The Autobiography of Goethe Truth and Poetry · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
ELEVENTH BOOK.
To us youths, before whom, with our German love of truth and nature, honesty towards both ourselves and others hovered as the best guide both in life and learning, the factious dishonesty of Voltaire and the perversion of so many worthy subjects became more and more annoying, and we daily strengthened ourselves in our aversion from him. He could never have done with degrading religion and the sacred books, for the sake of injuring priestcraft,[4] as they called it, and had thus produced in me many an unpleasant sensation. But when I now learned that, to weaken the tradition of a deluge, he had denied all petrified shells, and only admitted them as _lusus naturæ_, he entirely lost my confidence; for my own eyes had, on the Baschberg, plainly enough shown me that I stood on the bottom of an old dried-up sea, among the _exuviæ_ of its original inhabitants. These mountains had certainly been once covered with waves, whether before or during the deluge did not concern me; it was enough that the valley of the Rhine had been a monstrous lake, a bay extending beyond the reach of the eyesight; out of this I was not to be talked. I thought much more of advancing in the knowledge of lands and mountains, let what would be the result.
French literature, then, had grown old and genteel in itself, and through Voltaire. Let us devote some further consideration to this remarkable man. From his youth upwards, Voltaire's wishes and endeavours had been directed to an active and social life, to politics, to gain on a large scale, to a connexion with the heads of the earth, and a profitable use of this connexion, that he himself might be one of the heads of the earth also. No one has easily made himself so dependent, for the sake of being independent. He even succeeded in subjugating minds; the nation became his own. In vain did his opponents unfold their moderate talents, and their monstrous hate; nothing succeeded in injuring him. The court he could never reconcile to himself, but by way of compensation, foreign kings were his tributaries; Katharine and Frederic the Great, Gustavus of Sweden, Christian of Denmark, Peniotowsky of Poland, Henry of Prussia, Charles of Brunswick, acknowledged themselves his vassals; even popes thought they must coax him by some acts of indulgence. That Joseph the Second had kept aloof from him did not at all redound to the honour of this prince, for it would have done no harm to him and his undertakings, if, with such a fine intellect and with such noble views, he had been somewhat more practically clever,[5] and a better appreciator of the mind.
What I have here stated in a compressed form, and in some connexion, sounded at that time as a cry of the moment, as a perpetual discord, unconnected and uninstructive, in our ears. Nothing was heard but the praise of those who had gone before. Something good and new was required: but the newest was never liked. Scarcely had a patriot exhibited on the long inanimate stage national-French, heart-inspiring subjects,--scarcely had the _Siege of Calais_ gained enthusiastic applause, than the piece, together with all its national comrades, was considered empty, and in every sense objectionable. The delineations of manners by Destouches, which had so often delighted me when a boy, were called weak; the name of this honest man had passed away; and how many authors could I not point out, for the sake of whom I had to endure the reproach that I judged like a provincial, if I showed any sympathy for such men and their works, in opposition to any one who was carried along by the newest literary torrent.
Thus, to our other German comrades we became more and more annoying. According to our view,--according to the peculiarity of our own nature, we had to retain the impressions of objects, to consume them but slowly, and if it was to be so, to let them go as late as possible. We were convinced that by faithful observation, by continued occupation, something might be gained from all things, and that by persevering zeal we must at last arrive at a point where the ground of the judgment may be expressed at the same time with the judgment itself. Neither did we fail to perceive that the great and noble French world offered us many an advantage and much profit; for Rousseau had really touched our sympathies. But if we considered his life and his fate, he was nevertheless compelled to find the great reward for all he did in this--that he could live unacknowledged and forgotten at Paris. [Side-note: The Encyclopedists.] If we heard the encyclopedists mentioned, or opened a volume of their monstrous work, we felt as if we were going between the innumerable moving spools and looms in a great factory, where, what with the mere creaking and rattling--what with all the mechanism, embarrassing both eyes and senses--what with the mere incomprehensibility of an arrangement, the parts of which work into each other in the most manifold way--what with the contemplation of all that is necessary to prepare a piece of cloth, we feel disgusted with the very coat which we wear upon our backs.
Diderot was sufficiently akin to us, as, indeed, in everything, for which the French blame him, he is a true German. But even his point of view was too high, his circle of vision was too extended for us to range ourselves with him, and place ourselves at his side. Nevertheless, his children of nature, whom he continued to bring forward and dignify with great rhetorical art, pleased us very much; his brave poachers and smugglers enchanted us; and this rabble afterwards throve but too well upon the German Parnassus. It was he also, who, like Rousseau, diffused a disgust of social life--a quiet introduction to those monstrous changes of the world, in which everything permanent appeared to sink. However, we ought now to put aside these considerations, and to remark what influence these two men have had upon art. Even here they pointed--even from here they urged us towards nature. The highest problem of any art is to produce by appearance the illusion of a higher reality. But it is a false endeavour to realize the appearance until at last only something commonly real remains. As an ideal locality, the stage, by the application of the laws of perspective to _coulisses_ ranged one behind the other, had attained the greatest advantage; and this very gain they now wished wantonly to abandon, by shutting up the sides of the theatre, and forming real room-walls. With such an arrangement of the stage, the piece itself, the actors' mode of playing, in a word, everything was to coincide; and thus an entirely new theatre was to arise.
The French actors had, in comedy, attained the summit of the true in art. Their residence at Paris, their observations of the externals of the court, the connexion of the actors and actresses with the highest classes, by means of love affairs--all contributed to transplant to the stage the greatest realness and seemliness of social life; and on this point the friends of nature found but little to blame. However they thought they made a great advance, if they chose for their pieces earnest and tragical subjects, in which the citizen-life should not be wanting, used prose for the higher mode of expression, and thus banished unnatural verse, together with unnatural declamation and gesticulation. It is extremely remarkable, and has not been generally noticed, that at this time, even the old, severe, rhythmical, artistical tragedy was threatened with a revolution, which could only be averted by great talents and the power of tradition.
In opposition to the actor Le Kain, who played his heroes with especial theatrical decorum, with deliberation, elevation, and force, and kept himself aloof from the natural and ordinary, came forward a man named Aufresne, who declared war against everything unnatural, and in his tragic acting sought to express the highest truth. This mode might not have accorded with that of the other Parisian actors. He stood alone, while they kept together, and adhering to his views obstinately enough, he chose to leave Paris rather than alter them, and came through Strasburg. There we saw him play the part of Augustus in _Cinna_, that of Mithridates, and others of the sort, with the truest and most natural dignity. He appeared as a tall, handsome man, more slender than strong, not, properly speaking, with an imposing, but nevertheless with a noble, pleasing demeanour. His acting was well-considered and quiet, without being cold, and forcible enough where force was required. He was a very well-practised actor, and one of the few who know how to turn the artificial completely into nature, and nature completely into the artificial. It is really those few whose misunderstood good qualities always originate the doctrine of false "naturalness." [Side-note: Rousseau's "Pygmalion."]
And thus will I also make mention of a work, which is indeed small, but which made an epoch in a remarkable manner,--I mean Rousseau's _Pygmalion_. A great deal could be said upon it; for this strange production floats between nature and art, with the full endeavour of resolving the latter into the former. We see an artist who has produced what is most perfect, and yet does not find any satisfaction in having, according to art, represented his idea externally to himself, and given to it a higher life; no, it must also be drawn down to him into the earthly life. He will destroy the highest thing that mind and deed have produced, by the commonest act of sensuality. All this and much else, right and foolish, true and half-true, operating upon us as it did, still more perplexed our notions; we were driven astray through many by-ways and roundabout ways, and thus on many sides was prepared that German literary revolution, of which we were witnesses, and to which, consciously or unconsciously, willingly or unwillingly, we unceasingly contributed.
We had neither impulse nor tendency to be illumined and advanced in a philosophical manner; on religious subjects we thought we had sufficiently enlightened ourselves, and therefore the violent contest of the French philosophers with the priesthood was tolerably indifferent to us. Prohibited books condemned to the flames, which then made a great noise, produced no effect upon us. I mention as an instance, to serve for all, the _Système de la Nature_, which we took in hand out of curiosity. We did not understand how such a book could be dangerous. It appeared to us so dark, so Cimmerian, so deathlike, that we found it a trouble to endure its presence, and shuddered at it as at a spectre. The author fancies he gives his book a peculiar recommendation, when he declares in his preface, that as a decrepit old man, just sinking into the grave, he wishes to announce the truth to his contemporaries and to posterity. We laughed him out; for we thought we had observed that by old people nothing in the world that is loveable and good is in fact appreciated. "Old churches have dark windows; to know how cherries and berries taste, we must ask children and sparrows." These were our gibes and maxims; and thus that book, as the very quintessence of senility, appeared to us as unsavoury, nay, absurd. "All was to be of necessity," so said the book, "and therefore there was no God." But could there not be a God by necessity too? asked we. We indeed confessed, at the same time, that we could not withdraw ourselves from the necessities of day and night, the seasons, the influence of climate, physical and animal condition; but nevertheless we felt within us something that appeared like perfect freedom of will, and again something which sought to counterbalance this freedom.
The hope of becoming more and more rational, of making ourselves more and more independent of external things, nay, of ourselves, we could not give up. The word freedom sounds so beautiful, that we cannot do without it, even though it designates an error. [Side-note: "Système de la Nature."] None of us had read the book through; for we found ourselves deceived in the expectations with which we had opened it. A system of nature was announced; and therefore we hoped to learn really something of nature--our idol. Physics and chemistry, descriptions of heaven and earth, natural history and anatomy, with much else, had now for years, and up to the last day, constantly directed us to the great adorned world; and we would willingly have heard both particulars and generals about suns and stars, planets and moons, mountains, valleys, rivers and seas, with all that live and move in them. That in the course of this, much must occur which would appear to the common man as injurious, to the clergy as dangerous, and to the state as inadmissible, we had no doubt; and we hoped that the little book had not unworthily stood the fiery ordeal. But how hollow and empty did we feel in this melancholy, atheistical half-night, in which earth vanished with all its images, heaven with all its stars. There was to be a matter in motion from all eternity, and by this motion, right and left and in every direction, without anything further, it was to produce the infinite phenomena of existence. Even all this we should have allowed to pass, if the author, out of his moved matter, had really built up the world before our eyes. But he seemed to know as little about nature as we did; for, having set up some general ideas, he quits them at once, for the sake of changing that which appears as higher than nature, or as a higher nature within nature, into material, heavy nature, which is moved, indeed, but without direction or form--and thus he fancies he has gained a great deal.
If, after all, this book did us any mischief, it was this,--that we took a hearty dislike to all philosophy, and especially metaphysics, and remained in that dislike; while, on the other hand, we threw ourselves into living knowledge, experience, action, and poetising, with all the more liveliness and passion. Thus, on the very borders of France, we had at once got rid and clear of everything French about us. The French way of life we found too defined and genteel, their poetry cold, their criticism annihilating, their philosophy abstruse, and yet insufficient, so that we were on the point of resigning ourselves to rude nature, at least by way of experiment, if another influence had not for a long time prepared us for higher and freer views of the world, and intellectual enjoyments as true as they were poetical, and swayed us, first moderately and secretly, but afterwards with more and more openness and force.
I need scarcely say that Shakspeare is intended; and having once said this, no more need be added. Shakspeare has been acknowledged by the Germans, more by them than by other nations, perhaps even more than by his own. We have richly bestowed on him all that justice, fairness, and forbearance which we refuse to ourselves. Eminent men have occupied themselves in showing his talents in the most favourable light; and I have always readily subscribed to what has been said to his honour, in his favour, or even by way of excuse for him. The influence of this extraordinary mind upon me has been already shown; an attempt has been made with respect to his works, which has received approbation; and therefore this general statement may suffice for the present, until I am in a position to communicate to such, friends as like to hear me, a gleaning of reflections on his great deserts, such as I was tempted to insert in this very place. At present I will only show more clearly the manner in which I became acquainted with him. It happened pretty soon at Leipzig, through Dodd's _Beauties of Shakspeare._ Whatever may be said against such collections, which give authors in a fragmentary form, they nevertheless produce many good effects. We are not always so collected and so ready that we can take in a whole work according to its merits. Do we not, in a book, mark passages which have an immediate reference to ourselves? Young people especially, who are wanting in a thorough cultivation, are laudably excited by brilliant passages; and thus I myself remember, as one of the most beautiful epochs of my life, that which is characterised by the above-mentioned work. Those noble peculiarities, those great sayings, those happy descriptions, those humorous traits--all struck me singly and powerfully.
Wieland's translation now made its appearance. It was devoured, communicated and recommended to friends and acquaintances. We Germans had the advantage that many important works of foreign nations were first brought over to us in an easy and cheerful fashion. Shakspeare, translated in prose, first by Wieland, afterwards by Eschenburg, was able, as a kind of reading universally intelligible, and suitable to any reader, to diffuse itself speedily, and to produce a great effect. I revere the rhythm as well as the rhyme, by which poetry first becomes poetry; but that which is really, deeply, and fundamentally effective--that which is really permanent and furthering, is that which remains of the poet when it is translated into prose. Then remains the pure, perfect substance, of which, when absent, a dazzling exterior often contrives to make a false show, and which, when present, such an exterior contrives to conceal. I therefore consider prose translations more advantageous than poetical, for the beginning of youthful culture; for it may be remarked that boys, to whom everything must serve as a jest, delight themselves with the sound of words and the fall of syllables, and by a sort of parodistical wantonness, destroy the deep contents of the noblest work.
Hence I would have it considered whether a prose translation of Homer should not be next undertaken, though this, indeed, must be worthy of the degree at which German literature stands at present. I leave this, and what has been already said, to the consideration of our worthy pedagogues, to whom an extensive experience on this matter is most at command. I will only, in favour of my proposition, mention Luther's translation of the Bible; for the circumstance that this excellent man handed down a work, composed in the most different styles, and gave us its poetical, historical, commanding didactic tone in our mother-tongue, as if all were cast in one mould, has done more to advance religion than if he had attempted to imitate, in detail, the peculiarities of the original. In vain has been the subsequent endeavour to make Job, the Psalms, and the other lyrical books, capable of affording enjoyment in their poetical form. For the multitude, upon whom the effect is to be produced, a plain translation always remains the best. Those critical translations which vie with the original, really only seem to amuse the learned among themselves. [Side-note: Influence of Shakspeare.]
And thus in our Strasburg society did Shakspeare, translated and in the original, by fragments and as a whole, by passages and by extracts, influence us in such a manner, that as there are Bible-firm (_Bibelfest_) men, so did we gradually make ourselves firm in Shakspeare, imitated in our conversations those virtues and defects of his time with which he had made us so well acquainted, took the greatest delight in his "quibbles,"[6] and by translating them, nay, with original recklessness, sought to emulate him. To this, the fact that I had seized upon him above all, with great enthusiasm, did not a little contribute. A happy confession that something higher waved over me was infectious for my friends, who all resigned themselves to this mode of thought. We did not deny the possibility of knowing such merits more closely, of comprehending them, of judging them with penetration, but this we reserved for later epochs. At present we only wished to sympathize gladly, and to imitate with spirit, and while we had so much enjoyment, we did not wish to inquire and haggle about the man who afforded it, but unconditionally to revere him. [Side-note: Lenz.]
If any one would learn immediately what was thought, talked about, and discussed in this lively society, let him read Herder's essay on Shakspeare, in the part of his works upon the German manner and art (_Ueber Deutsche Art und Kunst_), and also Lenz's remarks on the theatre (_Anmerkungen übers Theater_), to which a translation of _Love's Labour Lost_ was added.[7] Herder penetrates into the deepest interior of Shakspeare's nature, and exhibits it nobly; Lenz conducts himself more like an Iconoclast against the traditions of the theatre, and will have everything everywhere treated in Shakspeare's manner. Since I have had occasion to mention this clever and eccentric man here, it is the place to say something about him by way of experiment. I did not become acquainted with him till towards the end of my residence at Strasburg. We saw each other seldom, his company was not mine, but we sought an opportunity of meeting, and willingly communicated with each other, because, as contemporary youths, we harboured similar views.
"Die schöne Princessin schoss und traf Eines jungen Hirschleins Leben; Es fiel dahin in schweren Schlaf Und wird ein Brätlein geben. Der Jagdhund boll! Ein L zu Hirsch So wird es denn ein Hirschel; Doch setzt ein römisch L zu Hirsch So macht es fünfzig Hirschel. Ich mache hundert Hirsche draus Schreib Hirschell mit zwei LLen."[8] The tendency towards the absurd, which displays itself free and unfettered in youth, but afterwards recedes more into the background, without being on that account utterly lost, was in full bloom among us, and we sought even by original jests to celebrate our great master. We were very proud when we could lay before the company something of the kind, which was in any degree approved, as, for instance, the following on a riding-master, who had been hurt on a wild horse. "A rider in this house you'll find, A master too is he, The two into a nosegay bind, 'Twill riding-master be. If master of the ride, I wis, Full well he bears the name, But if the ride the master is, On him and his be shame."[9] About such things serious discussions were held as to whether they were worthy of the clown or not, whether they flowed from the genuine pure fool's spring, and whether sense and understanding had at all mingled in an unfitting and inadmissible manner. Altogether our singular views were diffused with the greater ardour, and more persons were in a position to sympathize with them, as Lessing, in whom great confidence was placed, had, properly speaking, given the first signal in his _Dramaturgie._
In a society so attuned and excited I managed to take many a pleasant excursion into Upper Alsace, whence, however, on this very account, I brought back no particular instruction. The number of little verses which flowed from us on that occasion, and which might serve to adorn a lively description of a journey, are lost. In the cross-way of Molsheim Abbey we admired the painted windows; in the fertile spot between Colmar and Schlettstadt resounded some comic hymns to Ceres, the consumption of so many fruits being circumstantially set forth and extolled, and the important question as to the free or restricted trade in them being very merrily taken up. At Ensisheim we saw the monstrous aerolite hanging up in the church, and in accordance with the scepticism of the time, ridiculed the credulity of man, never suspecting that such air-born beings, if they were not to fall into our corn-fields, were at any rate to be preserved in our cabinets. [Side-note: The Ottilienberg.] Of a pilgrimage to the Ottilienberg, accomplished with an hundred, nay, a thousand of the faithful, I still love to think. Here, where the foundation-wall of a Roman castle still remained, a count's beautiful daughter, of a pious disposition, was said to have dwelt among ruins and stony crevices. Near the chapel where the wanderers edify themselves, her well is shown, and much that is beautiful is narrated. The image which I formed of her, and her name, made a deep impression upon me. I carried both about with me for a long time, until at last I endowed with them one of my later, but not less beloved daughters,[10] who was so favourably received by pure and pious hearts.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.