Goethe's prestige was enormously increased by the publication
in 1796 of "Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship" ("Wilhelm
Meisters Lehrjahre"). Representing the fruit of twenty years'
labour, it was, like "Faust," written in fragments during the
ripest period of his intellectual activity. The story of
"Wilhelm Meister" is by no means exciting, but, as a gallery
of portraits and repository of wise observation, it is more
characteristic of the genius of its author than any other of
his prose works. It is more mellow than "Werther," and the
action moves slower. Incident follows incident in a leisurely
fashion. The keen psychological analysis in the story is
assumed to have been derived from Goethe's own experience.
"Wilhelm Meister" was dramatised and produced at Leipzig a few
years ago, but with no marked success.
_I.--On the Road_
The moment was now at hand to which poor Mariana had been looking
forward as to the last of her life. Wilhelm Meister, the man she loved,
was departing on a long journey in connection with his father's
business; a disagreeable lover was threatening to come.
"I am miserable," she exclaimed, "miserable for life! I love him, and he
loves me; yet I see that we must part, and know not how I shall survive
it. Wilhelm is poor, and can do nothing for me--"
Darkness had scarcely come on when Wilhelm glided forth to her house; he
carried with him a letter in which he entreated her to marry him
forthwith, saying that he would abandon his father's business, and earn
his living on the stage, to which he had always been strongly drawn.
This he could do with certainty, as he was well acquainted with Serlo,
manager of a theatre in a town at some distance.
His plan was to leave the letter with her, and return a little later for
her answer. The vehemence of his emotion at first prevented him from
noticing that she did not greet him with her wonted heartiness; she
complained of a headache, and would not hear of his coming back later
that evening. Suspecting nothing wrong, he ceased to urge her, but he
felt that this was not the moment for delivering his letter. He retained
it, therefore, and, in a tumult of insatiable love, as he tore himself
away from her he snatched one of her neckerchiefs, and, after pressing
it madly to his lips, crushed it into his pocket.
His whole being was in a ferment of excitement as he walked aimlessly
about the streets. Midnight found him again in the neighbourhood of
Mariana's house; consciousness of the fact brought him to himself. He
went slowly away, set himself for home, and constantly turned round
again; at last, with an effort, he constrained himself, and actually
departed. At the corner of the street, looking back yet once more, he
imagined that he saw Mariana's door open, and a dark figure issue from
it. He was too distant to see clearly, and in a moment the appearance
was lost in the night.
On his way, he had almost effaced the unexpected delusion from his mind
by the most sufficient reasons. To soothe his heart, and put the last
seal on his returning belief, ere he disrobed for the night, he took her
kerchief from his pocket. The rustle of a letter which fell from it took
the kerchief from his lips; he lifted it, and read a passionate letter
from another man, railing at her for her coldness on the preceding
night, making an appointment for that same night, and breathing a spirit
of intimate familiarity.
* * * * *
A violent fever, with its train of consequences, besides the unwearied
attentions of his family, were so many fresh occupations for his mind,
and formed a kind of painful entertainment. On his recovery, he
determined to abandon for ever his former leaning towards the stage, and
to apply himself with greater diligence to business, and, to the great
contentment of his father, no one was now more diligent in the
counting-house. For a long time he continued to show exemplary attention
to his duties, and was then thought sufficiently master of his business
to be sent on a long expedition on behalf of the firm.
The first part of his business successfully accomplished, Wilhelm found
himself at a little mountain town called Hochdorf. A troupe of actors
had got stranded there, their exchequer empty, their properties seized
as security for debts. Wilhelm recognised among them an old man whom he
recollected as having seen on the stage with Mariana. After some
hesitation, he hazarded a question concerning her. "Do not speak to me
of that baggage!" cried the old man. "I am ashamed that I felt such a
friendship for her. Yet, had you known the girl better, you would excuse
me. I loved her as my own daughter; indeed, I had formed a resolution to
take the creature into my own house, and save her from the hands of that
old crone Barbara, her confidante; but my wife died, and so the project
came to nothing. At the end of our stay in your native town, I noticed a
visible sadness about her. I questioned her, but she evaded me. At last
we set out on our journey. She travelled in the same coach with me, and
I soon observed what she could not deny, that she was about to become a
mother. In a short time the manager made the same discovery; he paid her
off at once and left her behind at the village inn."
Wilhelm's old wounds were all torn open afresh by the old man's story;
the thought that perhaps Mariana was not wholly unworthy of his love was
again brought to life. Nay, even the bitter accusations brought against
her could not lower her in his estimation; for he, as well as she, was
guilty in all her aberrations. He saw her as a frail, ill-succoured
mother, wandering helplessly about the world.
The old longing for the stage came back to him with redoubled force; he
determined to give it vent, for a time at least, and to this end he
advanced to Melina, the manager of the actors, a sum of money sufficient
to redeem their properties, and accompanied the troupe until such time
as it should be repaid.
A profitable engagement soon came their way. A wealthy count, who
happened to pass through the town, required their services to entertain
the prince, whom he was shortly expecting as a guest. For several weeks
they stayed at his castle, and when, on the prince's departure, their
engagement came to an end, they were all weightier in purse than they
had been for many a long day. Melina was now in hopes to get established
with his company in a thriving town at some distance. To get there it
was necessary to take a considerable journey by unfrequented roads.
Accordingly, conveyances were hired, and a start was made. Towards
evening, they began to pitch their camp in the midst of a beech wood;
all were busily engaged about the task allotted to each--the women to
prepare the evening meal, the men to attend to everything necessary for
their comfort for the night. All at once, a shot went off; immediately
another; the party flew asunder in terror. Next moment armed men were to
be seen pressing forward to the spot where the coaches, packed with
luggage, stood.
The men all rushed at the intruders. Wilhelm fired his pistol at one who
was already on the top of the coach cutting the cords of the packages.
The scoundrel fell, but several of his friends rushed to his aid; our
hero fell, stunned by a shot-wound and by a sword-stroke that almost
penetrated to his brain.
When he recovered his senses, it was to find himself deserted by all his
companions except two of the girls. His head was lying in Phillina's
lap, while Mignon, the child whom he had rescued from a brutal circus
master who was ill-treating her, was vainly trying to staunch his wounds
with her hair. For some time they continued in this position, no one
returning to their aid. At last, they heard a troop of horses coming up
the road; a young lady emerged on horseback, accompanied by some
cavaliers. Wilhelm fixed his eye on the soft, calm, sympathising
features of the stranger; he thought he had never seen aught nobler or
more lovely. In a few moments one of the party stepped to the side of
our hero. He held in his hand some surgeon's instruments and bandages,
with which he hastily attended to his wounds. The lady asked several
questions, and then, turning to the old gentleman, said, "Dear uncle,
may I be generous at your expense?" taking off the coat that she was
wearing as she spoke, and laying it softly above him. As he tried to
open his mouth to stammer out some words of gratitude to the beautiful
Amazon, the impression of her presence worked so strongly on his senses
that all at once it seemed to him that her head was encircled with rays,
and a glancing light seemed by degrees to spread itself all over her
form. At this moment the surgeon gave him a sharper twinge; he lost
consciousness; and on returning to himself the horsemen and coaches, the
fair one and her attendants, had vanished like a dream.
_II.--A Message from the Dead_
Wilhelm's wounds were slow to heal, and it was long before he was able
to move about freely again. When he fully recovered he went to his old
friend, Serlo, and obtained a position in his company, both for himself,
and also for many of his companions in misfortune.
With Serlo he remained for a considerable period, until an untoward
event led to his leaving him. Aurelia, Serlo's sister, had long
entertained an affection for a nobleman, whom she knew by the name of
Lothario; though at one time much attached to her, his affection had
cooled off, and for a long time now he had not had any communication
with her. Heartbroken at this treatment, though still devotedly attached
to him, she gradually pined away, and complete neglect of her health
finally brought her to her death-bed. Before she died, however, she
wrote a letter of farewell to him, which she entrusted to Wilhelm to
deliver as soon after her death as possible.
Arrived at the castle where the baron lived, he found his lordship
unable to give him any attention that day, as he was engaged to fight a
duel, and was busy settling up his affairs in preparation. Wilhelm was
requested to remain until a more convenient season. On the following
morning, while the company were seated at breakfast, the baron was
brought back in a carriage, seriously wounded.
As the surgeon came out from attending him, the band hanging from his
pouch caught Wilhelm's eye; he fancied that he knew it. He was convinced
that he beheld the very pouch of the surgeon who had dressed his wounds
in the forest, and the hope, so long deferred, of again finding his
lovely Amazon struck like a flame through his soul.
The abbé entered from Lothario's chamber, and said to Wilhelm, "The
baron bids me ask you to remain here to share his hospitality, and, in
the present circumstances, to contribute to his solacement."
From this hour our friend was treated in the house as if he belonged to
it.
"We have a kindness to ask of you," said Jarno, the baron's confidential
companion, to Wilhelm one morning. "The violent, unreasonable love and
passionateness of the Lady Lydia only hinder the baron's recovery. She
must be removed by some means. His wound requires rest and calmness; you
see how she tortures him with her tempestuous anxieties, her
ungovernable terrors, her never-drying tears. Enough! Our doctor
expressly requires that she should quit us for a while; we have
persuaded her to pay a visit to a lady, an old friend of hers; it will
be your task to escort her, as you can best be spared."
"I willingly undertake the charge," said Wilhelm, "though it is easy to
foresee the pain I shall have to suffer from the tears, the despair, of
Lydia."
"And for this no small reward awaits you," said Jarno. "Fraulein
Theresa, with whom you will get acquainted, is a lady such as you will
rarely see. Indeed, were it not for an unfortunate passage between her
mother and the baron, she would long since have been married to his
lordship."
When they returned from their visit, Lothario was in the way of full
recovery. He was now for the first time able to talk with Wilhelm about
the sad cause that had brought him to the castle. "You may, however,
well forgive me," he said, with a smile, "that I forsook Aurelia for
Theresa; with the one I could expect a calm and cheerful life, with the
other not a happy hour."
"I confess," said Wilhelm, "that in coming hither I had no small anger
in my heart against you, that I proposed to censure with severity your
conduct towards Aurelia. But, at the grave in which the hapless mother
sleeps, let me ask you why you acknowledge not the child--a son in whom
any father might rejoice and whom you appear entirely to overlook. With
your tender nature, how can you altogether cast away the instinct of a
parent?"
"Of whom do you speak?" said Lothario. "I do not understand you."
"Of whom but your son, Aurelia's son, the lovely child to whose good
fortune there is nothing wanting but that a tender father should
acknowledge and receive him."
"You mistake, my friend," said Lothario; "Aurelia never had a son. I
know of no child, or I would gladly acknowledge it. But did she ever
give you to believe that the boy was hers--was mine?"
"I cannot recollect that I ever heard a word from her expressly on the
subject, but we took it so, and I never for a moment doubted it."
"I can give you a clue to this perplexity," interposed Jarno. "An old
woman, whom Wilhelm must have noticed, gave Aurelia the child, telling
her that it was yours. She accepted it eagerly, hoping to alleviate her
sorrows by its presence; and, in truth, it gave her many a comfortable
hour."
This discovery awoke anxieties in Wilhelm. He thought of the beautiful
child Felix with the liveliest apprehension, and expressed his wish to
remove him from the state in which he was.
"We can soon arrange that," said Lothario. "I think you ought yourself
to take charge of him; what in us the women leave uncultivated, children
cultivate when we retain them near us."
It was agreed to lose no time in putting this plan into execution, and
Wilhelm departed forthwith to fetch the child.
Passing through the house, he found Aurelia's old serving-maid, whom he
had never seen at close quarters before, employed in sewing. Felix and
Mignon were sitting by her on the floor.
"Art thou the person," he demanded earnestly, "from whom Aurelia
received this child?"
She looked up, and turned her face to him; he saw her in full light, and
started back in terror. It was old Barbara!
"Where is Mariana?" cried he.
"Far from here."
"And Felix?"
"Is the son of that unhappy and too tender-hearted girl. Here are
Mariana's last words," she added, handing him a letter.
"She is dead?" cried he.
"Dead," said the old woman.
A bitter grief took hold of Wilhelm; he could scarcely read the words
that Barbara placed before him.
"If this should reach thee, then lament thine ill-starred friend. The
boy, whose birth I survived but a few days, is thine. I die faithful to
thee, much as appearances may be against me; with thee I lost everything
that bound me to life. This will be my only comfort, that though I
cannot call myself blameless, towards thee I am free from blame."
Wilhelm was stupified by this news. He removed the children from
Barbara's care, and took them both back with him to Lothario's castle.
Felix he kept with him, while Mignon, who was not in the best of health,
was sent by the baron to the house of his sister, at some distance.
_III.--Wilhelm's Apprenticeship_
One evening Jarno said to Wilhelm, "We can now consider you as one of
ourselves with such security that it were unjust not to introduce you
deeper into our mysteries. You shall see what a curious little world is
at your very hand, and how well you are known in it." He led our friend
through certain unknown chambers and galleries of the castle to a door,
strongly framed with iron. Jarno knocked; the door opened a little, so
as to admit one person. Jarno introduced our friend, but did not follow
him.
Within was complete darkness. A voice cried "Enter"; he pressed forward
and found that only tapestry was hemming him in. Raising this, he
entered. Within, he found a man, who said, in a tone of dignity, "To
guard from error is not the instructor's duty, but to lead the erring
pupil; nay, let him quaff his error in deep, satiating draughts; he who
only tastes his error will long dwell with it; he who drains it to the
dregs will, if he be not crazy, find it out."
A curtain closed before the figure, whom Wilhelm vaguely recollected as
having seen at some time previously; possibly on the night when he had
parted from Mariana. Then the curtain opened again; another figure
advanced, "Learn to know the men who may be trusted," he said, and again
the curtain closed. "Dispute not with us," cried a voice; "thou art
saved, thou art on the way to the goal. None of thy follies wilt thou
repent; none wilt thou wish to repeat."
The curtain opened; the abbé came into view. "Come hither," he cried to
his marvelling friend. Wilhelm mounted the steps. On the table lay a
little roll.
"Here is your indenture," said the abbé. "Take it to heart; it is of
weighty import." Wilhelm opened it, and read:
"_INDENTURE_.
"_Art is long, life short, judgment difficult, opportunity
transient. To act is easy, to think is hard, to act according
to our thought is troublesome. It is but a part of art that
can be taught; the artist needs it all. Who knows it half,
speaks much, and is always wrong; who knows it all, speaks
seldom, and is inclined to act. No one knows what he is doing
while he acts aright; but of wrong-doing we are always
conscious. The instruction which the true artist gives us
opens the mind, for where words fail him, deeds speak. The
true scholar learns from the known to unfold the unknown, and
approaches more and more to being a master_----"
"Enough," cried the abbé; "the rest in due time. Now look round you
among these cases." With astonishment Wilhelm found, among others,
"_Lothario's Apprenticeship," "Jarno's Apprenticeship_," and his own
"_Apprenticeship_" placed there. "May I hope to look into these rolls?"
"In this chamber nothing is now hid from you."
Wilhelm heard a noise behind him, and saw a child's face peeping through
the tapestry at the end of the room. It was Felix. His father rushed
towards him, took him in his arms, and pressed him to his heart.
"Yes, I feel it," cried he. "Thou art mine. For what a gift of Heaven
have I to thank my friends! How comest thou, my child, at this important
moment?"
"Ask not," said the abbé. "Hail, young man! Thy apprenticeship is done;
nature has pronounced thee free."
After sorrow, often and in vain repeated, for the loss of Mariana,
Wilhelm felt that he must find a mother for the boy; and also, that he
could not find one equal to Theresa. With this gifted lady he was now
thoroughly acquainted. Such a spouse and helpmate seemed the only one to
trust to in such circumstances. Her affection for Lothario did not make
him hesitate; she looked on herself as free; she had even spoken of
marrying, with indifference, indeed, but as a matter understood.
Before Theresa's answer came to hand, Lothario sent for our friend. "My
sister Natalia bids me beg of you to go to her as soon as possible. Poor
Mignon seems to be getting steadily worse, and it is thought that your
presence might allay the malady." Wilhelm agreed, and proceeded on the
journey.
_IV.--Heart Against Reason_
Behind a light screen, which threw a shadow on her, sat a young lady,
reading; she rose and came to him. It was the Amazon! Unable to restrain
himself, he fell on his knee and cried "It is she!" He seized her hand,
and kissed it with unbounded rapture.
A day or two later, the following letter from Theresa was handed to
Wilhelm.
"I am yours, as I am, and as you know me. I call you mine, as you are,
and as I know you. As it is no passion, but trust and inclination for
each other, that leads us together, we run less risk than thousands of
others. You will forgive me, will you not, if I still think often and
kindly of my former friend; in return, I will press Felix to my heart,
as if I were his mother. Adieu, dear friend! Theresa clasps you to her
breast with hope and joy."
Natalia wrote a letter to her brother; she invited Wilhelm to add a word
or two. They were just about to seal it, when Jarno unexpectedly came
in.
"I am come," he said, "to give you very curious and pleasing tidings
about Theresa; now guess."
"We are more skilful than you think," said Natalia, smiling. "Before you
asked, we had the answer down in black and white," handing him as she
spoke the letter she had just written. Jarno read the sheet hastily.
"What shall I say?" cried he. "Surprise against surprise! I came to tell
you that Theresa is not the daughter of her reputed mother. There is no
obstacle to her marriage with Lothario: _I came to ask you to prepare
her for it_."
"And what," said Lothario, taking Wilhelm by the hand, "what if your
alliance with my sister were the secret article on which depended my
alliance with Theresa? These amends the noble maiden has appointed for
you; she has vowed that we two pairs should appear together at the
altar. 'His reason has made choice of me,' she said; 'his heart demands
Natalia: my reason shall assist his heart.'"
Lothario embraced his friend, and led him to Natalia, who, with Theresa,
came to meet them. "To my mind, thou resemblest Saul, the son of Kish,
who went out to seek his father's asses, and found a kingdom."
"I know not the worth of a kingdom," said Wilhelm, "but I know that I
have attained a happiness undeserved, which I would not change for
anything in life."
* * * * *