Goethe was in his thirty-ninth year when he returned to the little
capital from which he was never again to be so long absent. His visit to
Italy had done for him all, and more than all, he had hoped for. It had
stilled a great longing; it had enriched his mental life by bringing him
into contact with nature in some of her most alluring aspects and with
many of the loftiest creations of human genius; it had renewed his
consciousness of strength as a poet, and filled him with an ardent
desire to exercise it in the achievement of higher results than any to
which he had yet attained.
He knew well that if he allowed himself again to be absorbed by business
he would necessarily be turned aside from his true destiny. This he had,
in effect, communicated to the Duke in letters from Italy; and as the
Duke not only had a sincere love for Goethe, but felt that he himself
was now fitted to undertake, in reality as well as in name, the supreme
control of affairs, he was willing to assent to any arrangement his
friend might propose. It was therefore decided that Goethe should be
relieved of most of the duties he had discharged before going to Italy.
He retained, however, the position of a Minister of State, and continued
for some years to take an active part in the direction of the Ilmenau
mines, a work in which he was genuinely interested. To him was also
intrusted the authority which belonged to the Duchy of Weimar in the
government of the University of Jena.
Goethe had returned with the full intention of maintaining his
friendship with Frau von Stein. It was, however, impossible that their
old relations should be renewed. Her sympathy could not now be to him
what it had been, for during nearly two years he had accustomed himself
to live without the relief that had formerly come from confidential talk
with her about his inmost thoughts and cares. Moreover, while he had
come back with a world of new ideas in his mind, she had no interests
with which he had not long been familiar; and as she was now a delicate
woman of forty-four, it was improbable that she would be accessible to
fresh influences. With a woman’s instinct, Frau von Stein at once
detected the change in Goethe, of which he himself was only half
conscious; and she could not help showing that she resented it. He, on
the other hand, was repelled by her coldness. Thus misunderstandings at
once sprang up, and both knew that they could never be wholly removed.
A few weeks after his arrival at Weimar, Goethe was walking one day in
the Park when he was approached by a girl of about twenty-three, of a
humble position in life. Her name was Christiane Vulpius. She had
brought with her a petition from her brother, who, after studying at
Jena, had betaken himself to literature, and thought that Goethe might
be willing to help him. Goethe read the paper, but was far more
interested in the messenger than in the message. Christiane, although
not tall, had a good figure and a fresh pretty face, with an honest,
frank, lively expression in her fine blue eyes. Goethe was charmed with
her, and the result was that she became his wife. At this stage their
hands were not formally joined in a church, but from the beginning he
never thought of their union as other than a true marriage. Much idle
gossip has been printed to Christiane’s disadvantage--for the most part
an echo of the tittle-tattle of the Weimar Court, the ladies of which
could not bear to think of Goethe as the husband of a woman who did not
belong to their own class. In reality she was a good and most loyal
wife, and retained to the last the warm love of her husband, who was
never happier than in her presence. When he was from home he sent her
long letters, all of which she kept as her most sacred possessions. He
talked to her freely about his great botanical discovery, and did not
find that the subject was beyond her intelligence; and when he intrusted
her with important private business, she displayed, in attending to it,
decision, good sense, and good feeling. She ruled his household, too, as
he liked it to be ruled, firmly, yet with kindness and discretion. His
mother received Christiane cordially as her “dear daughter.”
For some time Goethe and Christiane lived in seclusion in his house in
the Park, but their union could not long be kept secret. When it became
known, Frau von Stein was furious. She was about to visit the Rhenish
baths, and before starting she addressed to him a letter so bitter in
its tone that he could not answer it for some weeks. For the time the
break between them was complete. Afterwards they became good friends
again, but never, of course, on the old intimate terms. Frau von Stein
had the sympathy of all the Court ladies, with, however, one notable
exception, the Duchess, who understood Goethe too well to speak of him
harshly or uncharitably.
No longer harassed by incessant business, and enjoying to the full his
life with Christiane, Goethe had resumed his literary work with
enthusiasm. Its first-fruits were his “Römische Elegien” (“Roman
Elegies”), in which he gave utterance to the delight he had experienced
at Rome. Side by side with the poet stands a beautiful girl, his love
for whom is intimately connected with all the other influences under
which his heart expands in the great city. In sketching this figure,
Goethe was no doubt thinking chiefly of Christiane, whom in imagination
he transported to the land where life had seemed to him so full of
glory. In these poems there is an occasional warmth of expression that
has sometimes given offence, but, judged simply as works of art, they
are as near perfection as anything Goethe ever wrote. The passion
expressed in them is deep and ardent, yet the forms and scenes with
which it is associated stand out as clearly as a landscape under the
bright Italian sky. The “Elegies” would have taken an enduring place in
literature if they had had nothing to commend them but the splendour of
their diction and melody.
While working at the “Elegies,” Goethe strove to complete his drama,
“Torquato Tasso,” a part of which had been written long before in prose.
In Italy he had hoped to be able, before returning to Weimar, to clothe
the conception of this play in fitting verse. The task, however, was too
hard to be accomplished quickly, and even at Weimar he did not bring it
to an end until the summer of 1789. “Tasso” was the last of the series
of plays either wholly or in part transformed in Italy.
We have seen that even before Goethe went to Italy his conception of the
true aim and method of dramatic art had begun to undergo a profound
change. In Italy this process of development was completed, partly by
the influence of classical literature, but mainly by that of ancient
sculpture. Here, following the track marked out by Winckelmann, he had
found that the supreme aim of ancient artists was ideal beauty, and that
they had sought to attain it by the harmonious combination of parts in a
whole, so that the figures created by them should convey in action an
impression of noble simplicity, dignity, and calm. This was the ideal he
kept steadily before himself in most of the work begun or completed in
Rome.
In “Egmont” this new conception could not find full expression, for the
outlines of the scheme had been drawn at a time when Goethe worked under
wholly different influences. Even in “Egmont,” however, in the form in
which he gave it to the world, his new method predominates. Goethe’s
Egmont, who differs in many particulars from the Egmont of history, is a
man of most genial temper. He is sincerely devoted to the cause of
freedom, and makes troops of friends by his frankness, his courage, his
inexhaustible generosity. But he lacks the power to read the signs of
hostile intention in others, and this defect, which necessarily springs
from some of his best qualities, exposes him to deadly peril, and leads
ultimately to his ruin. Interwoven with the history of his relations to
the public movements of his age is the story of his love for Clärchen.
Such a love at such a time would seem wholly unnatural if Egmont were a
prudent statesman, conscious of the actual circumstances in which he and
his country are placed; but he has no doubt as to the triumph of his
cause, for he trusts absolutely the King of Spain and his counsellors,
believing their objects to be as honourable as his own. There is no
incongruity, therefore, between Egmont’s patriotism and his love, and in
such a nature as his, were the conditions favourable, each feeling would
purify and ennoble the other. Clärchen is in every respect worthy of
him. She is one of the finest of the many fine feminine characters
conceived by Goethe. She is capable of heroic action as well as of the
tenderest love, and she obeys an irresistible impulse when, having heard
of Egmont’s imprisonment, she appeals with passionate fervour to the
people for his deliverance. The concluding scene, in which Freedom in
the form of Clärchen appears to Egmont in a dream as he lies in prison
awaiting execution, produces exactly the impression that Goethe meant it
to produce. It softens the effect of the tragic conflicts which have led
to Clärchen’s death, and are about to lead to her lover’s, and we are
reminded that there are in the world forces for good, the victory of
which may be delayed, but cannot in the end be prevented, by individual
defeat and sorrow.
Although less interesting than the two central figures, the other
characters in this great drama are most vividly presented. William of
Orange, the resolute patriot who never allows himself to be diverted
from his path by mistaking appearance for reality, contrasts strongly
with the heedless Egmont; and Alva, cold, cruel, and treacherous, is a
fitting representative of a crushing and inhuman tyranny. The crowds
which from time to time give voice to popular feeling play an essential
part in the evolution of the tragedy, and are brought before us with
extraordinary animation and truth to nature.
In composing the poetical drama, “Iphigenie,” Goethe did not depart very
widely from the substance of the original prose version. He gave to the
entire conception, however, new dignity and beauty. The central interest
attaches to the heroine, than whom there is not in all modern literature
a nobler type of womanhood. Hers is a spirit of spotless purity,
associated with a high serenity springing from the inward harmony of all
the elements of her character. She has infinite tenderness and humanity,
with an inflexible will, and a passion for truth and honour. Those who
come into contact with her are overcome by a mingled feeling of love and
reverence, and all that is best in their spiritual life is evoked by her
presence. Iphigenie is only nominally a Greek priestess; in reality, she
would have been impossible in a society in which women were supposed to
be subordinate to men. In her aims, sympathies, aspirations, she is
wholly modern, and it may be that some features of her character were
reproduced from the character of Frau von Stein, as it revealed itself
to Goethe in the happiest moments of their friendship. Orestes, Pylades,
Thoas, are not less dominated by essentially modern motives. It is a
striking proof of the power and subtlety of Goethe’s art that there is
no conflict between the modern substance and the antique form of this
splendid drama. He rigidly excludes every thought and feeling that might
conflict with his chosen method. There is no austerity of sentiment, but
all is measured and stately, and capable, therefore, of being brought
within the scope of a severely restricted scheme.
The development of the tale is not less admirable than the truth of the
characters. As in the ancient statues which Goethe so warmly admired,
each of the individual parts is in its proper place, and contributes
what is demanded of it, and no more, to the idea as a whole. The diction
and metre of the drama, always noble and harmonious, accord perfectly
with its predominant spirit, and they may be said to have revealed for
the first time the high capabilities of the German language as an
instrument of dramatic expression. We cannot wonder that “Iphigenie”
disappointed readers who expected to find in it volcanic explosions like
those of his early writings. It belongs to a different period of
Goethe’s development, and must be estimated by altogether different
standards.
Goethe found it hard to complete “Torquato Tasso,” and the explanation
probably is that the subject did not lend itself so readily as the
subject of “Iphigenie” to classic treatment. Here he had to present a
strange, abnormal type of character, with agitated feelings, the
expression of which continually tended to press beyond the limits within
which Goethe’s scheme required him to retain it. Tasso, as Goethe
presents the character, is a kind of Werther, of a highly excitable
temperament, and morbidly sensitive to praise and blame. He reminds us,
too, of Rousseau, and it is possible that in working out the conception
Goethe may have taken some hints from Rousseau’s “Confessions,” for, as
we have seen, he often thought, while in Italy, of “Rousseau and his
hypochondriacal misery.” When the play opens, Tasso is living as an
honoured guest of the Duke of Ferrara, at the Castle of Belriguardo. He
has just finished “La Gerusalemme Liberata,” and in the garden of the
castle presents the poem to the duke in the presence of the duke’s
sister, the Princess Leonore, and of her foster-sister, Leonore, the
Countess of Scandiano. The gift is received with many expressions of
delight, and, at a sign from the duke, the princess takes a wreath from
a bust of Virgil and crowns the poet with it. He is enchanted, and
cannot find words strong enough to utter his gratitude. The conversation
is interrupted by the arrival of the duke’s chief minister, Antonio, who
has returned from an important mission. He is held in great respect, and
is cordially received. After some talk about the work he has
accomplished, reference is made to Tasso’s wreath, and Antonio, who is
not given to vehement applause, addresses Tasso rather coldly, but takes
an opportunity of praising Ariosto. Something in Antonio’s character
jars on Tasso’s feeling, and he is bitterly jealous of the high place
occupied by the wise and successful statesman. In conversation with the
princess, for whom he cherishes a secret passion, he pours forth his
discontent. She strives to pacify him, and her efforts are seconded by
the duke and Leonore. Tasso, trying to master himself, seeks out
Antonio, and offers to become his friend. The offer being received in an
ungenial spirit, Tasso feels insulted, speaks to Antonio angrily, and
finally draws his sword, demanding that their quarrel shall at once be
fought out. At this point the duke comes; and Tasso, who has exposed
himself to severe penalties, is ordered, but not harshly, to confine
himself to his room. Antonio feels that he has not acted with sufficient
consideration, and is eager to do what he can to make amends. The duke,
too, and the princess, and Leonore, are all most anxious that Tasso
shall be reconciled to Antonio and to himself. Now, however, the young
poet is violently excited; he becomes bitterly suspicious, feels sure
that he is surrounded by enemies, and that every one is plotting against
him. All that is done to restore him to good humour he resents,
attributing it to a wish to injure him. In the princess alone he has
confidence, and her he shocks, when she is encouraging him to collect
himself, by suddenly throwing his arms around her and pressing her to
his breast. In the final scene, while the duke, the princess, and
Leonore drive away from the castle, Antonio, who now fully realizes that
the poet is a man of morbid temper who needs to be tenderly and
patiently dealt with, comes to him and addresses him kindly. Tasso
indulges in a furious outburst against all the world, by which he is
misunderstood, but at the last moment takes Antonio’s hand, and clings
to him as a shipwrecked sailor to a rock.
In none of Goethe’s plays does he display finer or more penetrating
observation of character. The Tasso of the drama is in some respects
very unlike the real Tasso, but that does not prevent him from being a
most striking representative of minds which, making self the centre of
their thoughts, are thereby led to have a wholly distorted conception of
life, and to poison what might be, and ought to be, perennial sources of
happiness. The prince, the princess, Leonore, and Antonio resemble one
another in being healthy natures, and in acting with an air of
distinction; but otherwise each is marked off from the rest by special
characteristics, indicated clearly, but with infinite delicacy. As usual
in his plays, it is to the feminine characters that Goethe attributes
the highest qualities. The princess is one of his greatest creations,
combining, as she does, deep feeling with exquisite tact and a noble
appreciation of the conditions of inward growth and peace.
The tale in itself is not one of absorbing interest, and the conclusion
is hardly satisfactory, since no difficulty is really solved by it. But
the scheme is developed with such perfect art that it exercises a strong
fascination, which increases from scene to scene. The theme, even when
Tasso becomes most vehement, is not once allowed to pass beyond control.
With a light but sure touch Goethe moulds every part, securing that
there shall not be even a minute detail without an organic relation to
the whole. The scene of the action is not forced on our attention, but
incidental allusions constantly remind us that all around the castle of
Belriguardo are lovely sunny landscapes. The grace and purity of the
style are unmatched in German dramatic literature, yet so easily do the
lines flow into one another that we are almost tempted to think of them
as utterances of nature herself; and in almost every scene there are
individual lines or groups of lines concentrating the essence of
Goethe’s thought about life. In no other work by Goethe are there so
many pregnant sayings fitted at once to guide and console those who are
accessible to his influence.
The edition of his works in which these dramas were printed includes
also “Faust: A Fragment.” It appeared in the seventh volume, which was
published in 1790. This “Fragment” did not contain all the scenes that
Goethe had written at Frankfort; it concluded with the scene in the
cathedral, where Gretchen is overcome with grief and remorse. On the
other hand, it took in a part of Faust’s second dialogue with
Mephistopheles (beginning with the line, “Und was der ganzen Menschheit
zugetheilt ist”), the short monologue in which Mephistopheles speaks of
the inevitable ruin of a mind which despises reason and science, the
“Hexenküche” (written in Rome), and “Wald und Höhle.” The dialogue
between Mephistopheles and the scholar was much altered, and the whole
of the scene in Auerbach’s cellar was presented in verse. The work,
therefore, without being vitally changed, was considerably developed,
and in the new passages as well as in those re-written there is ample
evidence of the advance Goethe had made in the mastery of poetic forms.
Moreover, Faust’s dialogue with Mephistopheles, and the monologue of
Mephistopheles, show that Goethe had now a deeper appreciation of all
that was involved in the conception of Faust turning from his high ideal
aims to seek for satisfaction in the pleasures of the senses.
Another, and very different, work was published in this edition--“Die
Metamorphose der Pflanzen” (“The Metamorphosis of Plants”). In this
famous essay Goethe expounds the theory that the foliar organs of
flowering plants are all to be regarded as various forms of the leaf. To
this discovery he had been led by prolonged and delicate observation.
The idea seems to have dawned upon him before he went to Italy, but it
was in Italy, where he had many opportunities of studying plants he had
not formerly known, that he became conscious of its full significance.
The doctrine has long been accepted by botanists, and it acquired fresh
importance when it came to be associated, as it is now associated, with
the general law of evolution. Goethe delighted in the conception, not
only for its own sake, but because it seemed to him a most striking
illustration of the principle that in organic nature all things are
created in accordance with enduring types. The doctrine of the
metamorphosis of plants had been set forth, thirty years before Goethe’s
treatise was written, by K. F. Wolff. Goethe afterwards learned this,
and was in no way disturbed by the fact that he had been anticipated.
That the theory had suggested itself to two minds working independently
gave him hearty pleasure as welcome evidence of its truth.
Early in 1790 Goethe was summoned to Venice to meet the Duchess Dowager,
who, having travelled for some time in Italy, was now about to return to
Weimar. Her coming was long delayed, and, being restless and impatient,
he occupied himself in writing a series of rather bitter epigrams. After
six weeks’ absence he was delighted to find himself again in Weimar, for
now his home was doubly dear to him, a son having been born on Christmas
Day of the previous year. The child was baptized by Herder, and received
the name Julius August Walther. Afterwards three children were born
dead, and a fourth died in infancy. On each of these occasions Goethe
suffered poignant grief, and wholly lost his self-control.
His second visit to Venice was made memorable by an important scientific
discovery. He was standing with his valet Seidel in the Jews’ cemetery,
when Seidel lifted a piece of a sheep’s skull, and handed it to Goethe,
pretending that it was the skull of a Jew. As Goethe looked at it, it
suddenly occurred to him that the bones of which the skull is composed
are not essentially different from vertebræ, but are, in fact, vertebræ
transformed. The idea corresponds exactly with his conception of the
foliar organs of flowering plants as transformed leaves. Goethe did not
mean that in the course of long ages vertebræ had been developed into
the bones of the skull, but simply that Nature, in creating these bones,
modifies vertebræ to suit special needs. Like his earlier discoveries,
however, this theory--which is only another application of his general
doctrine of types--becomes thoroughly intelligible only when the facts
to which it relates are explained by the law of evolution. It is the
supreme merit of Goethe’s contributions to biology that they all pointed
in the direction of evolution, and were among the influences that made
the recognition of it, sooner or later, inevitable.
About this time Goethe interested himself in the study of Newton’s
theory of colours, and, that he might understand it more fully, borrowed
some prisms. When the owner asked that they should be returned, he
thought he would like to try one of them again before sending them back.
The result was that he began to suspect that Newton’s doctrine was not
true, and in this suspicion he was confirmed by further research. This
subject had an extraordinary fascination for Goethe, and almost to the
end of his life he worked at it at intervals, firmly convinced, not only
that Newton was wrong, but that he himself had discovered the true
scientific significance of colours; and he attributed vast importance to
his own doctrine. In old age he even told Eckermann one day that he did
not at all pride himself on his poetry, but that his theory of colours
did seem to him something to be proud of. Unfortunately, Goethe here
dealt with problems for the solution of which he had not been adequately
prepared. The subject appeared to him less complicated than it really
is, and his conclusions have been unanimously rejected by men of
science. His writings about it, however, have a certain interest, not
merely because of their lucid style, but because he brings together much
curious information relating to the history of opinion on the question,
and also because it is hardly less instructive to understand the
intellectual influences by which a great man is misled than to
understand those by which he is guided to truth.
In 1791 the Duke established a Court Theatre in Weimar, and asked Goethe
to undertake the direction of it. Goethe consented, and for many years
this was one of the duties to which he devoted most attention. His aim
was to provide representations that should appeal to, and delight, a
really cultivated taste, and he was almost as anxious that the acting
should be maintained at a high level as that the dramas acted should be
good. He took immense pains to realize his ideal, and under his control
the Weimar Theatre ultimately became famous. All over Germany it was
recognized as the theatre in which most was done for the development of
a great school of dramatic art.
The Duke, anxious to find some fitting way of expressing to Goethe his
gratitude for the services he had rendered, presented him, in 1792, with
the house in which he spent the rest of his life. Goethe changed it to
suit his own ideas, and made it the handsomest and pleasantest private
dwelling in Weimar. In altering it he received much help from his friend
Meyer, the Swiss artist whose acquaintance he had made in Rome. Meyer
had come to Weimar at Goethe’s urgent request, and for several years
lived as a guest in his house. He painted for Goethe a portrait of
Christiane with her little boy in her arms in the position of the
“Madonna della sedia.” This portrait was always kept under a curtain,
and Goethe counted it among the most precious of his treasures.
We must think of Goethe at this time as often directing his attention
gravely and anxiously to the progress of events in France, where the
movement of thought by which he had been so profoundly influenced in
youth had at last led to its logical issues in action. Some of the best
of Goethe’s contemporaries in Germany hailed the French Revolution as
the beginning of a new and glorious era for humanity. Their rejoicings
were not shared by Goethe. He knew well, indeed, the sufferings of the
oppressed population, not only of France, but of other countries, his
own included; and he was eager that their condition should be improved
by just and wise government. But he found it impossible to believe that
the end could be attained by violence, and he had no doubt that the
tendency of the Revolution would be to check for many a day every great
and noble movement in art, literature, and science. He fully recognized,
however, that the events he deplored were in the last resort due, not to
self-seeking agitators, but to the abuses of a thoroughly corrupt
society. Long afterwards he said to Eckermann that if he detested
revolutionists, he detested not less strongly the people who made
revolutions inevitable; and that this was his feeling from the beginning
is distinctly indicated by several of his writings. “Gross-Cophta,” a
prose play written in 1791, deals with the story of the diamond
necklace, with which the impostor Cagliostro was intimately connected.
The play is not artistically important, but it shows how dark a view
Goethe took of some elements of the social life of France in the period
immediately preceding the Revolution. In “Die Aufgeregten,” an
unfinished prose play belonging to the same time, he represents the
peasantry of a French estate as rising in revolt against the countess
to whom they owe allegiance. The countess, being a woman of enlightened
opinions, does not dispute that they have solid grievances, and readily
meets them half way. The moral evidently is that if the French nobles as
a class had possessed her elevation of character, the peril of violent
change might without difficulty have been averted.
In 1792 began the long series of revolutionary wars. The Duke of Weimar
served as a general in the Prussian army, and at his request Goethe
accompanied him during the campaign in Champagne. Here Goethe realized
for the first time the terrible nature of the forces which the
Revolution had let loose on the world. During the cannonade of Valmy,
anxious to know what the “cannon-fever” was really like, he rode to a
spot exposed to the enemy’s fire. On the evening of this memorable day,
when the French gained their first success, Goethe wrote in his tent:
“From this place, and to-day, begins a new epoch in the history of the
world, and you may say that you were there.”
On his return, after an absence of four months, he wrote in hexameters,
as a satire on the political follies of the day, his admirable version
of the old Low Dutch tale, “Reineke Fuchs.” Next year, 1793, he was
again with the Duke, this time before Mainz, which the Prussians were
trying to recapture from the French. When the town was given up, Goethe
felt that he had had enough, and more than enough, of war, and went back
with relief to his home and his studies at Weimar.