on the Revelations of St. John, from the fact that he was known as
an intelligent, upright, God-fearing, blameless man. Deep minds are
compelled to live in the past as well as in the future. The ordinary
movements of the world can be of no importance to them, if they do
not, in the course of ages up to the present, revere prophecies which
have been revealed, and in the immediate, as well as in the most
remote futurity, predictions still veiled. Hence arises a connexion
that is wanting in history, which seems to give us only an accidental
wavering backwards and forwards in a necessarily limited circle. Doctor
CRUSIUS** was one of those whom the prophetic part of Scripture suited
more than any other, since it brings into action the two most opposite
qualities of human nature, the affections, and the acuteness of the
intellect. Many young men had devoted themselves to this doctrine, and
already formed a respectable body, which attracted the more attention,
as ERNESTI with his friends threatened, not to illuminate, but
completely to disperse the obscurity in which these delighted. Hence
arose controversies, hatred, persecution and much that was unpleasant.
I attached myself to the lucid party, and sought to appropriate
to myself their principles and advantages, although I ventured to
forebode, that by this extremely praiseworthy, intelligent method of
interpretation, the poetic contents of the writings must at last be
lost along with the prophetical.
But those who devoted themselves to German literature and the _belles
lettres_ were more nearly concerned with the efforts of such men, who,
as JERUSALEM, ZOLLIKOFER, and SPALDING, tried, by means of a good and
pure style in their sermons and treatises, to gain even among persons
of a certain degree of sense and taste, applause and attachment for
religion, and for the moral philosophy which is so closely related to
it. A pleasing manner of writing began to be everywhere necessary; and
since such a manner must, above all, be comprehensible, so did writers
arise, on many sides, who undertook to write about their studies and
their professions clearly, perspicuously, and impressively, and as well
for the adepts as for the multitude.
After the example of Tissot, a foreigner, the physicians also now
began to labour zealously for the general cultivation HALLER, UNZER,
ZIMMERMAN had a very great influence, and whatever may be said against
them in detail, especially the last, they produced a very great effect
in their time. And mention should be made of this in history, but
particularly in biography: for a man remains of consequence, not so far
as he leaves something behind him, but so far as he acts and enjoys,
and rouses others to action and enjoyment.
The jurists, accustomed from their youth upwards to an abstruse style,
which, in all legal papers, from the petty court of the Immediate
Knight up to the Imperial Diet at Ratisbon, was still maintained in
all its quaintness, could not easily elevate themselves to a certain
freedom, the less so as the subjects of which they had to treat were
most intimately connected with the external form, and consequently also
with the style. Yet the younger VON MOSER had already shown himself
an independent and original writer, and PUTTER, by the clearness of
his delivery, had also brought clearness into his subject, and the
style in which he was to treat it. All that proceeded from his school
was distinguished by this. And even the philosophers, in order to
be popular, now found themselves compelled to write clearly and
intelligibly. MENDELSOHN and GARVE appeared, and excited universal
interest and admiration.
With the cultivation of the German language and style in every
department, the capacity for forming a judgment also increased, and we
admire the reviews then published of works upon religious and moral,
as well as medical subjects; while, on the contrary, we remark that
the judgments of poems, and of whatever else may relate to the _belles
lettres_, will be found, if not pitiful, at least very feeble. This
holds good of the _Literary Epistles_ (_Literaturbriefen_), and of the
_Universal German Library_, as well as of the _Library of the Belles
Lettres_, notable instances of which could easily be produced.
[Side-note: The "Image-Hunt."]
No matter in how motley a manner all this might be confused, still
for every one who contemplated producing anything from himself, who
would not merely take the words and phrases out of the mouths of his
predecessors, there was nothing further left but, early and late, to
look about him for some subject-matter which he might determine to use.
Here, too, we were much led astray. People were constantly repeating a
saying of KLEIST, which we had to hear often enough. He had sportively,
ingeniously, and truly replied to those who took him to task on account
of his frequent lonely walks: "that he was not idle at such times,--he
was going to the image hunt." This simile was very suitable for a
nobleman and soldier, who by it placed himself in contrast with the
men of his rank, who did not neglect going out, with their guns on
their shoulders, hare-hunting and patridge-shooting, as often as an
opportunity presented itself. Hence we find in Kleist's poems many
such individual images, happily seized, although not always happily
elaborated, which in a kindly manner remind us of nature. But now they
also recommended us, quite seriously, to go out on the image-hunt,
which did not at last leave us wholly without fruit, although Apel's
Garden, the kitchen-gardens, the Rosenthal, Golis, Raschwitz and
Konnewitz, would be the oddest ground to beat up poetical game in. And
yet I was often induced by that motive to contrive that my walk should
be solitary, and, because many objects neither beautiful nor sublime
met the eye of the beholder, and in the truly splendid Rosenthal, the
gnats, in the best season of the year, allowed no tender thoughts to
arise, so,did I, by unwearied, persevering endeavour, become extremely
attentive to the small life of nature, (I would use this word after
the analogy of "still life,") and since the pretty events which one
perceives within this circle represent but little in themselves, so I
accustomed myself to see in them a significance, which inclined now
towards the symbolical, now towards the allegorical side, accordingly
as intuition, feeling, or reflection had the preponderance. I will
relate one incident, in place of many.
I was, after the fashion of humanity, in love with my name, and, as
young uneducated people commonly do, I wrote it down everywhere. Once
I had carved it very handsomely and accurately on the smooth bark of a
linden-tree of moderate age. The following autumn, when my affection
for Annette was in its fullest bloom, I took the trouble to cut hers
above it. Towards the end of the winter, in the meantime, like a
capricious lover, I had wantonly sought many opportunities to teaze her
and cause her vexation; in the spring I chanced to visit the spot, and
the sap, which was rising strongly in the trees, had welled out through
the incisions which formed her name, and which were not yet crusted
over, and moistened with innocent vegetable tears the already hardened
traces of my own. Thus to see her here weeping over me,--me, who had so
often called up her tears by my ill-conduct, filled me with confusion.
At the remembrance of my injustice and of her love, even the tears came
into my eyes, I hastened to implore pardon of her, doubly and trebly,
and I turned this incident into an idyl[1], which I never could read to
myself without affection, or to others without emotion.
While I now, like a shepherd on the Pleisse, was absorbed childishly
enough in such tender subjects, and always chose only such as I
could easily recall into my bosom, provision from a greater and more
important side had long been made for German poets.
The first true and really vital material of the higher order came into
German poetry through Frederick the Great and the deeds of the Seven
Years' War. All national poetry must be shallow or become shallow which
does not rest on that which is most universally human,--upon the events
of nations and their shepherds, when both stand for one man. Kings are
to be represented in war and danger, where, by that very means, they
appear as the first, because they determine and share the fate of
the very least, and thus become much more interesting than the gods
themselves, who, when they have once determined the fates, withdraw
from all participation in them. In this view of the subject, every
nation, if it would be worth anything at all, must possess an epopee,
to which the precise form of the epic poem is not necessary.
[Side-note: Gleim-Ramler.]
The war-songs started by Gleim maintain so high a rank among German
poems, because they arose with and in the achievements which are their
subject, and because, moreover, their felicitous form, just as if a
fellow-combatant had produced them in the loftiest moments, makes us
feel the most complete effectiveness.
Ramler sings the deeds of his king in a different and most noble
manner. All his poems are full of matter, and occupy us with great,
heart-elevating objects, and thus already maintain an indestructible
value.
For the internal matter of the subject worked is the beginning and end
of art. It will not, indeed, be denied that genius, that thoroughly
cultivated artistical talent, can make everything out of everything by
its method of treatment, and can subdue the most refractory material.
But when closely examined, the result is rather a trick of art than a
work of art, which should rest upon a worthy object, that the treatment
of it by skill, pains, and industry, may present to us the dignity of
the subject-matter only the more happily and splendidly.
The Prussians, and with them Protestant Germany, acquired thus for
their literature a treasure which the opposite party lacked, and
the want of which they have been able to supply by no subsequent
endeavours. Upon the great idea which the Prussian writers could
well entertain of their king, they first established themselves, and
the more zealously as he, in whose name they did it all, wished once
for all to know nothing about them. Already before this, through the
French colony, afterwards through the king's predilection for the
literature of that nation, and for their financial institutions, had
a mass of French civilization come into Prussia, which was highly
advantageous to the Germans, since by it they were challenged to
contradiction and resistance; thus the very aversion of Frederick
from German was a fortunate thing for the formation of its literary
character. They did everything to attract the king's attention, not
indeed to be honoured, but only noticed by him; yet they did it in
German fashion, from an internal conviction; they did what they held
to be right, and desired and wished that the king should recognize
and prize this German uprightness. That did not and could not happen;
for how can it be required of a king, who wishes to live and enjoy
himself intellectually, that he shall lose his years in order to see
what he thinks barbarous developed and rendered palatable too late? In
matters of trade and manufacture, he might indeed force upon himself,
but especially upon his people, very moderate substitutes instead of
excellent foreign wares; but here everything comes to perfection more
rapidly, and it needs not a man's life-time to bring such things to
maturity.
But I must here, first of all, make honourable mention of one work, the
most genuine production of the Seven Years' War, and of perfect North
German nationality; it is the first theatrical production caught from
the important events of life, one of specific temporary value, and one
which therefore produced an incalculable effect,--_Minna von Barnhelm._
Lessing, who, in opposition to Klopstock and Gleim, was fond of casting
off his personal dignity, because he was confident that he could at any
moment seize it and take it up again, delighted in a dissipated life
in taverns and the world, as he always needed a strong counterpoise
to his powerfully labouring interior; and for this reason also he had
joined the suite of General Tauentzien. One easily discovers how the
above-mentioned piece was generated betwixt war and peace, hatred and
affection. It was this production which happily opened the view into a
higher, more significant world, from the literary and citizen world in
which poetic art had hitherto moved.
The intense hatred in which the Prussians and Saxons stood towards
each other during this war, could not be removed by its termination.
The Saxon now first felt, with true bitterness, the wounds which the
upstart Prussian had inflicted upon him. Political peace could not
immediately re-establish a peace between their dispositions. But this
was to be brought about symbolically by the above-mentioned drama.
The grace and amiability of the Saxon ladies conquer the worth, the
dignity, and the stubbornness of the Prussians, and, in the principal
as well as in the subordinate characters, a happy union of bizarre and
contradictory elements is artistically represented.
If I have put my reader in some perplexity by these cursory and
desultory remarks on German literature, I have succeeded in giving
them a conception of that chaotic condition in which my poor brain
found itself, when, in the conflict of two epochs so important for the
literary fatherland, so much that was new crowded in upon me before
I could come to terms with the old, so much that was old yet made me
feel its right over me, when I believed I had already cause to venture
on renouncing it altogether. I will at present try to impart, as
well as possible, the way I entered on to extricate myself from this
difficulty, if only step by step.
[Side-note: Goethe's Peculiar Tendency.]
The period of prolixity into which my youth had fallen, I had
laboured through with genuine industry, in company with so many
worthy men. The numerous quarto volumes of manuscript which I left
behind with my father might serve for sufficient witnesses of this;
and what a mass of essays, rough draughts, and half-executed designs,
had, more from despondency than conviction, gone up in smoke! Now,
through conversation, through instruction in general, through so
many conflicting opinions, but especially through my fellow-boarder
Hofrath Pfeil, I learned to value more and more the importance of
the subject-matter, and the conciseness of the treatment; without,
however, being able to make it clear to myself where the former was
to be sought, or how the latter was to be attained. For, what with
the great narrowness of my situation,--what with the indifference of
my companions, the reserve of the professors, the exclusiveness of
the educated inhabitants, and what with the perfect insignificance of
the natural objects, I was compelled to seek for everything within
myself. If I now desired a true basis in feeling or reflection for my
poems, I was forced to grasp into my own bosom; if I required for my
poetic representation an immediate intuition of an object or an event,
I could not step outside the circle which was fitted to teach me and
inspire me with an interest. In this view I wrote at first certain
little poems, in the form of songs or in a freer measure; they are
founded on reflection, treat of the past, and for the most part take an
epigrammatic turn.
And thus began that tendency from which I could not deviate my whole
life through; namely, the tendency to turn into an image, into a poem,
everything that delighted or troubled me, or otherwise occupied me, and
to come to some certain understanding with myself upon it, that I might
both rectify my conceptions of external things, and set my mind at rest
about them. The faculty of doing this was necessary to no one more
than to me, for my natural disposition whirled me constantly from one
extreme to the other. All, therefore, that has been confessed by me,
consists of fragments of a great confession, and this little book is an
attempt which I have ventured on to render it complete.
My early affection for Gretchen I had now transferred to one Annette
(_Aennchen_), of whom I can say nothing more than that she was young,
handsome, sprightly, loving, and so agreeable that she well deserved
to be set up for a time in the shrine of the heart as a little saint,
that she might receive all that reverence which it often causes more
pleasure to bestow than to receive. I saw her daily without hindrance;
she helped to prepare the meals which I enjoyed, she brought, in the
evening at least, the wine which I drank, and indeed our select club
of noon-day boarders was a warranty that the little house, which was
visited by few guests except during the fair, well merited its good
reputation. Opportunity and inclination were found for various kinds
of amusement. But as she neither could nor dared go much out of the
house, the pastime was somewhat limited. We sang the songs of Zachariä,
played the _Duke Michael_ of Krüger, in which a knotted handkerchief
had to take the place of the nightingale; and so, for a while, it went
on quite tolerably. But since such connexions, the more innocent they
are, afford the less variety in the long run,--so was I seized with
that wicked distemper which seduces us to derive amusement from the
torment of a beloved one, and to domineer over a girl's devotedness
with wanton and tyrannical caprice. My ill-humour at the failure of my
poetical attempts, at the apparent impossibility of coming to a clear
understanding about them, and at everything else that might pinch me
here and there, I thought I might vent on her, because she truly loved
me with all her heart, and did whatever she could to please me. By
unfounded and absurd fits of jealousy, I destroyed our most delightful
days both for myself and her. She endured it for a time with incredible
patience, which I was cruel enough to try to the uttermost. But to
my shame and despair I was at last forced to remark that her heart
was alienated from me, and that I might now have good ground for the
madness in which I had indulged without necessity and without cause.
There were also terrible scenes between us, in which I gained nothing;
and I then first felt that I had truly loved her, and could not bear
to lose her. My passion grew, and assumed all the forms of which it
is capable under such circumstances; nay, at last I even took up the
_rôle_ which the girl had hitherto played. I sought everything possible
in order to be agreeable to her, even to procure her pleasure by means
of others; for I could not renounce the hope of winning her again. But
it was too late! I had lost her really, and the frenzy with which I
revenged my fault upon myself, by assaulting in various frantic ways
my physical nature, in order to inflict some hurt on my moral nature,
contributed very much to the bodily maladies under which I lost some
of the best years of my life; indeed I should perchance have been
completely ruined by this loss, had not my poetic talent here shown
itself particularly helpful with its healing power.
[Side-note: Die Laune Des Verliebten.]
Already, at many intervals before, I had clearly enough perceived
my ill-conduct. I really pitied the poor child, when I saw her so
thoroughly wounded by me, without necessity. I pictured to myself so
often and so circumstantially, her condition and my own, and, as a
contrast, the contented state of another couple in our company, that
at last I could not forbear treating this situation dramatically, as a
painful and instructive penance. Hence arose the oldest of my extant
dramatic labours, the little piece entitled, _Die Laune des Verliebten_
(_The Lover's Caprice_); in the simple nature of which one may at the
same time perceive the impetus of a boiling passion.
But before this, a deep, significant, impulsive world had already
interested me. Through my adventure with Gretchen and its consequences,
I had early looked into the strange labyrinths by which civil society
is undermined. Religion, morals, law, rank, connexions, custom, all
rule only the surface of city existence. The streets, bordered by
splendid houses, are kept neat, and every one behaves himself there
properly enough; but indoors, it often seems only so much the more
disordered; and a smooth exterior, like a thin coat of mortar, plasters
over many a rotten wall that tumbles together overnight, and produces
an effect the more frightful, as it comes into the midst of a condition
of repose. How many families, far and near, had I not already seen,
either overwhelmed in ruin or kept miserably hanging on the brink of
it, by means of bankruptcies, divorces, seduced daughters, murders,
house-robberies, poisonings; and young as I was, I had often, in such
cases, lent a hand for help and preservation. For as my frankness
awakened confidence, as my secresy was proved, as my activity feared
no sacrifice, and loved best to exert itself in the most dangerous
affairs, I had often enough found opportunity to mediate, to hush up,
to divert the lightning-flash, with every other assistance of the
kind; in the course of which, as well in my own person as through
others, I could not fail to come to the knowledge of many afflicting
and humiliating facts. To relieve myself I designed several plays,
and wrote the arguments[2] of most of them. But since the intrigues
were always obliged to be painful, and almost all these pieces
threatened a tragical conclusion, I let them drop one after another.
_Die Mitschuldigen_ (_The Fellow-sinners_) is the only one that was
finished, the cheerful and burlesque tone of which upon the gloomy
family-ground appears as if accompanied by somewhat of apprehension, so
that on the whole it is painful in representation, although it pleases
in detached passages. The illegal deeds, harshly expressed, wound
the æsthetic and moral feeling, and the piece could therefore find
no favour on the German stage, although the imitations of it, which
steered clear of those rocks, were received with applause.
Both the above-mentioned pieces were however written from a more
elevated point of view, without my having been aware of it. They
direct us to a considerate forbearance in casting moral imputations,
and in somewhat harsh and coarse touches sportively express that most
Christian maxim: _Let him who is without sin among you, cast the first
stone._
[Side-note: Youthful Pranks.]
Through this earnestness, which cast a gloom over my first pieces,
I committed the fault of neglecting very favourable materials which
lay quite decidedly in my natural disposition. In the midst of these
serious, and for a young man, fearful experiences, was developed in me
a reckless humour, which feels itself superior to the moment, and not
only fears no danger, but rather wantonly courts it. The ground of this
lay in the exuberance of spirits in which the vigorous time of life so
much delights, and which, if it manifests itself in a frolicsome way,
causes much pleasure, both at the moment and in remembrance. These
things are so usual that in the vocabulary of our young university
friends they are called _Suites_, and on account of the close
similarity of signification, to say "_play suites_," means just the
same as to "play pranks."[3]
Such humorous acts of daring, brought on the theatre with wit and
sense, are of the greatest effect. They are distinguished from
intrigue, inasmuch as they are momentary, and that their aim, whenever
they are to have one, must not be remote. Beaumarchais has seized
their full value, and the effects of his _Figaro_ spring pre-eminently
from this. If now such good-humoured roguish and half-knavish pranks
are practised with personal risk for noble ends, the situations which
arise from them are æsthetically and morally considered of the greatest
value for the theatre; as for instance the opera of the _Water-Carrier_
treats perhaps the happiest subject which we have ever yet seen upon
the stage.