By means of the _Frankfort Zeitung_ (Gazette), he had already formed a
connexion with learned men and booksellers, and therefore he thought
that we ought to publish at our own expense this singular and certainly
striking work, and that we should derive a larger profit from it.
Like many others, he used often to reckon up for the booksellers
their profit, which with many works was certainly great, especially
if one left out of the account how much was lost by other writings
and commercial affairs. Enough, it was settled that I should procure
the paper, and that he should take care of the printing. Thus we went
heartily to work, and I was not displeased gradually to see my wild
dramatic sketch in clean proof-sheets; it looked really neater than I
myself expected. We completed the work, and it was sent off in many
parcels. Before long a great commotion arose everywhere; the attention
which it created became universal. But because, with our limited means,
the copies could not be sent quick enough to all parts, a pirated
edition suddenly made its appearance. As, moreover, there could be no
immediate return, especially in ready money, for the copies sent out,
so was I, as a young man in a family whose treasury could not be in an
abundant condition, at the very time when much attention, nay, much
applause was bestowed upon me, extremely perplexed as to how I should
pay for the paper by means of which I had made the world acquainted
with my talent. On the other hand, Merck, who knew better how to help
himself, entertained the best hopes that all would soon come right
again; but I never perceived that to be the case.
[Side-note: Goetz von Berlichingen.]
Through the little pamphlets which I had published anonymously, I had,
at my own expense, learned to know the critics and the public; and I
was thus pretty well prepared for praise and blame, especially as for
many years I had constantly folio wed up the subject, and had observed
how those authors were treated, to whom I had devoted particular
attention.
Here even in my uncertainty, I could plainly remark how much that was
groundless, one-sided, and arbitrary, was recklessly uttered. Now
the same thing befel me, and if I had not had some basis of my own,
how much would the contradictions of cultivated men have perplexed
me! Thus, for instance, there was in the _German Mercury_ a diffuse,
well-meant criticism, composed by some man of limited mind. Where he
found fault, I could not agree with him,--still less when he stated
how the affair could have been done otherwise. It was therefore highly
gratifying to me, when immediately afterwards I found a pleasant
explanation by Wieland, who in general opposed the critic, and took
my part against him. However, the former review was printed likewise;
I saw an example of the dull state of mind among well-informed and
cultivated men. How, then, would it look with the great public!
The pleasure of talking over such things with Merck, and thus
gaining light upon them, was of short duration, for the intelligent
Landgravine of Hesse-Darmstadt took him with her train on her journey
to Petersburg. The detailed letters which he wrote to me gave me a
farther insight into the world, which I could the more make my own
as the descriptions were made by a well-known and friendly hand. But
nevertheless I remained very solitary for a long time, and was deprived
just at this important epoch of his enlightening sympathy, of which I
then stood in so much need.
Just as one embraces the determination to become a soldier, and go to
the wars, and courageously resolves to bear danger and difficulties,
as well as to endure wounds and pains, and even death, but at the
same time never calls to mind the particular cases in which those
generally anticipated evils may surprise us in an extremely unpleasant
manner,--so it is with every one who ventures into the world,
especially an author; and so it was with me. As the great part of
mankind is more excited by a subject than by the treatment of it, so
it was to the subject that the sympathy of young men for my pieces was
generally owing. They thought they could see in them a banner, under
the guidance of which all that is wild and unpolished in youth might
find a vent; and those of the very best brains, who had previously
harboured a similar crotchet, were thus carried away. I still possess a
letter--I know not to whom--from the excellent and, in many respects,
unique Bürger, which may serve as an important voucher of the effect
and excitement which was then produced by that phenomenon. On the other
side, some men blamed me for painting the club-law in too favourable
colours, and even attributed to me the intention of bringing those
disorderly times back again. Others took me for a profoundly learned
man, and wished me to publish a new edition, with notes, of the
original narrative of the good Götz;--a task to which I felt by no
means adapted, although I allowed my name to be put on the title to the
new impression. Because I had understood how to gather the flowers of
a great existence, they took me for a careful gardener. However, this
learning and profound knowledge of mine were much doubted by others.
A respectable man of business quite unexpectedly pays me a visit.
I find myself highly honoured by this, especially as he opens his
discourse with the praise of my _Götz von Berlichingen_, and my good
insight into German history, but I am nevertheless astonished when
I remark that he has really come for the sole purpose of informing
me that Götz von Berlichingen was no brother-in-law to Franz von
Sichingen, and that therefore by this poetical matrimonial alliance I
have committed a great historical error. I sought to excuse myself by
the fact, that Götz himself calls him so, but was met by the reply,
that this is a form of expression which only denotes a nearer and
more friendly connexion, just as in modern times we call postilions
"brothers-in-law,"[5] without being bound to them by any family tie. I
thanked him as well as I could for this information, and only regretted
that the evil was now not to be remedied. This was regretted by him
also, while he exhorted me in the kindest manner to a further study of
the German history and constitution, and offered me his library, of
which I afterwards made a good use.
[Side-note: Goetz von Berlichingen.]
A droll event of the sort which occurred to me was the visit of a
bookseller, who, with cheerful openness, requested a dozen of such
pieces, and promised to pay well for them. That we made ourselves very
merry about this may be imagined; and yet, in fact, he was not so very
far wrong, for I was already greatly occupied in moving backwards and
forwards from this turning-point in German history, and in working up
the chief events in a similar spirit--a laudable design, which, like
many others, was frustrated by the rushing flight of time.
That play, however, had not solely occupied the author, but while
it was devised, written, rewritten, printed, and circulated, other
images and plans were moving in his mind. Those which could be treated
dramatically had the advantage of being oftenest thought over and
brought near to execution; but at the same time was developed a
transition to another form, which is not usually classed with those of
the drama, but yet has a great affinity with them. This transition was
chiefly brought about by a peculiarity of the author, which fashioned
soliloquy into dialogue.
Accustomed to pass his time most pleasantly in society, he changed
even solitary thought into social converse, and this in the following
manner:--He had the habit, when he was alone, of calling before his
mind any person of his acquaintance. This person he entreated to sit
down, walked up and down by him, remained standing before him, and
discoursed with him on the subject he had in his mind. To this the
person answered as occasion required, or by the ordinary gestures
signified his assent or dissent;--in which every man has something
peculiar to himself. The speaker then continued to carry out further
that which seemed to please the guest, or to condition and define more
closely that of which he disapproved; and, finally, was polite enough
to give up his notion. The oddest part of the affair was, that he never
selected persons of his intimate acquaintance, but those whom he saw
but seldom, nay, several who lived at a distance in the world, and with
whom he had had a transient connexion. They were, however, chiefly
persons who, more of a receptive than communicative nature, are ready
with a pure feeling to take interest in the things which fall within
their sphere, though he often summoned contradicting spirits to these
dialectic exercises. Persons of both sexes, of every age and rank
accommodated themselves to these discussions, and showed themselves
obliging and agreeable, since he only conversed on subjects which
were clear to them, and which they liked. Nevertheless, it would have
appeared extremely strange to many of them, could they have learned how
often they were summoned to these ideal conversations, since many of
them would scarcely have come to a real one.
How nearly such a mental dialogue is akin to a written correspondence,
is clear enough; only in the latter one sees returned the confidence
one has bestowed, while in the former, one creates for oneself
a confidence which is new, ever-changing, and unreturned. When,
therefore, he had to describe that disgust which men, without being
driven by necessity, feel for life, the author necessarily hit at once
upon the plan of giving his sentiments in letters; for all gloominess
is a birth, a pupil of solitude--whoever resigns himself to it flies
all opposition, and what is more opposed to him than a cheerful
society? The enjoyment in life felt by others is to him a painful
reproach; and thus, by that which should charm him out of himself, he
is directed back to his inmost soul. If he at all expresses himself
on this matter, it will be by letters; for no one feels immediately
opposed to a written effusion, whether it be joyful or gloomy,
while an answer containing opposite reasons gives the lonely one an
opportunity to confirm himself in his whims,--an occasion to grow still
more obdurate. The letters of Werther, which are written in this
spirit, have so various a charm, precisely because their different
contents were first talked over with several individuals in such ideal
dialogues, while it was afterwards in the composition itself that they
appeared to be directed to one friend and sympathizer. To say more
on the treatment of a little book which has formed the subject of so
much discussion, would be hardly advisable, but, with respect to the
contents, something may yet be added.
[Side-note: Weariness of Life.]
That disgust at life has its physical and its moral causes; the former
we will leave to the investigation of the physician, the latter to that
of the moralist, and in a matter so often elaborated, only consider the
chief point, where the phenomenon most plainly expresses itself. All
comfort in life is based upon a regular recurrence of external things.
The change of day and night--of the seasons, of flowers and fruits, and
whatever else meets us from epoch to epoch, so that we can and should
enjoy it--these are the proper springs of earthly life. The more open
we are to these enjoyments, the happier do we feel ourselves; out if
the changes in these phenomena roll up and down before us without our
taking interest in them, if we are insensible to such beautiful offers,
then comes on the greatest evil, the heaviest disease--we regard life
as a disgusting burden. It is said of an Englishman, that he hanged
himself that he might no longer dress and undress himself every day.
I knew a worthy gardener, the superintendent of the laying out of a
large park, who once cried out with vexation, "Shall I always see these
clouds moving from east to west?" The story is told of one of our
most excellent men, that he saw with vexation the returning green of
spring, and wished that, by way of change, it might once appear red.
These are properly the symptoms of a weariness of life, which does not
unfrequently result in suicide, and which, in thinking men, absorbed in
themselves, was more frequent than can be imagined.
Nothing occasions this weariness more than the return of love. The
first love, it is rightly said, is the only one, for in the second,
and by the second, the highest sense of love is already lost. The
conception of the eternal and infinite, which elevates and supports
it, is destroyed, and it appears transient like everything else that
recurs. The separation of the sensual from the moral, which, in the
complicated, cultivated world sunders the feelings of love and desire,
produces here also an exaggeration which can lead to no good.
Moreover, a young man soon perceives in others, if not in himself,
that moral epochs change as well as the seasons of the year. The
graciousness of the great, the favour of the strong, the encouragement
of the active, the attachment of the multitude, the love of
individuals--all this changes up and down, and we can no more hold it
fast than the sun, moon, and stars. And yet these things are not mere
natural events; they escape us either by our own or by another's fault;
but change they do, and we are never sure of them.
But that which most pains a sensitive youth is the unceasing return of
our faults; for how late do we learn to see that while we cultivate
our virtues, we rear our faults at the same time. The former depend
upon the latter as upon their root, and the latter send forth secret
ramifications as strong and as various as those which the former send
forth in open light. Because now we generally practise our virtues with
will and consciousness, but are unconsciously surprised by our faults,
the former seldom procure us any pleasure, while the latter constantly
bring trouble and pain. Here lies the most difficult point in
self-knowledge, that which makes it almost impossible. If we conceive,
in addition to all this, a young, boiling blood, an imagination easily
to be paralyzed by single objects, and, moreover, the uncertain
movements of the day, we shall not find unnatural an impatient striving
to free oneself from such a strait.
However, such gloomy contemplations, which lead him who has resigned
himself to them into the infinite, could not have developed themselves
so decidedly in the minds of the German youths, had not an outward
occasion excited and furthered them in this dismal business. This
was caused by English literature, especially the poetical part, the
great beauties of which are accompanied by an earnest melancholy,
which it communicates to every one who occupies himself with it. The
intellectual Briton, from his youth upwards, sees himself surrounded
by a significant world, which stimulates all his powers; he perceives,
sooner or later, that he must collect all his understanding to come to
terms with it. How many of their poets have in their youth led a loose
and riotous life, and soon found themselves justified in complaining of
the vanity of earthly things? How many of them have tried their fortune
in worldly occupations, have taken parts, principal or subordinate,
in parliament, at court, in the ministry, in situations with the
embassy, shown their active co-operation in the internal troubles and
changes of state and government, and if not in themselves, at any rate
in their friends and patrons, more frequently made sad than pleasant
experiences! How many have been banished, imprisoned, or injured with
respect to property!
[Side-note: Effect of English poetry.]
Even the circumstance of being the spectator of such great events calls
man to seriousness; and whither can seriousness lead farther than
to a contemplation of the transient nature and worthlessness of all
earthly things? The German also is serious, and thus English poetry
was extremely suitable to him, and, because it proceeded from a higher
state of things, even imposing. One finds in it throughout a great,
apt understanding, well practised in the world, a deep, tender heart,
an excellent will, an impassioned action,--the very noblest qualities
which can be praised in an intellectual and cultivated man; but all
this put together still makes no poet. True poetry announces itself
thus, that, as a worldly gospel, it can by internal cheerfulness and
external comfort free us from the earthly burdens which press upon us.
Like an air-balloon, it lifts us, together with the ballast which is
attached to us, into higher regions, and lets the confused labyrinths
of the earth lie developed before us as in a bird's-eye view. The
most lively, as well as the most serious works, have the same aim of
moderating both pleasure and pain by a felicitous intellectual form.
Let us only in this spirit consider the majority of the English poems,
chiefly morally didactic, and on the average they will only show us a
gloomy weariness of life. Not only Young's _Night Thoughts_, where this
theme is pre-eminently worked out, but even the other contemplative
poems stray, before one is aware of it, into this dismal region, where
the understanding is presented with a problem which it cannot solve,
since even religion, much as it can always construct for itself, leaves
it in the lurch. Whole volumes might be compiled, which could serve as
a commentary to this frightful text--
"Then old age and experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to death, and make him understand,
After a search so painful and so long,
That all his life he has been in the wrong."
What further makes the English poets accomplished misanthropes, and
diffuses over their writings the unpleasant feeling of repugnance
against everything, is the fact that the whole of them, on account of
the various divisions of their commonwealth, must devote themselves
for the best part, if not for the whole of their lives, to one party or
another. Because now a writer of the sort cannot praise and extol those
of the party to which he belongs, nor the cause to which he adheres,
since, if he did, he would only excite envy and hostility, he exercises
his talent in speaking as badly as possible of those on the opposite
side, and in sharpening, nay, poisoning the satirical weapons as much
as he can. When this is done by both parties, the world which lies
between is destroyed and wholly annihilated, so that in a great mass
of sensibly active people, one can discover, to use the mildest terms,
nothing but folly and madness. Even their tender poems are occupied
with mournful subjects. Here a deserted girl is dying, there a faithful
lover is drowned, or is devoured by a shark before, by his hurried
swimming, he reaches his beloved; and if a poet like Gray lies down in
a churchyard, and again begins those well-known melodies, he too may
gather round him a number of friends to melancholy. Milton's _Allegro_
must scare away gloom in vehement verses, before he can attain a very
moderate pleasure; and even the cheerful Goldsmith loses himself in
elegiac feelings, when his _Deserted Village_, as charmingly as sadly,
exhibits to us a lost Paradise which his _Traveller_ seeks over the
whole earth.
I do not doubt that lively works, cheerful poems, can be brought
forward and opposed to what I have said, but the greatest number, and
the best of them, certainly belong to the older epoch; and the newer
works, which may be set down in the class, are likewise of a satirical
tendency, are bitter, and treat women especially with contempt.
Enough: those serious poems, undermining human nature, which, in
general terms, have been mentioned above, were the favourites
which we sought out before all others, one seeking, according to
his disposition, the lighter elegiac melancholy, another the heavy
oppressive despair, which gives up everything. Strangely enough, our
father and instructor, Shakspeare, who so well knew how to diffuse a
pure cheerfulness, strengthened our feeling of dissatisfaction. Hamlet
and his soliloquies were spectres which haunted all the young minds.
The chief passages every one knew by heart and loved to recite, and
every body fancied he had a right to be just as melancholy as the
Prince of Denmark, though he had seen no ghost, and had no royal father
to avenge.
But that to all this melancholy a perfectly suitable locality might not
be wanting, Ossian had charmed us even to the _Ultima Thule_, where
on a gray, boundless heath, wandering among prominent moss-covered
grave-stones, we saw the grass around us moved by an awful wind, and
a heavily clouded sky above us. It was not till moonlight that the
Caledonian night became day; departed heroes, faded maidens, floated
around us, until at last we really thought we saw the spirit of Loda in
his fearful form.
In such an element, with such surrounding influences, with tastes and
studies of this kind, tortured by unsatisfied passions, by no means
excited from without to important actions, with the sole prospect that
we must adhere to a dull, spiritless, citizen life, we became--in
gloomy wantonness--attached to the thought, that we could at all events
quit life at pleasure, if it no longer suited us, and thus miserably
enough helped ourselves through the disgusts and weariness of the
days. This feeling was so general, that _Werther_ produced its great
effect precisely because it struck a chord everywhere, and openly
and intelligibly exhibited the internal nature of a morbid youthful
delusion. How accurately the English were acquainted with this sort of
wretchedness is shown by the few significant lines, written before the
appearance of _Werther_--
"To griefs congenial prone,
More wounds than nature gave he knew,
While misery's form his fancy drew
In dark ideal hues and horrors not its own."
[Side-note: Suicide.]
Suicide is an event of human nature which, whatever may be said and
done with respect to it, demands the sympathy of every man, and in
every epoch must be discussed anew. Montesquieu grants his heroes and
great men the right of killing themselves as they think fit, since he
says that it must be free to every one to close the fifth act of his
tragedy as he pleases. But here the discourse is not of those persons
who have led an active and important life, who have sacrificed their
days for a great empire, or for the cause of freedom, and whom one
cannot blame if they think to follow in another world the idea which
inspires them, as soon as it has vanished from the earth. We have
here to do with those whose life is embittered by a want of action,
in the midst of the most peaceful circumstances in the world, through
exaggerated demands upon themselves. Since I myself was in this
predicament, and best knew the pain I suffered in it, and the exertion
it cost me to free myself, I will not conceal the reflections which I
made, with much deliberation, on the various kinds of death which one
might choose.
There is something so unnatural in a man tearing himself away from
himself, not only injuring, but destroying himself, that he mostly
seizes upon mechanical means to carry his design into execution. When
Ajax falls upon his sword, it is the weight of his body which does him
the last service. When the warrior binds his shield-bearer not to let
him fall into the hands of the enemy, it is still an external force
which he secures, only a moral instead of a physical one. Women seek
in water a cooling for their despair, and the extremely mechanical
means of fire-arms ensure a rapid act with the very least exertion.
Hanging, one does not like to mention, because it is an ignoble death.
In England one may first find it, because there, from youth upwards,
one sees so many hanged, without the punishment being precisely
dishonourable. By poison, by opening the veins, the only intention is
to depart slowly from life; and that most refined, rapid, and painless
death by an adder, was worthy of a queen, who had passed her life in
pleasure and brilliancy. But all these are external aids, enemies with
which man forms an alliance against himself.