purposeless, the observation could not long escape me that Lavater and
Basedow employed intellectual and even spiritual means for earthly
ends. It soon struck me, who spent my talents and my days on no object
whatever, that these two men, while endeavoring, to preach their
doctrines, to teach and to convince, had each in his own way, certain
views in the background--the advancement of which was, to them, of
great consequence. Lavater went to work gently and prudently, Basedow
vehemently, rudely, and even awkwardly; but both were so convinced of
the excellence of their favorite schemes and undertakings, and their
mode of prosecuting them, that so far all were compelled to look upon
them as men of sincerity, and to love and to honor them as such. In
praise of Lavater especially, it could be said that he actually had
higher objects, and, if he acted according to the wisdom of this
world, it was in the belief that the end would hallow the means. As I
observed them both, nay, indeed frankly told them my opinions and heard
theirs in return, the thought arose in me that every highly-gifted
man is called upon to diffuse whatever there is of divine within
him. In attempting this, however, he comes in contact with the rough
world, and, in order to act upon it, he must put himself on the same
level. Thus, in a great measure he compromises his high advantages,
and finally forfeits them altogether. The heavenly, the eternal, is
buried in a body of earthly designs, and hurried with it to the fate
of the transient. From this point of view I now regarded the career
of these two men, and they seemed to me, worthy both of honor and of
compassion; for I thought I could foresee that each would be compelled
to sacrifice the higher to the lower. As I pursued this reflection
to the farthest extremity, and looked beyond the limits of my narrow
experience for similar cases in history, the plan occurred to me of
taking the life of Mahomet, whom I had never been able to think an
impostor, for a dramatic exhibition of those courses which in actual
life, I was strongly convinced, invariably lead to ruin much more than
to good. I had shortly before read with great interest, and studied
the life of the Eastern Prophet, and was therefore tolerably prepared
when the thought occurred to me. The sketch approached on the whole
to the regular form to which I was again inclining, although I still
used in moderation the liberty gained for the stage, and arranged time
and place according to my own pleasure. The piece began with Mahomet
alone under the open sky, singing a hymn. In it he adores first of
all the innumerable stars as so many gods; but as the friendly star,
Gad (our Jupiter) rises, he offers to him, as the king of the stars,
exclusive adoration. Not long after the moon ascends the horizon, and
wins the eye and heart of the worshipper, who, presently refreshed and
strengthened by the dawning sun, is called upon for new praises. But
these changing phenomena, however delightful, are still unsatisfactory
and the mind feels that it must rise yet above itself. It mounts,
therefore, to God, the Only, Eternal, Infinite, to whom all these
splendid yet limited creatures owe their existence. I composed this
hymn with great delight; it is now lost, but might easily be restored
for the purpose of a cantata, and would commend itself to the musical
composer by the variety of its expression. It would, however, be
necessary to imagine it sung, according to the original plan, by
the conductor of a caravan with his family and tribe; and thus the
alternation of the voices, and the strength of the chorus, would be
provided for.
[Side-note: Intended Drama of Mahomet.]
After Mahomet has thus converted himself, he imparts these feelings
and sentiments to his friends. His wife and Ali become his disciples
without reserve. In the second act, he zealously attempts, supported
by the still more ardent Ali, to propagate this faith in the tribe.
Assent and opposition fallow the variety of character. The contest
begins, the strife becomes violent, and Mahomet is compelled to flee.
In the third act, he defeats his enemies, and making his religion the
public one, purifies the Kaaba from idols; but, as all this cannot
be done by power, he is obliged to resort to cunning. What in his
character is earthly increases and extends itself; the divine retires
and is obscured. In the fourth act, Mahomet pursues his conquests, his
doctrine becomes a pretence rather than an end; all conceivable means
must be employed, and barbarities become abundant. A woman, whose
husband has been put to death by Mahomet's order, poisons him. In the
fifth act, he feels that he is poisoned. His great calmness, the return
to himself, and to a higher sense, make him worthy of admiration. He
purify his doctrine, establishes his kingdom, and dies.
Such was the sketch of a work which long occupied my mind, for usually
I was obliged to have the materials in my head, before I commenced the
execution. I meant, to represent the power which genius exercises over
men by character and intellect, and what are its gains and losses in
the process. Several of the songs, to be introduced in the drama, were
composed beforehand; all that remains of them, however, is what stands
among my poems under the title "_Mahomet's Gesang_," (Mahomet's Song).
According to the plan, this was to be sung by Ali in honor of his
master, at the highest point of his success, just before the changed
aspect of affairs resulting from the poison. I recollect also the
outlines of several scenes, but the explanation of them here would lead
me too far.
[1] That is to say, a native of one of the Imperial cities.
[2] The title of the poem is "Der untreue Knabe," (The Faithless Boy),
and in the first line of it, as published in Göthe's collected works,
"Knabe" will be found instead of "Bube"--Trans.
FIFTEENTH BOOK.
From these manifold dissipations, which, however, generally gave
occasion for serious, and even religious reflections, I always returned
to my noble friend, Fraülein von Klettenberg, whose presence calmed,
at least for a moment, my stormy and undirected impulses and passions,
and to whom next to my sister, I liked best to communicate designs
like that I have just spoken of. I might, indeed, have perceived that
her health was constantly failing, but I concealed it from myself, and
this I was the better able to do as her cheerfulness increased with her
illness. She used to sit, neatly dressed, in her chair at the window,
and kindly listened to the narratives of my little expeditions as well
as to what I read aloud to her. Often, too, I made sketches, in order
to make her understand the better the description of the places I had
seen. One evening, I had been recalling to my mind many different
images; when in the light of the setting sun she and all around her
appeared before me, as if transfigured, and I could not refrain from
making a drawing of her and of the surrounding objects in the chamber,
as well as my poor skill permitted. In the hands of a skilful artist
like Kersting it would have made a beautiful picture. I sent it to
a fair friend at a distance, and added a song as commentary and
supplement:
In this magic glass reflected
See a vision, mild and bless'd;
By the wing of God protected,
See our friend, while suffering, rest.
Mark, how her endeavours bore her
From life's waves to realms above;
See thine image stand before her,
And the God, who died from love.
Feel what I, amid the floating
Of that heavenly ether, knew;
When the first impression noting,
Hastily this sketch I drew.
Though in these stanzas, as had often happened before, I expressed
myself as "a stranger and foreigner," in short, as a heathen, she
did not take offence at it. On the contrary, she assured me that in
so doing I pleased her much more than when I attempted to employ the
Christian terminology, which somehow I could never apply correctly.
Indeed, it had become a standing custom with me, whenever I read to her
missionary intelligence, which she was always fond of listening to, to
take the part of the Pagans against the missionaries, and to praise
their old condition as preferable to their new one. Still she was ever
gentle and friendly, and seemed not to have the least fear about me or
my salvation.
[Side-note: The Moravians.]
My gradual alienation from her creed arose from the fact that I had
laid hold of it at first with too great zeal, with passionate love.
Ever since I became more intimately acquainted with the Moravians, my
inclination to this Society, which had united under the victorious
banners of Christ, had constantly increased. It is exactly in the
moment of its earliest formation that a positive religion possesses
its greatest attraction. On that account it is delightful to go back
to the time of the Apostles, where all stands forth as fresh and
immediately spiritual. And thus it was that the Moravian doctrine
acquired something of a magical charm by appearing to continue or
rather to perpetuate the condition of those first times. It connected
its origin with them; when it seemed to perish, it still wound its way
through the world, although by unnoticed tendrils; at last one little
germ took root beneath the protection of a pious and eminent man, and
so from an unnoticed and apparently accidental beginning expanded
once more over the wide world. In this Society, the most important
point, was the inseparable combination of the religious and civil
constitution by which the teacher was at the same time the ruler,
and the father the judge. What was still more distinctive of their
fraternity was that the religious head, to whom unlimited faith was
yielded in spiritual things, was also intrusted with the guidance of
temporal affairs, and his counsels, whether for the government of the
whole body, or for the guidance of individuals, if confirmed by the
issue of the lot, were implicitly followed. Its peace and harmony, to
which at least outward appearances testified, was most alluring, while,
on the other hand, the missionary vocation seemed to call forth and
to give employment to all man's active powers. The excellent persons
whose acquaintance I made at Marienborn, which I had visited in the
company of Councillor Moritz, the agent of Count von Isenburg, had
gained my unqualified esteem, and it only depended on themselves to
make me their own. I studied their history, and their doctrine, and
the origin and growth of their society, so as to be able to give an
account of it and to talk about it to all who might feel interested
in it. Nevertheless, the conviction was soon forced upon me that with
the brethren I did not pass for a Christian any more than I did with
Fraülein von Klettenberg. At first this disturbed me, but afterwards my
inclination to them became somewhat cooler. However, I could not for a
long time discover the precise ground of difference, although it was
obvious enough, until at last, it was forced upon me more by accident
than by reflection. What separated me from this brotherhood, as well
as from other good Christian souls, was the very point on which the
Church has more than once fallen into dissension. On the one hand, it
was maintained that by the Fall human nature had been so corrupted to
its innermost core, that not the least good could be found in it, and
that therefore man must renounce all trust in his own powers, and look
to grace and its operations for everything. The other party, while it
admitted the hereditary imperfections of man, nevertheless ascribed to
nature a certain germ of good within, which, animated by divine grace,
was capable of growing up to a joyous tree of spiritual happiness. By
this latter conviction I was unconsciously penetrated to my inmost
soul, even while with tongue and pen I maintained the opposite side.
But I had hitherto gone on with such ill-defined ideas, that I had
never once clearly stated the dilemma to myself. From this dream I was
unexpectedly roused one day, when, in a religious conversation, having
distinctly advanced opinions, to my mind, most innocent, I had in
return to undergo a severe lecture. The very thought of such a thing,
it was maintained, was genuine Pelagianism, a pernicious doctrine
which was again appearing, to the great injury of modern times. I was
astonished and even terrified. I went back to Church history, studied
the doctrine and fate of Pelagius more closely, and now saw clearly how
these two irreconcilable opinions had fluctuated in favour through
whole centuries, and had been embraced and acknowledged by different
men, according as they were of a more active or of a more passive
nature.
The course of past years had constantly led me more and more to the
exercise of my own powers. A restless activity was at work within me,
with the best desire for moral development. The world without demanded
that this activity should be regulated and employed for the advantage
of others, and this great demand I felt called upon in my own case to
meet. On all sides I had been directed to nature, and she had appeared
to me in her whole magnificence; I had been acquainted with many good
and true men who were toiling to do their duty, and for the sake of
duty; to renounce them, nay to renounce myself, seemed impossible. The
gulf which separated me from the doctrine of man's total depravity now
became plain to me. Nothing, therefore, remained to me but to part
from this society; and as my love of the holy Scriptures, as well as
of the founder of Christianity and its early professors, could not be
taken from me, I formed a Christianity for my private use, and sought
to establish and build it up by an attentive study of history and a
careful observation of those who were favourable to my opinion.
[Side-note: The Wandering Jew.]
As everything which I once warmly embraced immediately put on a poetic
form, I now took up the strange idea of treating epically the history
of the Wandering Jew, which popular books had long since impressed upon
my mind. My design was to bring out in the course of the narrative such
prominent points of the history of religion and the Church as I should
find convenient. I will now explain the way in which I treated this
fable, and what meaning I gave to it.
In Jerusalem, according to the legend, there was a shoemaker, of the
name of Ahasuerus. For this character my Dresden shoemaker was to
supply the main features. I had furnished him with the spirit and humor
of a craftsman of the school of Hans Sachs, and ennobled him by an
inclination to Christ. Accordingly as, in his open workshop, he liked
to talk with the passers-by, jested with them, and, after the Socratic
fashion, touched up every one in his own way, the neighbors and others
of the people took pleasure in lingering at his booth; even Pharisees
and Sadducees spoke to him, and the Saviour himself and his disciples
would often stop at his door. The shoemaker, whose thoughts were
directed solely towards the world, I painted as feeling, nevertheless,
a special affection for our Lord, which, for the most part, evinced
itself by a desire to bring this lofty being, whose mind he did not
comprehend, over to his own way of thinking and acting. Accordingly,
in a modest manner, he recommends Christ to abandon his contemplative
life, and to leave off going about the country with such idlers,
and drawing the people away from their labor into the wilderness. A
multitude, he said, was always ready for excitement, and nothing good
could come of it.
On the other hand, the Lord endeavoured, by parables, to instruct him
in his higher views and aims, but these were all thrown away on his
mere matter-of-fact intellect. Thus, as Christ becomes more and more
an important character, and finally a public person, the friendly
workman pronounces his opinion still more sharply and vehemently,
maintaining that nothing but disorder and tumult could follow from such
proceedings, and that Christ would be at last compelled to put himself
at the head of a party, though that could not possibly be his design.
Finally, when things had taken the course which history narrates, and
Christ had been seized and condemned, Ahasuerus gives full vent to
his indignation when Judas who undesignedly had betrayed his Lord,
in his despair enters the workshop, and with lamentations relates
how his plans had been crossed. He had been, he said, as well as the
shrewdest of the other disciples, firmly convinced that Christ would
declare himself regent and head of the nation. His purpose was only,
by this violence, to compel the Lord, whose hesitation had hitherto
been invincible, to hasten the declaration. Accordingly, he had incited
the priesthood to an act which previously they had not courage to do.
The disciples, on their side, were not without arms, and probably all
would have turned out well, if the Lord had not given himself up, and
left them in the most forlorn state. Ahasuerus, whom this narrative in
no ways tends to propitiate, only exasperates the agony of the poor
ex-apostle, who rushes out and goes and hangs himself.
[Side-note: The Wandering Jew.]
As Jesus is led past the workshop of the shoemaker, on his way to
execution, the well-known scene of the legend occurs. The sufferer
faints under the burden of the cross, and Simon of Cyrene is compelled
to carry it. Upon this, Ahasuerus comes forward, and sustains the part
of those harsh common-sense people, who, when they see a man involved
in misfortune through his own fault, feel no pity, but, struck by an
untimely sense of justice, make the matter worse by their reproaches.
As he comes out, he repeats all his former warnings, changing them
into vehement accusations, which his attachment to the sufferer seems
to justify. The Saviour does not answer, but at the instant the loving
Veronica covers his face with the napkin, on which, as she removes
it and raises it aloft, Ahasuerus sees depicted the features of the
Lord, not indeed as those of the sufferer of the moment, but as of
one transfigured and radiant with celestial life. Amazed by this
phenomenon, he turns away his eyes and hears the words: "Over the earth
shalt thou wander till thou shalt once more see me in this form."
Overwhelmed at the sentence, it is not till after some time that the
artisan comes to himself; he then finds that every one has gone to
the place of execution and that the streets of Jerusalem are empty.
Disquiet and curiosity drive him forth, and he begins his wandering.
I shall, perhaps, speak elsewhere of all this, and of the incident
by which the poem was ended indeed, but not finished. The beginning,
some detached passages, and the conclusion, were written. But I never
completed the work. I lacked time for the studies necessary to give
it the finish and bearing that I wished. The few sheets which I did
write were the more willingly left to repose in obscurity, as a new
and necessary epoch was now formed in my mental character by the
publication of Werther.
The common fate of man, which all of us have to bear, must fall most
heavily on those whose intellectual powers expand very early. For a
time we may grow up under the protection of parents and relatives;
we may lean for a while upon our brothers and sisters and friends,
be supported by acquaintances, and made happy by those we love, but
in the end man is always driven back upon himself, and it seems as
if the Divinity had taken a position towards men so as not always
to respond to their reverence, trust, and love, at least not in the
precise moment of need. Early enough, and by many a hard lesson, had I
learned that at the most urgent crises the call to us is, "Physician,
heal thyself;" and how frequently had I been compelled to sigh out in
pain, "I tread the wine-press alone!" So now, while I was looking about
for the means of establishing my independence, I felt that the surest
basis on which to build was my own creative talents. For many years I
had never known it to fail me for a moment. What, waking, I had seen
by day, often shaped itself into regular dreams at night, and when I
opened my eyes there appeared to me either a wonderful new whole, or a
part of one already commenced. Usually, my time for wilting was early
in the morning, but still in the evening, or even late at night, when
wine and social intercourse had raised my spirits, I was ready for any
topic that might be suggested; only let a subject of some character be
offered, and I was at once prepared and ready. While, then, I reflected
upon this natural gift, and found that it belonged to me as my own,
and could neither be favoured nor hindered by any external matters, I
easily in thought built my whole existence upon it. This conception
soon assumed a distinct form; the old mythological image of Prometheus
occurred to me, who, separated from the gods, peopled a world from his
own workshop. I clearly felt that a creation of importance could be
produced only when its author isolated himself. My productions which
had met with so much applause were children of solitude, and since I
had stood in a wider relation to the world, I had not been wanting
in the power or the pleasure of invention, but the execution halted,
because I had, neither in prose nor in verse, a style properly my
own, and, consequently, with every new work, had always to begin at
the beginning and try experiments. As in this I had to decline and
even to exclude the aid of men, so, after the fashion of Prometheus,
I separated myself from the gods also, and the more naturally as with
my character and mode of thinking one tendency always swallowed up and
repelled all others.
[Side-note: Prometheus.]
The fable of Prometheus became living in me. The old Titan web I cut up
according to my own measurements, and without further reflection began
to write a piece in which was painted the difficulty Prometheus was
placed in with respect to Jupiter and the later gods, in consequence
of his making men with his own hand, giving them life by the aid of
Minerva, and founding a third dynasty. And, in fact, the reigning gods
had good cause to feel aggrieved, since they might now appear in
the light of wrongful intruders between the Titans and men. To this
singular composition belongs as a monologue that poem, which has become
remarkable in German literature, by having called forth a declaration
from Lessing against Jacobi on certain weighty matters of thought and
feeling. It thus served as the match to an explosion which revealed
and brought into discussion the most secret relations of men of
worth;--relations of which they perhaps were not themselves conscious,
and which were slumbering in a society otherwise most enlightened. The
schism was so violent, that, with the concurrence of further incidents,
it caused us the loss of one of our most valuable men, namely,
Mendelssohn.
Although philosophical and even religions considerations may be,
and before now have been attached to this subject, still it belongs
peculiarly to poetry. The Titans are the foil of polytheism, as the
devil may be considered the foil of monotheism, though, like the only
God to whom he stands in contrast, he is not a poetic figure. The
Satan of Milton, though boldly enough drawn, still remains in the
disadvantageous light of a subordinate existence attempting to destroy
the splendid creation of a higher being; Prometheus, on the contrary,
has this advantage, that, even in spite of superior beings, he is able
to act and to create. It is also a beautiful thought, and well suited
to poetry, to represent men as created not by the Supreme Ruler of the
world, but by an intermediate agent, who, however, as a descendant of
the most ancient dynasty, is of worth and importance enough for such an
office. Thus, and indeed under every aspect, the Grecian mythology is
an inexhaustible mine of divine and human symbols.