I will speak of some distinguished men who, at different times, on
their passage through Frankfort, either lodged at our house or partook
of our friendly hospitality. Once more Klopstock stands justly at
the head. I had already exchanged several letters with him, when he
announced to me that he was invited to go to Carlsruhe and to reside
there; that he would be in Friedberg by a specified day, and wished
that I would come there and fetch him. I did not fail to be there at
the hour. He, however, had been accidently detained upon the road;
and after I had waited in vain for some days, I went home, where he
did not arrive till after some time, and then excused his delay, and
received very kindly my readiness to come to meet him. His person was
small but well-built; his manners without being stiff, were serious
and precise; his conversation was measured and agreeable. On the whole
there was something of the diplomatist in his bearing. Such a man
undertakes the difficult task of supporting, at the same time, his own
dignity, and that of a superior to whom he is responsible; of advancing
his own interest, together with the much more important interest of a
prince, or even of a whole State; and of making himself, beyond all
things, pleasing to other men while in this critical position. In this
way Klopstock appeared to bear himself as a man of worth and as the
representative of other things--of religion, of morality and freedom.
He had also assumed another peculiarity of men of the world--namely,
not readily to speak on subjects upon which he was particularly
expected and desired to discourse. He was seldom heard to mention
poetic and literary subjects. But as he found in me and my friends a
set of passionate skaters, he discoursed to us at length on this noble
art, on which he had thought much, having considered what in it was
to be sought, and what avoided. Still, before we could receive the
instruction he proffered, we had to submit to be put right as to the
word itself, in which we blundered.[1] We spoke in good Upper-Saxon
of _Schlittschuhen_, which he would not allow to pass at all; for the
word, he said, does not come from _Schlitten_ (sledge), as if one went
on little runners, but from _Schreiten_ (to stride), because like the
Homeric gods the skater strides away on these winged shoes over the
sea frozen into a plain. Next we came to the instrument itself. He
would have nothing to do with the high grooved skates, but recommended
the low, broad, smooth-bottomed Friseland steel skates as the most
serviceable for speed. He was no friend to the tricks of art which
are usually performed in this exercise. I procured, according to his
advice, a pair of smooth skates, with long toes, and used them for
several years, though with some discomfort. He understood, too, the
science of horsemanship and horse-breaking, and liked to talk about
it; thus, as if by design, he avoided all conversation upon his own
profession, that he might speak with greater freedom about arts quite
foreign to it, which he pursued only as a pastime. I might say much
more of these and other peculiarities of this extraordinary man, if
those who lived longer with him had not already informed us fully about
them. One observation, however, I will not suppress, which is, that men
whom Nature, after endowing them with uncommon advantages, has placed
in a narrow circle of action, or at least in one disproportioned to
their powers, generally fall into eccentricities; and as they have no
opportunity of making direct use of their gifts, seek to employ them in
an extraordinary or whimsical manner.
[Side-note: Zimmermann.]
Zimmermann was also for a time our guest. He was tall and powerfully
built; of a vehement nature open to every impulse; yet he had his
outward bearing and manners perfectly under control, so that in
society he appeared as a skilful physician and polished man of the
world. It was only in his writings and amongst his most confidential
friends, that he gave free course to his untamed inward character. His
conversation was varied and highly instructive, and for one who could
pardon his keen sensitiveness to whatever grated on his own personal
feelings and merits, no more desirable companion could be found. For
myself, as what is called vanity never disturbed me, and I in return
often presumed to be vain also--that is, did not hesitate to enlarge
upon whatever in myself pleased me, I got on with him capitally. We
mutually tolerated and scolded each other, and, as he showed himself
thoroughly open and communicative, I learned from him a great deal in a
short time.
To judge such a man with the indulgence of gratitude, nay on principle,
I cannot say that he was vain. We Germans misuse the word "vain"
(citel), but too often. In a strict sense, it carries with it the idea
of emptiness, and we properly designate by it only the man who cannot
conceal his joy at his Nothing, his contentment with a hollow phantom.
With Zimmermann it was exactly the reverse; he had great deserts, and
no inward satisfaction. The man who cannot enjoy his own natural gifts
in silence, and find his reward in the exercise of them, but must
wait and hope for their recognition and appreciation by others, will
generally find himself but badly off, because it is but too well known
a fact that men are very niggard of their applause; that they rather
love to mingle alloy with praise, and where it can in any degree be
done, to turn it into blame. Whoever comes before the public without
being prepared for this, will meet with nothing but vexation; since,
even if he does not overestimate his own production, it still has
for him an unlimited value, while the reception it meets with in the
world, is in every case qualified. Besides, a certain susceptibility
is necessary for praise and applause, as for every other pleasure. Let
this be applied to Zimmermann, and it will be acknowledged in his case
too; that no one can obtain what he does not bring with him.
[Side-note: Zimmermann.]
If this apology cannot be allowed, still less shall we be able to
justify another fault of this remarkable man, because it disturbed
and even destroyed the happiness of others. I mean his conduct towards
his children. A daughter, who travelled with him, stayed with us
while he visited the neighbouring scenes. She might be about sixteen
years old, slender and well formed, but without attractiveness; her
regular features would have been agreeable, if there had appeared in
them a trace of animation, but she was always as quiet as a statue;
she spoke seldom, and in the presence of her father never. But she
had scarcely spent a few days alone with my mother, receiving the
cheerful and affectionate attentions of this sympathizing woman,
than she threw herself at her feet with an opened heart, and with a
thousand tears, begged to be allowed to remain with her. With the most
passionate language she declared that she would remain in the house
as a servant, as a slave all her life, rather than go back with her
father, of whose severity and tyranny no one could form an idea. Her
brother had gone mad under his treatment; she had hitherto borne it
though with difficulty, because she had believed that it was the same,
or not much better, in every family, but now that she had experienced
such a loving, mild and considerate treatment, her situation at home
had become to her a perfect hell. My mother was greatly moved as she
related to me this passionate effusion, and indeed, she went so far
in her sympathy, as to give me pretty clearly to understand, that she
would be content to keep the girl in the house, if I would make up my
mind to marry her. If she were an orphan, I replied, I might think
and talk it over; but God keep me from a father-in-law who is such a
father! My mother took great pains with the poor girl, but this made
her only the more unhappy. At last an expedient was found, by putting
her to a boarding-school. Her life, I should observe in passing, was
not a very long one.
I should hardly mention this culpable peculiarity of a man of such
great deserts, if it had not already become a matter of public
notoriety, and especially had not the unfortunate hypochondria, with
which, in his last hours, he tortured himself and others, been commonly
talked of. For that severity towards his children was nothing less
than hypochondria, a partial insanity, a continuous moral murder,
which, after making his children its victims, was at last directed
against himself. We must also remember that though apparently in such
good health, he was a great sufferer even in his best years;--that an
incurable disease troubled the skilful physician who had relieved, and
still gave ease to so many of the afflicted. Yes, this distinguished
man, with all his outward reputation, fame, honour, rank, and wealth,
led the saddest life, and whoever will take the pains to learn more
about it from existing publications, will not condemn but pity him.
If it is now expected that I shall give a more precise account of the
effect which this distinguished man had upon me, I must once more
recall the general features of that period. The epoch in which we
were living might be called an epoch of high requisitions, for every
one demanded of himself and of others what no mortal had hitherto
accomplished. On chosen spirits who could think and feel, a light
had arisen, which enabled them to see that an immediate, original
understanding of nature, and a course of action based upon it, was both
the best thing a man could desire, and also not difficult to attain.
Experience thus once more became the universal watchword, and every
one opened his eyes as wide as he could. Physicians, especially, had a
most pressing call to labour to this end, and the best opportunity for
finding it. Upon them a star shone out of antiquity, which could serve
as an example of all that was to be desired. The writings which had
come down to us under the name of Hippocrates, furnished a model of the
way in which a man should both observe the world and relate what he had
seen, without mixing up himself with it. But no one considered that we
cannot see like the Greeks, and that we shall never become such poets,
sculptors, and physicians as they were. Even granted that we could
learn from them, still the results of experience already gone through,
were almost beyond number, and besides were not always of the clearest
kind; moreover had too often been made to accord with preconceived
opinions. All these were to be mastered, discriminated, and sifted.
This also, was an immense demand. Then again it was required that each
observer, in his personal sphere and labours, should acquaint himself
with the true, healthy nature, as if she were now for the first time
noticed, and attended, and thus only what was genuine and real was to
be learned. But as, in general, learning can never exist without the
accompaniment of a universal smattering and a universal pedantry, nor
the practice of any profession without empiricism and charlatanry, so
there sprung up a violent conflict, the purpose of which was to guard
use from abuse, and place the kernel high above the shell in men's
estimation. In the execution of this design, it was perceived that
the shortest way of getting out of the affair, was to call in the aid
of genius, whose magic gifts could settle the strife, and accomplish
what was required. Meanwhile, however, the understanding meddled
with the matter; all it alleged must be reduced to clear notions,
and exhibited in a logical form, that every prejudice might be put
aside, and all superstition destroyed. And since the achievements of
some extraordinary men, such as Boerhaave and Haller, were actually
incredible, people thought themselves justified in demanding even still
more from their pupils and successors. It was maintained that the path
was opened, forgetting that in earthly things a path can very rarely
be spoken of; for, as the water that is dislodged by a ship, instantly
flows in again behind it, so by the law of its nature, when eminent
spirits have once driven error aside, and made a place for themselves,
it very quickly closes upon them again.
[Side-note: Zimmermann.]
But of this the ardent Zimmermann could form no idea whatever; he would
not admit that absurdity did in fact fill up the world. Impatient, even
to madness, he rushed to attack everything that he saw and believed to
be wrong. It was all the same to him whether he was fighting with a
nurse or with Paracelsus, with a quack, or a chemist. His blows fell
alike heavily in either case, and when he had worked himself out of
breath, he was greatly astonished to see the heads of this hydra, which
he thought he had trodden under foot, springing up all fresh again, and
showing him their teeth from innumerable jaws.
Every one who reads his writings, especially his clever work "On
Experience," will perceive more distinctly than I can express them,
the subjects of discussion between this excellent man and myself.
His influence over me, was the more powerful, as he was twenty years
my senior. Having a high reputation as a physician, he was chiefly
employed among the upper classes, and the corruption of the times,
caused by effeminacy and excess, was a constant theme of conversation
with him. Thus his medical discourses, like those of the philosophers
and my poetical friends, drove me again back to nature. In his vehement
passion for improvement I could not fully participate; on the contrary,
after we separated, I instantly drew back into my own proper calling,
and endeavoured to employ the gifts nature had bestowed upon me, with
moderate exertion, and by good-natured opposition to what I disapproved
of, to gain a standing for myself, in perfect indifference how far my
influence might reach or whither it might lead me.
Von Salis, who was setting up the large boarding school at Marsehlins,
visited us also at that time. He was an earnest and intelligent man,
and must have quietly made many humorous observations on the irregular
though genial mode of life in our little society. The same was probably
the case with Sulzer, who came in contact with us on his journey to the
south of France; at least a passage in his travels where he speaks of
me, seems to favor this opinion.
These visits, which were as agreeable as they were profitable, were
however diversified by others which we would rather have been spared.
Needy and shameless adventurers fixed themselves on the confiding
youth, supporting their urgent demands by real as well as fictitious
relationships and misfortunes. They borrowed my money, and made it
necessary for me to borrow in turn, so that I in consequence fell into
the most unpleasant position with opulent and kind-hearted friends. If
I wished that all these unfortunate folks were food for the crows, my
father found himself in the situation of the _Tyro in Witchcraft_[2]
who was willing enough to see his house washed clean, but is frightened
when the flood rushes in without ceasing, over threshold and stairs.
By an excessive kindness, the quiet and moderate plan of life which my
father had designed for me was step by step interrupted and put off,
and from day to day changed contrary to all expectation. All idea of a
long visit to Ratisborn and Vienna was as good as given up; but still I
was to pass through those cities on my way to Italy, so as at least to
gain a general notion of them. On the other hand, some of my friends,
who did not approve of taking so long a circuit, in order to get into
active life, recommended that I should take advantage of a moment which
seemed in every way favorable, and think on a permanent establishment
in my native city. Although the Council were closed against me, first
by my grandfather and then by my uncle, there were yet many civil
offices to which I could lay claim, where I could remain for a time and
await the future. There were agencies of several kinds which offered
employment enough, and the place of a _chargé d'affaires_ was highly
respectable. I suffered myself to be persuaded, and believed also,
that I might adapt myself to this plan, without having tried whether I
was suited for such a mode of life and business as requires that amid
dissipation, we should most of all act for a certain end. To these
plans and designs there was now added a tender sentiment which seemed
to draw me towards a domestic life and to accelerate my determination.
[Side-note: Plans for Settling in Life.]
The society of young men and women already mentioned, which was
kept together by, if it did not owe its origin to, my sister, still
survived after her marriage and departure, because the members had
grown accustomed to each other, and could not spend one evening in
the week better than in this friendly circle. The eccentric orator
also whose acquaintance we made in the sixth book, had, after many
adventures, returned to us, more clever and more perverse than ever,
and once again played the legislator of the little state. As a sequel
to our former diversions he had devised something of the same kind; he
enacted that every week lots should be drawn, not as before to decide
what pairs should be lovers, but married couples. How lovers should
conduct themselves towards each other, he said, we knew well enough;
but of the proper deportment of husbands and wives in society we were
totally ignorant, and this, with our increasing years, we ought to
learn before all things. He laid down general rules, which, of course,
set forth that we must act as if we did not belong to each other;
that we must not sit or speak often together, much less indulge in
anything like caresses. And at the same time we were not only to avoid
everything which would occasion mutual suspicion and discord, but, on
the contrary, he was to win the greatest praises, who, with his free
and open manners should yet most endear to himself his wife.
The lots were at once drawn; some odd matches that they decided were
laughed at and joked about, and the universal marriage-comedy was begun
in good humour and renewed every week.
Now it fell out strangely enough, that from the first the same lady
fell twice to me. She was a very good creature, just such a woman
as one would like to think of as a wife. Her figure was beautiful
and well-proportioned, her face pleasing, while in her manners there
prevailed a repose which testified to the health of her mind and body.
Every day and hour she was perfectly the same. Her domestic industry
was in high repute. Though she was not talkative, a just understanding
and natural talents could be recognised in her language. To meet the
advances of such a person with friendliness and esteem was natural;
on a general principle I was already accustomed to do it, and now I
acted from a sort of traditional kindness as a social duty. But when
the lot brought us together for the third time, our jocose law-giver
declared in the most solemn manner that Heaven had spoken, and we could
not again be separated. We submitted to his sentence, and both of us
adapted ourselves so well to our public conjugal duties, that we might
really have served as a model. Since all the pairs who were severally
united for the evening, were obliged by the general rules to address
each other for the few hours with _Du_ (thou), we had, after a series
of weeks, grown so accustomed to this confidential pronoun, that even
in the intervals whenever we accidentally came together, the _Du_
would kindly come out.[3] Habit is a strange thing; by degrees both
of us found that nothing was more natural than this relation. I liked
her more and more, while her manner of treating me gave evidence of
a beautiful calm confidence, so that on many an occasion if a priest
had been present we might have been united on the spot without much
hesitation.
[Side-note: The Clavigo.]
As at each of our social gatherings something new was required to
be read aloud, I brought with me one evening a perfect novelty, The
Memoir of Beaumarchais against Clavigo, in the original. It gained
great applause. The thoughts to which it gave occasion were freely
expressed, and after much had been spoken on both sides, my partner
said: "If I were thy liege lady and not thy wife, I would entreat thee
to change this memoir into a play: it seems to me perfectly suited
for it." "That thou mayst see, my love," I replied, "that liege lady
and wife can be united in one person, I promise that, at the end of a
week, the subject-matter of this work, in the form of a piece for the
theatre, shall be read aloud, as has just been done with these pages."
They wondered at so bold a promise, but I did not delay to set about
accomplishing it. What, in such cases, is called invention, was with me
instantaneous. As I was escorting home my titulary wife I was silent.
She asked me what was the matter? "I am thinking out the play," I
answered, "and have got already into the middle of it. I wished to show
thee that I would gladly do anything to please thee." She pressed my
hand, and as I in return snatched a kiss, she said: "Thou must forget
thy character! To be loving, people think, is not proper for married
folks." "Let them think," I rejoined, "we will have it our own way."
Before I got home, and indeed I look a very circuitous route, the
piece was pretty far advanced. Lest this should seem boastful, I will
confess that previously, on the first and second reading, the subject
had appeared to me dramatic and even theatrical, but, without such a
stimulus, this piece, like so many others, would have remained among
the number of the merely possible creations. My mode of treating it is
well enough known. Weary of villains, who, from revenge, hate, or mean
purposes, attack a noble nature and ruin it, I wished, in Carlos, to
show the working of clear good sense, associated with true friendship,
against passion, inclination and outward necessity; in order, for once,
to compose a tragedy in this way. Availing myself of the example of our
patriarch Shakspeare, I did not hesitate for a moment to translate,
word for word, the chief scene, and all that was properly dramatic in
the original. Finally, for the conclusion, I borrowed the end of an
English ballad, and so I was ready before the Friday came. The good
effect which I attained in the reading will easily be believed. My
liege spouse took not a little pleasure in it, and it seemed as if,
by this production, as an intellectual offspring, our union was drawn
closer and dearer.
Mephistopheles Merck here did me, for the first time, a great injury.
When I communicated, the piece to him he answered: "You must write
hereafter no more such trifles; others can do such things." In this he
was wrong. We should not, in all things, transcend the notions which
men have already formed; it is good that much should be in accordance
with the common way of thinking. Had I at that time written a dozen
such pieces, which with a little stimulus would have been easy enough,
three or four of them would perhaps have retained a place on the stage.
Every theatrical manager who knows the value of a repertoire, can say
what an advantage that would have been.
By these, and other intellectual diversions, our whimsical game of
marriage became a family story, if not the talk of the town, which
did not sound disagreeably in the ears of the mothers of our fair
ones. My mother, also, was not at all opposed to such an event; she
had before looked with favor on the lady with whom I had fallen into
so strange a relation, and did not doubt that she would make as good
a daughter-in-law as a wife. The aimless bustle in which I had for
some time lived was not to her mind, and, in fact, she had to bear the
worst of it. It was her part to provide abundant entertainment for the
stream of guests, without any compensation for furnishing quarters to
this literary army, other than the honor they did her son by feasting
upon him. Besides, it was clear to her that so many young persons--all
of them without property--united not only for scientific and poetic
purposes, but also for that of passing the time in the gayest manner,
would soon become a burthen and injury to themselves, and most
certainly to me, whose thoughtless generosity and passion for becoming
security for others she too well knew.