, though no one could equal him. A public which only hears the judgment of old men, becomes over-wise too soon; and nothing is more unsatisfactory than a mature judgment adopted by an immature mind.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.