At Leipsic Goethe settled in two pleasant rooms in a house near the
university, overlooking a court through which people were constantly
passing to and fro. He happened to arrive at the time of the autumn
fair, and he had an opportunity of seeing many foreigners whose
appearance interested him. Leipsic, which, as the centre of the book
trade, was relatively more important then than it is now, made a most
agreeable impression on him, and he looked forward with delight to the
years he was to spend there. He was especially charmed with the free and
pleasant manners of the people, which presented a striking contrast to
the somewhat formal and rigid rules of social intercourse at Frankfort.
A few days after his arrival he was admitted a student at the
university. He was obliged to join some law classes, but he also heard
lectures by Ernesti on Cicero’s “De Oratore,” and by Gellert on rhetoric
and German literature. At first he attended his classes with exemplary
diligence, but he soon made up his mind that they could not be of much
service to him. The professors of law had little to say that he had not
already learned at Frankfort, or that he could not readily master
without their aid. Gellert’s lectures seemed to him pedantic and
commonplace, and even Ernesti, a scholar of high distinction, did not
help him to penetrate to the spirit, or to feel more deeply the charm,
of Latin literature. During the whole time of his residence at Leipsic
he continued, of course, to attend the university, but his relation to
it was more nominal than real, and exercised little influence on his
intellectual development.
He was received in a friendly way by Böhme, the professor of history,
whose wife, a cultivated and pleasant woman, liked to talk with him. She
offended him a little, however, by laughing rather too freely at some of
his Frankfort modes of expression, and by disparaging the writings of
his favourite poets. Every day he dined at the house of one of the
medical professors, where he met chiefly students of medicine and
natural science. When the novelty of his position at Leipsic wore off,
he began to miss the pleasures to which he had been accustomed at home,
and, above all, he longed for some friend to whom he might confide his
inmost thoughts and aspirations. Gradually he fell into a dejected and
forlorn state of mind, and so keenly did he suffer that in the spring of
1766 one of his Frankfort friends, Horn, who came to study law at
Leipsic, could not find in him a trace of his old liveliness and good
humour. The presence of Horn, who remained for some years one of his
most intimate comrades, did much to revive Goethe; and soon afterwards
the process was completed by another friend, Schlosser, who took Leipsic
on his way from Frankfort to Treptow, where he was to act as private
secretary to Duke Frederick Eugene of Würtemberg. Schlosser, who
ultimately married Goethe’s sister, was a man of vigorous and
independent character, somewhat stern in manner, but essentially kind
and sympathetic, and he quickly succeeded in restoring Goethe to all his
former cheerfulness and self-confidence.
Schlosser put up at the house of a vintner called Schönkopf, who, his
wife having come from Frankfort, always welcomed visitors from her
native place. Goethe was so much pleased with the company at Schönkopf’s
table that he determined to dine and sup there daily, and this
resolution he acted upon during the remainder of his time at Leipsic.
Schönkopf had a pretty, coquettish daughter, Anne Catharine, and,
needless to say, she no sooner saw the susceptible Goethe than she made
a conquest of him. Like Gretchen, she was his senior by two or three
years, but that, he felt, only made her the more worthy to be loved.
Annette, as he usually called her, accepted his devotion with pleasure,
and was sincerely fond of him; but, having a shrewd suspicion that she
could never be his wife, she gave him no marks of favour that she was
not equally ready to give to other admirers. Many a time Goethe was
thrown into a fever of jealousy by her kindness to his rivals, but she
had only to smile on him to exalt him to a heaven of enchantment and
delight. Upon the whole, his relation to Annette, which went on for
years, seems to have brought him more misery than happiness. It was
impossible for him to claim her love as exclusively his own, yet he
could not bear to think of it as a treasure that might pass into the
possession of some one else.
He had not the good fortune to meet at Schönkopf’s any one who could be
of vital intellectual service to him, but he enjoyed familiar
intercourse there with many agreeable people--among others, Behrisch, a
scholar who acted as tutor to a young Count. Goethe liked him as a loyal
friend and intelligent critic. Gradually Goethe extended the circle of
his acquaintance, until he had almost as many friends in Leipsic as in
Frankfort. It was especially pleasant for him to visit at the house of
Breitkopf, a printer, who had two sons about Goethe’s own age, one of
them an admirable pianist and clever composer. Goethe was often present
at musical parties in this hospitable house, and he himself took part in
them, for he could not only sing, but play the flute. Afterwards he
acquired some skill as a player on the cello.
By far the most eminent man with whom Goethe came into direct contact at
Leipsic was Oeser, the director of the academy of drawing, painting, and
architecture. Oeser was a native of Presburg, in Hungary, and had all
the energy and enthusiasm so often possessed by his countrymen. His own
artistic achievements were not of permanent importance, but he had an
extraordinary power of exciting interest in art, and of stimulating to
high effort all who came within the range of his influence. Long before
this time, at Dresden, he had been intimate with Winckelmann, who had
learned from him the doctrine that the qualities which give enduring
charm to works of art are simplicity and calm. Goethe, who had a longing
to master artistic methods, became his pupil, and he never forgot that
he owed to this wise and genial teacher the germs of his most fertile
ideas about art, and the first effective encouragement he had ever
received to do full justice to his own powers. At Oeser’s home in
Leipsic, and at his house in the country, he was always a welcome guest.
Oeser had two daughters, one of whom was married. The other, Frederika,
about Goethe’s age, lived with her father. Handsome, sprightly, and
clever, she became one of Goethe’s best friends.
Oeser was not his only instructor in art. Stock, the engraver, lived
with his wife and two young daughters (afterwards the wives of intimate
friends of Schiller), at the top of the house in which was the home of
the Breitkopfs. From him Goethe took lessons in etching, at which he
worked with great enthusiasm and perseverance. He also amused himself by
carving boards for bookbinding. There seemed to be hardly any limit to
Goethe’s activity. Even he could not hope to excel in all his many
undertakings, but in everything he tried he gained enough of insight to
enable him to distinguish sharply between good products and bad, and to
appreciate and enjoy those wrought on true and enduring principles.
All good pictures accessible at Leipsic he made himself familiar with,
and in 1767 he took a short holiday for the purpose of studying the
picture gallery at Dresden. He stayed at the house of a worthy, humorous
shoemaker, with whom he had much friendly talk. At the gallery the
pictures of all the great schools interested him, but those of the Dutch
school, from their fidelity to fact, appealed to him most strongly. Day
after day he resumed his study of the masterpieces he loved, and so
deeply did they influence his mind that, when he returned to the actual
world, he could not help seeing things as if they formed part of a
picture. His friend, the shoemaker, seemed to him like a figure that had
stepped out of a canvas by Ostade.
Powerfully as Goethe was fascinated by art, literature remained the real
mistress of his affections. The Latin classics he read with growing
pleasure, but he also constantly felt around him for new impressions and
impulses, and by a kind of happy instinct he was led to the writers who
were best fitted to nourish his genius. At Frankfort he had read
Wieland’s translation of Shakespeare, and now Dodd’s “Beauties of
Shakespeare” came in his way. His study of this selection did not yet
disclose to him Shakespeare’s real significance, but it prepared him for
deeper comprehension at a later stage. Wieland, having left far behind
him the Pietistic fervour with which he began his career, was now
tricking out in all sorts of forms, both of verse and prose, his easy
Epicurean philosophy. Goethe read eagerly every one of his later
writings; and, so far as style was concerned, he learned much from
Wieland, who, with all his faults, knew how to present his ideas, such
as they were, with lightness, delicacy, and grace. In 1766 Lessing’s
“Laocoon” was published, and Goethe has described with what delight he
and all the younger men of his day received this masterpiece of a great
and serious spirit. As if by a flash of lightning, it revealed the broad
lines of distinction that separate the arts from one another. It showed,
too, that it is only by keeping strictly within its natural limits that
each art can attain its highest objects, and that of all the arts poetry
is necessarily the deepest, the most far-reaching, and the grandest.
All this was new to Goethe, and spurred him to think out for himself the
fundamental problems of critical thought. Not less enthusiastically did
he welcome Lessing’s “Minna von Barnhelm,” which still remains the most
exquisitely finished play of its kind in the German language. It
impressed Goethe, because Lessing, unlike other German dramatists, had
selected his motives directly from the life of his own time, but had
conceived them with an imaginative force and subtlety that made them
perennially interesting. In the spring of 1768 Lessing spent a month at
Leipsic, but unfortunately Goethe did not see him. About the same time
Goethe was shocked by the tidings of the murder of Winckelmann, for whom
he had the deepest reverence, and whose writings on ancient art must be
counted among the most potent of the influences that enriched and
developed his intellectual life.
From the beginning of his residence at Leipsic Goethe was a constant
attendant at the play, and he sometimes acted--always with considerable
success in comic parts--in private theatricals at Schönkopf’s house.
Thinking so much as he did about the drama, he could not but try his
hand at dramatic composition; and in the winter of 1767-68 he produced
two plays--“Die Laune des Verliebten” (“The Lover’s Humour”) and “Die
Mitschuldigen” (“The Accomplices”). The former is essentially a
presentation of his own experiences in his relation to Annette
Schönkopf. The latter contains an unpleasant picture of facts akin to
those which were forced on his attention at Frankfort in connection with
the incident that led to his separation from Gretchen. Both are written
in rhymed alexandrines, and show that Goethe, like most of his
contemporaries, still looked for his models to the French classic drama.
At Leipsic Goethe was known as a young poet much given to biting satire.
In his autobiography he gives an account of a visit he paid to
Gottsched, who had at one time been in some sort the literary dictator
of Germany; and from this amusing narrative we can see with what mocking
humour he waited on the old pedant, who found it so hard to realize that
his day was past. Clodius, who prided himself on his dignified style,
Goethe enraged by producing parodies of his pompous verses. At heart,
however, Goethe was too generous to care a great deal about work of this
sort; what he liked infinitely better was to give direct poetical
expression to his own thoughts and feelings. This he did at Leipsic in a
considerable number of lyrics, some of which were set to music by the
elder of the two brothers Breitkopf. These lyrics lack the perfect
rhythm, the indefinable charm of his later work in this kind, but they
have vigour and a certain grace, and show at least something of what
ultimately became his astonishing mastery of apt and picturesque
diction.
In 1767 Goethe introduced to the Schönkopfs a friend of his, Kanne, a
Saxon advocate. Kanne was charmed with Annette, and Goethe was thrown
into the depths of despair by seeing that she was not disinclined to
respond to his advances. In vain he tried to still his agitation by
flying to nature for consolation, and by writing satirical verses on the
untrustworthiness of young maidens. He became thoroughly wretched, and
his unhappiness, associated with various other causes, among which he
himself afterwards included some irregularities in his mode of living,
made him seriously ill. At last, one night in July, 1768, he had a
severe attack of hemorrhage, and a doctor had to be hastily summoned.
For some time it was feared that he might be suffering from disease of
the lungs. During his illness he was tenderly cared for by his friends,
and when convalescent he was cheered by the bright, wholesome talk of
his friend Frederika Oeser, who, when he visited her in the country,
laughed at the ridiculous notion of a young fellow thinking of dying of
consumption. The process of recovery, however, was slow, and finally he
decided to return to Frankfort, and to set off on his birthday, a day
which he regarded as a lucky one for the beginning of important
undertakings. On the 26th of August he called at the Schönkopfs, and
bade adieu to Annette, who agreed to let him write to her once a month.
It filled him with sadness to think that this might be their last
parting, and on the following evening--he was to leave next day--he
could not resist the impulse to go once more to her home. He saw the
lamps burning, and hovered about the door-steps, but had not courage to
enter.
At Frankfort the invalid was received with infinite sympathy by his
mother and sister; and his father, seeing him pale and thin, concealed
the bitterness he felt at the disappointment of the hopes that had been
so warmly cherished. Goethe was happy to be at home again, amused
himself by drawing and etching, sent little gifts to Annette, and wrote
in good spirits to Oeser and some of his other Leipsic friends. But
before the end of the year he was again prostrated, suffering this time
from a different malady. His agonies were frightful, and his mother,
driven to despair, took the Bible, and resolved to be guided by the
first words on which her eyes should happen to light. Fortunately she
came upon the words of Jeremiah, “Thou shalt yet plant vines upon the
mountains of Samaria.” She was at once relieved, and ever afterwards
this was her favourite “promise.” Goethe quickly recovered, but early in
1769 he had another illness, by which he was confined to his room for a
month. It became evident that his constitution had been rudely shaken,
and that only time and vigilance could restore him to full strength.
Among his mother’s most intimate friends was a certain Fräulein von
Klettenberg, who belonged to the church of the Moravian Brethren. With a
noble purity and dignity of character she combined a deep mystic piety.
During Goethe’s illness Fräulein von Klettenberg, who showed him great
kindness, gained a strong influence over his mind; and there are many
indications that at this time he thought often and most earnestly on the
profoundest questions relating to human life and destiny. He even worked
out for himself an elaborate theological system, in which a place was
found for the Trinity, Lucifer, the Elohim, Man, and for the Fall and
Redemption. These speculations were connected with the study of alchemy,
to which he was led by his doctor, who, like Fräulein von Klettenberg,
was one of the Moravian Brethren. Goethe not only made many experiments
in accordance with the rules of alchemy, but read all the old books on
this subject on which he could lay his hands.
In the autumn of 1769 he received from Leipsic a volume consisting of
some of his lyrics, with the melodies to which they had been set by
Breitkopf. The volume gave him little pleasure, for he was now occupied
with other interests. He was more deeply stirred by a glimpse he had of
General Paoli, who passed through Frankfort on his way to England.
Paoli’s noble and romantic career had kindled Goethe’s enthusiasm, as it
had kindled that of Boswell, and, mainly through Boswell, that of
Johnson and all the other members of the brilliant literary set with
whom the Corsican hero was soon to be on pleasant terms in London.
Meanwhile, Goethe had learned that Annette had been betrothed to his
friend Kanne. He was struck with dismay by this intelligence, and could
not help hoping that something might at the last moment prevent their
union, and that he himself might be able to take his friend’s place.
Annette, however, did not share his wishes, and by and by both the joy
and the torment that had so often been evoked by his love for her were
for ever dispelled by her marriage.
Goethe’s father was most anxious that his study of law should as soon as
possible be resumed. Accordingly, in April, 1770, having spent about a
year and a half at home, he started for Strasburg, where, for various
reasons, it had been decided that he should take his degree. He was now
in his twenty-first year. He had not been restored to perfect health,
but he was strong enough for the work that lay before him, and he had no
longer any fear that he had been stricken by a mortal malady.
Alsace, although a province of the French monarchy, was still
essentially German. Not until the time of the Revolution did the people
cease to think of themselves as Germans, and begin to be proud of their
connection with France. In entering Strasburg, therefore, Goethe had no
feeling that he had come to a foreign town. It contained, indeed, a
strong French element, but the mass of the inhabitants spoke his own
language, and retained the manners and customs of their Teutonic
forefathers. As in Frankfort, so in Strasburg, there were many survivals
of former ages, and these at once attracted Goethe’s attention. He was
of course especially impressed by the minster, by far the most splendid
building he had yet seen. He studied it closely within and without, and
became an enthusiastic admirer of Gothic architecture, which he had
always heard decried. Often, especially at sunset, he mounted the tower
to enjoy the wide and varied prospect visible from the top.
He had pleasant rooms in the old Fish-market, and dined at a table where
he met many students whom he liked. At the head of this table sat
Salzmann, a middle-aged actuary, a man of fine taste and cultivated
intellect. He took to Goethe at once, discussed philosophy with him, and
was able to give him useful hints as to the studies for his degree.
Among the men whose acquaintance Goethe made at this table was Jung
Stilling, who, at the age of thirty, trusting in Providence for the
means of living, came to Strasburg to study medicine. Stilling always
retained a vivid recollection of the first occasion on which he saw
Goethe. He and his friend, Herr Troost, took their seats at the table
before any one else had arrived. By and by the guests came in, and
among them one who entered briskly, a young man “with large bright
eyes, splendid forehead, and handsome figure.” This was Goethe. “That
must be an excellent man,” whispered Stilling’s companion. Stilling was
of the same opinion, but thought he might give them some trouble, as he
seemed “a wild young fellow”--an impression which was afterwards found
to be mistaken. On a later occasion one of the guests tried to raise a
laugh at Stilling’s expense. He was sternly rebuked by Goethe, who now
sought Stilling’s friendship, and became warmly attached to him.
Introduced by Salzmann, Goethe was welcomed at many houses in Strasburg.
He was still to some extent under the influence of the mystical ideas
which had taken so strong a hold of him during his illness, but they did
not prevent him from enjoying to the full the social pleasures within
his reach. Of dancing he never could have enough, for it had all the
charm of novelty, dancing-parties being at that time unknown in
Frankfort and Leipsic.
He had the pleasure of seeing the young princess, Marie Antoinette, as
she passed through Strasburg on her way to Paris; and in June he enjoyed
with a fellow-student, Weyland, a ride across the Vosges mountains to
Saarbrück. On the way back, at Niederbronn, he was surprised and
delighted to find fragments of ancient pillars, sculptured altars with
inscriptions, and other Roman remains. These objects, lying about in
farmyards, called up before his active imagination a vivid picture of
the widespread civilization of Rome.
Goethe had not forgotten that he had come to Strasburg to take a degree,
and soon after his twenty-first birthday, having attended the proper
courses of lectures at the university, he passed the necessary
examinations. He then began to prepare his dissertation, choosing as his
subject the doctrine that it is the duty of the State to establish a
form of religion to which all citizens shall be obliged to conform.
During the remainder of his stay he gave attention at the university
chiefly to chemistry anatomy, and other sciences. He also devoted a good
deal of time to the study of the antiquities of Alsace, his interest in
which had been thoroughly aroused by the treasures at Niederbronn.
One day in September, 1770, Goethe accidentally met a young clergyman on
the steps at the entrance to the inn, “Zum Geist.” He knew that Herder
had just arrived at Strasburg, and could not doubt that this was he.
Goethe greeted him respectfully, and Herder, attracted, like every one
else, by the young student’s manly bearing and frank expression,
responded pleasantly, and entered into conversation with him. This led
to an intimate friendship, and the consequences were of the highest
importance for Goethe. Herder was at this time only twenty-six years of
age--that is, five years older than Goethe--but his character had been
matured by hard discipline, and he had already made a good reputation as
the author of two collections of essays full of energy and fresh
thought. He was not one of the great creative spirits of the world, but
he had an intellect of restless activity, endowed with an extraordinary
faculty for the apprehension of far-reaching ideas. He had enthusiasm,
too, and a noble, inspiring conception of the part that properly belongs
to the individual mind in its relations to the world at large.
Having given up his work as preacher and schoolmaster at Riga, he had
spent some time in France; and he had lately accepted the office of
tutor to the young Prince of Holstein-Eutin, whom he had accompanied to
Strasburg. This appointment he now resigned, having received a promise
(which was soon fulfilled) of the chief pastorate at Bückeburg, where he
proposed to marry Caroline Flachsland, to whom he had become engaged at
Darmstadt. He remained, however, rather more than six months at
Strasburg, mainly that he might be cured of an affection of the eyes, by
which he was much troubled. A painful operation was performed, and
recovery was less rapid than he expected. Goethe was one of his most
constant visitors, and missed no opportunity of serving him. Even when
his health was good, it was rather difficult for Herder’s friends to hit
it off with him, for with all his excellent qualities he was irritable,
and apt to be somewhat arrogant; and his temper was not improved by his
sufferings. But Goethe, who recognized the essential greatness of his
character, was not discouraged by his occasional rudeness, and was well
rewarded for the fidelity with which he waited upon his new friend.
At this time the serious thought of Europe was passing through one of
the most momentous revolutions the world has ever seen. Beyond all
question the foremost figure in the movement was Rousseau. As a man of
letters Rousseau was far inferior to Voltaire, and his knowledge was
neither so wide nor so exact as that of Diderot. But his ideas
corresponded to the deepest needs of the age, and he had the enthusiasm,
the prophetic ardour that commanded for them the attention of mankind.
The civilization of France he had shaken to its centre, and in Germany
the impression he had produced had been hardly less profound. Everywhere
generous minds were filled with discontent with the world as it actually
existed. Everywhere they were revolting against forms and conventions,
and crying out for a return to “nature,” for the free growth and
expression of the innate qualities of humanity--qualities which, when
not corrupted by unjust institutions, were, according to Rousseau,
always pure and noble.
Herder, who had studied Rousseau closely, had appropriated all that was
most vital in his teaching, and had applied his doctrines, not only in
the criticism of life, but in his judgments of literature; and now he
made Goethe a sharer of the intellectual wealth he had himself acquired.
Goethe had already been a reader of Rousseau, but from this time, as we
know from the characteristics of his early writings, his mind was deeply
penetrated by the spirit of “La Nouvelle Héloïse” and “Émile.” Of still
greater importance was the help he obtained in the comprehension of the
full splendour of Shakespeare’s genius. Of all poets, Shakespeare, as
Herder taught, was the one in whom nature had found her truest
interpreter; and, returning in earnest to the study of his dramas,
Goethe was impressed, as he had never been impressed before, by their
power and beauty, and felt more and more strongly that it would be
impossible for him ever to exhaust their meaning. Herder had also much
to say about Swift, Richardson, Fielding, Sterne, and Goldsmith; and to
a circle of friends, of whom Goethe was one, he read “The Vicar of
Wakefield,” the humour, pathos, and idyllic charm of which filled them
with delight. Through Herder’s influence Goethe began the serious study
of Homer; and even from “Hamlet” he did not receive a deeper inspiration
than from the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey.” Macpherson’s rendering of
Ossian had touched the imagination of Herder, and he communicated his
enthusiasm for it to Goethe, who perceived in “Fingal” and “The Songs of
Selma” many a trace of a great and entrancing primitive literature. From
Herder, too, who was familiar with Percy’s “Reliques,” Goethe first
learned that some of the finest manifestations of the poetic impulse are
to be found in popular songs and ballads. This revelation gave him
exquisite pleasure, and it led to his collecting folk-songs, the
directness, freshness, and simplicity of which, but with a new and
subtle delicacy, were reproduced in his own lyrics.
Thanks to the influences under which he was brought by Herder, Goethe,
during his residence at Strasburg, experienced a great intellectual
awakening. He did not accept any body of doctrines as a complete and
final expression of truth. On the contrary, the supreme service done to
him by Herder was that in regard to things of the mind he was delivered
from subservience to external authority. He now began to look out upon
the world with his own eyes, and to test opinions by the free exercise
of his own judgment. He had met Herder at the very moment when he
needed, and was capable of responding to, the stimulus of an original
mind at a stage of development more advanced than his own. When he
parted from his teacher, it was no longer necessary for him to sit at
the feet of a master. He had learned that great achievements were
possible only if, like the poets into whose secrets he was penetrating,
he brought himself into direct contact with the facts of the world, and
trusted absolutely to the inherent impulses and laws of his own
intellectual and imaginative powers.
During the period in which he was deriving fresh ideal impulses from
Herder, Goethe was drinking deep draughts of the sweetest joys of the
actual world. In the autumn of 1770 he rode with his friend Weyland to
the pretty Alsatian village, Sesenheim, where Weyland wished to visit
Pastor Brion, whose wife was related by marriage to one of his
half-sisters. As they approached the quaint old parsonage, standing with
its quiet garden in a well-wooded country, Goethe’s restless spirit
could not but feel the soothing influence of a scene at once so
beautiful and so peaceful. Pastor Brion, a most amiable and hospitable
clergyman, had four daughters, one of whom was married, while three
lived with their parents. There was also a son about eight years old. A
simpler, happier family did not exist, and we cannot wonder that Goethe
(not, as he afterwards thought, on his first visit, for he then knew
nothing of Goldsmith) sometimes compared it to the family of the Vicar
of Wakefield. Some whim made him present himself in disguise, but he
soon appeared in his real character; and as he was pleasantly received,
he at once felt at home. The youngest daughter was not old enough to
interest Goethe. The others were Salomea, who was about his own age,
and Frederika, who was in her nineteenth or twentieth year. Frederika
had a slender, graceful figure, with rich masses of fair hair, dark-blue
eyes, and finely modelled features. She was rather delicate, but had a
fresh appearance, due to the sweet, wholesome air of the country. Behind
her coy and maidenly manner were hidden possibilities of deep and
passionate devotion, and her charm was made all the more alluring by the
contrast she presented to her robust and outspoken elder sister.
In his autobiography Goethe gives a matchless description of his
relation to this lovely girl. It is impossible to trust the details of
the picture, some of which are known to be inaccurate; but there is no
reason to doubt that in its main outlines it reproduces faithfully what
actually happened. At any rate it is certain that he loved Frederika
with all his heart; not as he had loved Gretchen and Annette, for their
influence had never gone far below the surface; but with a love full of
romance, with a passion that glowed and flamed with ever-increasing
intensity. And Frederika--how was it possible for her to resist the
young poet’s wooing? He had come to her suddenly, like some radiant
being out of an unknown world, and in response to his fervour her heart
throbbed with love, and pride, and joy.
Immediately after his first visit he wrote to her to say that never had
Strasburg seemed to him so empty. Many other letters followed, but
unfortunately they were afterwards burned by Frederika’s sister. He
repeatedly visited Sesenheim, and shortly after Easter, 1771, Frederika
came to Strasburg with her mother and sister. While she remained, Goethe
and she had some happy hours together; yet somehow she did not seem
quite herself in a town; he felt that they were in perfect sympathy only
in the country, where they could be all in all to one another, with
nature around them reflecting their happiness.
At Whitsuntide he went again to her home, intending to return to his
studies after a short visit. But she was not very well, and day after
day, week after week passed, and he was still at Sesenheim. During this
visit he made himself highly popular in the village, and occupied
himself in all sorts of ways, learning how to make basket work, painting
the pastor’s carriage, and planning the reconstruction of the parsonage.
He went on, too, with his study of Homer, and read to Frederika a
translation he had made of “The Songs of Selma.” And all the time the
passion of the lovers grew and struck its roots deeper in their hearts.
At last, when June was far advanced, he was forced to drag himself away,
for it was time that he should proceed to his degree, the taking of
which had been too long delayed. The university authorities were
scandalized by some of the opinions advanced in his dissertation, but
admitted his ability, and directed him to take part in a public
disputation. The order was obeyed, and he afterwards received a
licentiate’s degree.
In company with some friends, Goethe now enjoyed a short tour in Upper
Alsace. On his return he paid a farewell visit to Sesenheim, and in
August he was once more at home in Frankfort.
In the last interview with Frederika nothing was said to indicate that
the parting was final. Nevertheless, Goethe knew that it was so; and
eight years passed before they saw one another again, and then they met
simply as old friends. Frederika had never doubted that he proposed to
make her his wife, and this had also been assumed by her family. At
first the idea of marriage did not occur to Goethe. He thought only of
the rapture he felt in her presence, of her sweetness, her grace, and
her beauty. When at last he could not avoid reflecting on the
consequences of having won a maiden’s affections, a prolonged and bitter
struggle went on in his mind. That Frederika, if he had been prepared to
marry, would have made him truly happy, he loved her too well to
question; and he can hardly have supposed that it would have been very
difficult to induce his father to welcome her as a daughter-in-law. But
the thought of marriage was repugnant to him. What! bind himself for
life at the very time when he was becoming conscious of his
destiny--when it was essential to the unfolding of his genius that his
individuality should have free play! Deeply as he loved Frederika,
strongly as he felt the duty he owed her, this consideration gained the
day. He must have freedom, let it cost what it might.
Goethe never sought to justify his treatment of Frederika. For many a
day he suffered the pang of a wounded conscience. His ultimate decision
was right, for he had not reached a stage at which a happy marriage
would have been possible; but he well knew that in a matter of such vast
importance he ought not to have created an expectation that, from the
nature of the case, was doomed to be disappointed. It can only be said
that to a poet of his ardent temperament the power which had cast its
spell over him was all but irresistible. Frederika herself, although she
seemed to lose all in losing her lover, did not permanently resent the
severance of the bond that connected them. She seems to have felt that
deep causes had led to their separation. All her life she had a vivid
remembrance of the beautiful romantic world in which they had for a
while wandered together; and when attempts were made by new wooers to
win her hand, her answer is said to have been, “The heart that Goethe
has loved cannot belong to another.”
His love for Frederika exercised as powerful an influence over him in
one direction as contact with Herder had exercised in another. In his
meeting with her, and in his parting from her, he had sounded some of
the profoundest depths of joy and suffering; and he had passed through a
conflict in which his strongest feelings had been arrayed against one
another. And in response to the touch of love his genius had sprung into
free activity. He had written various lyrics giving utterance to his
passion, and to this period also belongs “Heidenröslein,” in which he
presented in a new form an old popular song. These perfect lyrics,
slight as they are, are the earliest of his achievements in which we
find the really characteristic qualities of his poetry. They do not,
like his first efforts, bear the stamp of traditional rules, but are the
direct expression of his own inward life. For five centuries--from the
time when, at mediæval courts, Walther von der Vogelweide had sung his
splendid verses--no poetic note of such mingled power and sweetness had
been struck in Germany. In these early poems we feel the stirring of the
forces of a new spring-time. They are full of a passionate delight in
the beauty of the earth and the sky; in every line breathing of love
they have the accent of sincerity; and they produce the impression of
having flowed without effort from a mind which found the most natural
outlet for its feelings in stanzas of noble and flawless melody.