The Autobiography of Goethe Truth and Poetry · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
SIXTEENTH BOOK.
What people commonly say of misfortunes: that they never come alone: may with almost as much truth be said also of good fortune, and, indeed, of other circumstances which often cluster around us in a harmonious way; whether it he by a kind of fatality, or whether it be that man has the power of attracting to himself all mutually related things. At any rate, my present experience shewed me everything conspiring to produce an outward and an inward peace. The former came to me while I resolved patiently to await the result of what others were meditating and designing for me; the latter, however, I had to attain for myself by renewing former studies. I had not thought of Spinoza for a long time, and now I was driven to him by an attack upon him. In our library I found a little book, the author of which railed violently against that original thinker; and to go the more effectually to work, had inserted for a frontispiece a picture of Spinoza himself, with the inscription: "_Signum reprobationis in vultu gerens_" bearing on his face the stamp of reprobation. This there was no gainsaying, indeed, so long as one looked at the picture; for the engraving was wretchedly bad, a perfect caricature; so that I could not help thinking of those adversaries who, when they conceive a dislike to any one, first of all misrepresent him, and then assail the monster of their own creation.
This little book, however, made no impression upon me, since generally I did not like controversial works, but preferred always to learn from the author himself how he did think, than to hear from another how he ought to have thought. Still, curiosity led me to the article "Spinoza," in Bayle's Dictionary, a work as valuable for its learning and acuteness as it is ridiculous and pernicious by its gossiping and scandal. [Side-note: Spinoza - His Principles.] The article "Spinoza" excited in me displeasure and mistrust. In the first place, the philosopher is represented as an atheist, and his opinions as most abominable; but immediately afterwards it is confessed that he was a calmly reflecting man, devoted to his studies, a good citizen, a sympathizing neighbour, and a peaceable individual. The writer seemed to me to have quite forgotten the words of the gospel: "By their fruits ye shall know them," for how could a life pleasing in the sight of God and man spring from corrupt principles? I well remembered what peace of mind and clearness of ideas came over me when I first turned over the posthumous works of that remarkable man. The effect itself was still quite distinct to my mind, though I could not recall the particulars; I therefore speedily had recourse again to the work? to which I had owed so much, and again the same calm air breathed over me. I gave myself up to this reading, and believed, while I looked into myself, that I had never before so clearly seen through the world.
As, on this subject, there always has been, and still is even in these later times, so much controversy, I would not wish to be misunderstood, and therefore I make here a few remarks upon these so much feared, yea, abhorred views. Our physical as well as our social life, manners, customs, worldly wisdom, philosophy, religion, and many an accidental event, all call upon us, _to deny ourselves._ Much that is most inwardly peculiar to us we are not allowed to develope; much that we need from without for the completion of our character is withheld; while, on the other hand, so much is forced upon us which is as alien to us as it is burdensome. We are robbed of all that we have laboriously acquired for ourselves, or friendly circumstances have bestowed upon us; and before we can see clearly what we are, we find ourselves compelled to part with our personality, piece by piece, till at last it is gone altogether. Indeed, the case is so universal that it seems a law of society to despise a man who shows himself surly on that account. On the contrary, the bitterer the cup we have to drink, the more pleasant face must one make, in order that composed lookers on may not be offended by the least grimace.
To solve this painful problem, however, nature has endowed man with ample power, activity, and endurance. But especially is he aided therein by his volatility (_Leichtsinn_), a boon to man, which nothing can take away. By its means he is able to renounce the cherished object of the moment, if only the next presents him something new to reach at; and thus he goes on unconsciously, remodelling his whole life. We are continually putting one passion in the place of another; employments, inclinations, tastes, hobbies--we try them all, only to exclaim at last, All is vanity. No one is shocked by this false and murmuring speech; nay, every one thinks, while he says it, that he is uttering a wise and indisputable maxim. A few men there are, and only a few, who anticipate this insupportable feeling, and avoid all calls to such partial resignation by one grand act of total self-renunciation. Such men convince themselves of the Eternal, the Necessary, and of Immutable Law, and seek to form to themselves ideas which are incorruptible, nay which observation of the Perishable does not shake, but rather confirms. But since in this there is something superhuman, such persons are commonly esteemed _in_-human, without a God and without a World. People hardly know what sort of horns and claws to give them.
My confidence in Spinoza rested on the serene effect he wrought in me, and it only increased when I found my worthy mystics were accused of Spinozism, and learned that even Leibnitz himself could not escape the charge; nay, that Boerhaave, being suspected of similar sentiments, had to abandon Theology for Medicine. But let no one think that I would have subscribed to his writings, and assented to them _verbatim et literatim._ For, that no one really understands another; that no one attaches the same idea to the same word which another does; that a dialogue, a book, excites in different persons different trains of thought:--this I had long seen all too plainly; and the reader will trust the assertion of the author of Faust and Werther, that deeply experienced in such misunderstandings, he was never so presumptuous as to think that he understood perfectly a man, who, as the scholar of Descartes, raised himself, through mathematical and rabbinical studies, to the highest reach of thought; and whose name even at this day seems to mark the limit of all speculative efforts.
How much I appropriated from Spinoza, would be seen distinctly enough, if the visit of the "Wandering Jew," to Spinoza, which I had devised as a worthy ingredient for that poem, existed in writing. But it pleased me so much in the conception, and I found so much delight in meditating on it in silence, that I never could bring myself to the point of writing it out. Thus the notion, which would have been well enough as a passing joke, expanded itself until it lost its charm, and I banished it from my mind as something troublesome. The chief points, however, of what I owed to my study of Spinoza, so far as they have remained indelibly impressed on my mind, and have exercised a great influence on the subsequent course of my life, I will now unfold as briefly and succinctly as possible. [Side-note: Influence of Spinoza.] Nature works after such eternal, necessary, dime laws, that the Deity himself could alter nothing in them. In this belief, all men are unconsciously agreed. Think only how a natural phenomenon, which should intimate any degree of understanding, reason, or even of caprice, would instantly astonish and terrify us. If anything like reason shows itself in brutes, it is long before we can recover from our amazement; for, although they stand so near to us, they nevertheless seem to be divided from us by an infinite gulf, and to belong altogether to the kingdom of necessity. It is therefore impossible to take it ill if some thinkers have pronounced the infinitely ingenious, but strictly limited, organisation of those creatures, to be thoroughly mechanical.
If we turn to plants, our position is still more strikingly confirmed. How unaccountable is the feeling which seizes an observer upon seeing the _Mimosa_, as soon as it is touched, fold together in pairs its downy leaves, and finally clap down its little stalk as if upon a joint (_Gewerbe_). Still higher rises that feeling, to which I will give no name, at the sight of the _Hedysarum Gyrans_, which without any apparent outward occasion moves up and down its little leaves, and seems to play with itself as with our thoughts. Let us imagine a _Banana_, suddenly endowed with a similar capacity, so that of itself it could by turns let down and lift up again its huge leafy canopy; who would not, upon seeing it the first time, start back in terror? So rooted within us is the idea of our own superiority, that we absolutely refuse to concede to the outward world any part or portion in it; nay, if we could, we would too often withhold such advantages from our fellows. On the other hand, a similar horror seizes upon us, when we see a man unreasonably opposing universally recognised moral laws, or unwisely acting against the interest of himself and others. To get rid of the repugnance which we feel on such occasions, we convert it at once into censure or detestation, and we seek either in reality or in thought to get free from such a man.
This contrariety between Reason and Necessity, which Spinoza threw out in so strong a light, I, strangely enough, applied to my own being; and what has been said is, properly speaking, only for the purpose of rendering intelligible what follows. I had come to look upon my indwelling poetic talent altogether as Nature; the more so, as I had always been impelled to regard outward Nature as its proper object. The exercise of this poetic gift could indeed be excited and determined by circumstances; but its most joyful, its richest action was spontaneous-nay, even involuntary. Through field and forest roaming, My little songs still humming, So went it all day long. In my nightly vigils the same thing happened; I therefore often wished, like one of my predecessors, to get me a leathern jerkin made, and to accustom myself to write in the dark so as to be able to fix down at once all such unpremeditated effusions. So frequently had it happened that after composing a little piece in my head I could not recall it, that I would now hurry to the desk and, at one standing, write off the poem from beginning to end, and as I could not spare time to adjust my paper, however obliquely it might lie, the lines often crossed it diagonally. In such a mood I liked best to get hold of a lead pencil, because I could write most readily with it; whereas the scratching and spluttering of the pen would sometimes wake me from my somnambular poetizing, confuse me, and stifle a little conception in its birth. For the poems thus created I had a particular reverence; for I felt towards them somewhat as the hen does towards her chickens, which she sees hatched and chirping about her. My old whim of making known these things only by means of private readings, now returned to me: to exchange them for money seemed to me detestable.
This very Nature, however, which thus spontaneously brought forth so many longer and smaller works, was subject to long pauses, and for considerable periods I was unable, even when I most wished it, to produce anything, and consequently often suffered from ennui. The perception of such contrasts within me gave rise to the thought whether, on the other hand, it would not be my wisest course to employ for my own and others' profit and advantage, the human, rational, and intellectual part of my being, and as I already had done, and as I now felt myself more and more called upon to do, devote the intervals when Nature ceased to influence me, to worldly occupations, and thus to leave no one of my faculties unused. This course, which seemed to be dictated by those general ideas before described, was so much in harmony with my character and my position in life, that I resolved to adopt it and by this means to check the wavering and hesitation to which I had hitherto been subject. Very pleasant was it to me to reflect, that thus for actual service to my fellow men, I might demand a substantial reward, while on the other hand I might go on disinterestedly spending that lovely gift of nature as a sacred thing. By this consideration I guarded against the bitterness of feeling which might have arisen when circumstances should force upon the remark that precisely this talent, so courted and admired in Germany, was treated as altogether beyond the pale of the law and of justice. For not only were piracies considered perfectly allowable, and even comical in Berlin, but the estimable Margrave of Baden, so praised for his administrative virtues, and the Emperor Joseph who had justified so many hopes, lent their sanction, one to his Macklot, and the other to his honorable noble _von Trattner_; and it was declared, that the rights, as well as the property of genius, should be left at the absolute mercy of the trade.
One day, when we were complaining of this to a visitor from Baden, he told us the following story: Her ladyship the Margravine, being a very active lady, had established a paper-manufactory; but the paper was so bad, that it was impossible to dispose of it. Thereupon Mr. bookseller Macklot proposed, if he were permitted to print the German poets and prose writers, he would use this paper, and thus enhance its value. The proposition was adopted with avidity. Of course, we pronounced this malicious piece of scandal to be a mere fabrication; but found our pleasure in it notwithstanding. The name of Macklot became a by-word at the time, and was applied by us to all mean transactions. And, a versatile youth, often reduced to borrowing himself, while others' meanness was making itself rich upon his talents, felt himself sufficiently compensated by a couple of good jokes. * * * * * Children and youths wander on in a sort of happy intoxication, which betrays itself especially in the fact, that the good, innocent creatures are scarcely able to notice, and still less to understand, the ever changing state of things around them. They regard the world as raw material which they must shape, as a treasure which they must take possession of. Everything they seem to think belongs to them, everything must be subservient to their will; indeed, on this account, the greater part lose themselves in a wild uncontrollable temper. With the better part, however, this tendency unfolds itself into a moral enthusiasm, which, occasionally moves of its own accord after some actual or seeming good, but still oftener suffers itself to be prompted, led, and even misled.
Such was the case with the youth of whom we are at present speaking, and if he appeared rather strange to mankind, still he seemed welcome to many. At the very first meeting you found in him a freedom from reserve, a cheerful open-heartedness in conversation, and in action the unpremeditated suggestions of the moment. Of the latter trait a story or two. [Side-note: A Scene at a Fire.] In the close-built Jews' street (_Judengasse_), a violent conflagration had broken out. My universal benevolence, which prompted me to lend my active aid to all, led me to the spot, full dressed as I was. A passage had been broken through from All Saints' street (_Allerheiligengasse_), and thither I repaired. I found a great number of men busied with carrying water, rushing forward with full buckets, and back again with empty ones. I soon saw that, by forming a lane for passing up and down the buckets, the help we rendered might be doubled. I seized two full buckets and remained standing and called others to me; those who came on were relieved of their load, while those returning arranged themselves in a row on the other side. The arrangement was applauded, my address and personal sympathy found favor, and the lane, unbroken from its commencement to its burning goal, was soon completed. Scarcely, however, had the cheerfulness which this inspired, called forth a joyous, I might even say, a merry humor in this living machine, all of whose party worked well together, when wantonness began to appear, and was soon succeeded by a love of mischief. The wretched fugitives, dragging off their miserable substance upon their backs, if they once got within the lane, must pass on without stopping, and if they ventured to halt for a moment's rest, were immediately assailed. Saucy boys would sprinkle them with the water, and even add insult to misery. However, by means of gentle words and eloquent reproofs, prompted perhaps by a regard to my best clothes, which were in danger, I managed to put a stop to their rudeness.
Some of my friends had from curiosity approached, to gaze on the calamity, and seemed astonished to see their companion, in thin shoes and silk stockings--for that was then the fashion-engaged in this wet business. But few of them could I persuade to join us; the others laughed and shook their heads. We stood our ground, however, a long while, for, if any were tired and went away, there were plenty ready to take their places. Many sight-seers, too, came merely for the sake of the spectacle, and so my innocent daring became universally known, and the strange disregard of etiquette became the town-talk of the day. This readiness to do any action that a good-natured whim might prompt, which proceeded from a happy self-consciousness which men are apt to blame as vanity, made our friend to be talked of for other oddities.
Leaving these recollections of happy and spontaneous action, we will now resume the sober thread of our narrative. A witty Frenchman has said: If a clever man has once attracted the attention of the public by any meritorious work, every one does his best to prevent his ever doing a similar thing again. It is even so: something good and spirited is produced in the quiet seclusion of youth; applause is won, but independence is lost; the concentrated talent is pulled about and distracted, because people think that they may pluck off and appropriate to themselves a portion of the personality. It was owing to this that I received a great many invitations, or, rather, not exactly invitations: a Mend, an acquaintance would propose, with even more than urgency, to introduce me here or there. The _quasi_ stranger, now described as a bear on account of his frequent surly refusals, and then again like Voltaire's Huron, or Cumberland's West Indian, as a child of nature in spite of many talents, excited curiosity, and in various families negotiations were set on foot to see him. [Side-note: Introduction to Lili.]
Among others, a friend one evening entreated me to go with him to a little concert to be given in the house of an eminent merchant of the reformed persuasion. It was already late; but as I loved to do everything on the spur of the moment, I went with him, decently dressed, as usual. We entered a chamber on the ground floor,--the ordinary but spacious sitting-room of the family. The company was numerous, a piano stood in the middle, at which the only daughter of the house sat down immediately, and played with considerable facility and grace. I stood at the lower end of the piano, that I might be near enough to observe her form and bearing; there was something childlike in her manner; the movements she was obliged to make in playing were unconstrained and easy.
After the sonata was finished, she stepped towards the end of the piano to meet me; we merely saluted, however, without further conversation, for a quartet had already commenced. At the close of it, I moved somewhat nearer and uttered some civil compliment; telling her what pleasure it gave me that my first acquaintance with her should have also made me acquainted with her talent. She managed to make a very clever reply, and kept her position as I did mine. I saw that she observed me closely, and that I was really standing for a show; but I took it all in good part, since I had something graceful to look at in my turn. Meanwhile, we gazed on one another, and I will not deny that I was sensible of feeling an attractive power of the gentlest kind. The moving about of the company, and her performances, prevented any further approach that evening. But I must confess that I was anything but displeased, when, on taking leave, the mother gave me to understand that they hoped soon to see me again, while the daughter seemed to join in the request with some friendliness of manner. I did not fail, at suitable intervals, to repeat my visit, since, on such occasions, I was sure of a cheerful and intellectual conversation, which seemed to prophesy no tie of passion.
In the meantime, the hospitality of our house once laid open caused many an inconvenience to my good parents and myself. At any rate it had not proved in any way beneficial to my steadfast desire to notice the Higher, to study it, to further it, and if possible to imitate it. Men, I saw, so far as they were good, were pious; and, so far as they were active, were unwise and oftentimes unapt. The former could not help me, and the latter only confused me. One remarkable case I have carefully written down. [Side-note: Jung or Stilling.] In the beginning of the year 1775, Jung, afterwards called Stilling, from the Lower Rhine, announced to us that he was coming to Frankfort, being invited as an oculist, to treat an important case; the news was welcome to my parents and myself, and we offered him quarters.
Herr von Lersner, a worthy man advanced in years, universally esteemed for his success in the education and training of princely children, and for his intelligent manners at court and on his travels, had been long afflicted with total blindness; his strong hope of obtaining some relief of his affliction was not entirely extinct. Now, for several years past, Jung, with much courage and modest boldness, had, in the Lower Rhine, successfully couched for the cataract, and thus had gained a wide-spread reputation. The candor of his soul, his truth fulness of character, and genuine piety, gained him universal confidence; this extended up the river through the medium of various parties connected by business. Herr von Lersner and his friends, upon the advice of an intelligent physician, resolved to send for the successful oculist, although a Frankfort merchant, in whose case the cure had failed, earnestly endeavored to dissuade them. But what was a single failure against so many successful cases! So Jung came, enticed by the hope of a handsome remuneration, which heretofore he had been accustomed to renounce; he came, to increase his imputation, full of confidence and in high spirits, and we congratulated ourselves on the prospect of such an excellent and lively table-companion.
At last, after a preparatory course of medicine, the cataract upon both eyes was couched. Expectation was at its height. It was said that the patient saw the moment after the operation, until the bandage again shut out the light. But it was remarked that Jung was not cheerful, and that something weighed on his spirits; indeed, on further inquiry he confessed to me that he was uneasy as to the result of the operation. Commonly, for I had witnessed several operations of the kind in Strasburg, nothing in the world seemed easier than such cases; and Stilling himself had operated successfully a hundred times. After piercing the insensible cornea, which gave no pain, the dull lens would, at the slightest pressure, spring forward of itself; the patient immediately discerned objects, and only had to wait with bandaged eyes, until the completed cure should allow him to use the precious organ at his own will and convenience. How many a poor man, for whom Jung had procured this happiness, had invoked God's blessing and reward upon his benefactor, which was now to be realized by means of this wealthy patient! Jung confessed to me that this time the operation had not gone off so easily and so successfully; the lens had not sprung forward, he had been obliged to draw it out, and indeed, as it had grown to the socket, to loosen it; and this he was not able to do without violence. He now reproached himself for having operated also on the other eye. But Lersner and his friends had firmly resolved to have both couched at the same time, and when the emergency occurred, they did not immediately recover presence of mind enough to think what was best. Suffice it to say, the second lens also did not spontaneously spring forward; but had to be loosened and drawn out with difficulty.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.