The correspondence of Goethe with his friends, especially his
voluminous letters to his friend Zelter, will always be
resorted to by readers who wish for intimate knowledge of the
innermost processes of the great poet's mind. Zelter was
himself an extraordinary man. By trade he was a stonemason,
but he became a skilled musical amateur, and a most versatile
and entertaining critic. To him fell the remarkable
distinction of becoming the tutor of that musical genius,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, while he also acquired the glory
of being "the restorer of Bach to the Germans." Like
Eckermann, the other beloved friend of Goethe, he possessed
the power of eliciting the great poet-philosopher's dicta on
all imaginable topics. Zelter wrote to Goethe on anything and
everything, trivial and otherwise, but his letters never
failed to educe strains of the most illuminating comment. The
"Letters to Zelter" were published in Berlin in 1833, and the
following epitome is prepared from the German text.
_I.--Art Greater than the Beauty of Art_
Lauchstadt, _September_ 1, 1805. As we are convinced that he who studies
the intellectual world, and perceives the beauty of the true intellect,
can also realise the Father of them, who is supreme above all sense, let
us therefore seek as best we may to achieve insight into the beauty of
the mind and of the world, and to express it for ourselves.
Suppose, then, two blocks of stone, side by side, one rough and
unshaped, the other artistically shaped into a statue. To you the stone
worked into a beautiful figure appears lovely not because it is stone,
but because of the form which art has given it. But the material had not
such a form, for this was in the mind of the artist before it reached
the stone. Of course, art is greater than that which it produces. Art is
greater than the beauty of art. The motive power must be greater than
the result. For as the form gains extension by advancing into the
material, yet by that very process it becomes weaker than that which
remains whole. For that which endures removal from itself steps aside
from itself--strength from strength, warmth from warmth, force from
force, so also beauty from beauty.
Should anyone disparage the arts because they imitate nature, let him
note that nature also imitates much besides; and, further, that the arts
do not precisely imitate what we see but go back to that rational
element of which nature consists, and according to which she acts.
_Carlsbad, June 22_, 1808. It is an extraordinary fact that man in
himself, so far as he avails himself of his sound mind, is the greatest
and most precise physical apparatus that can be. And it is in fact the
greatest evil of the newer physics that experiments are, as it were,
separated from man himself, so that nature is recognised only in what is
ascertained by artificial instruments. It is exactly so with
calculation. Much is true which cannot be computed, just as much can
never be experimentally demonstrated.
Man, however, stands so high that that which otherwise admits of no
representation is represented in him. What, then, is a string and all
its mechanical division compared with the ear of the musician? Indeed,
it may be said what are the elementary phenomena of nature compared with
man, who must first master and modify them all in order to assimilate
them to himself?
_II.--Music and Musicians_
_Weimar, November_ 16, 1816. I send you a few words with reference to
your proposal to write a cantata for the Reformation Jubilee. It might
best be contrived after the method of Handel's "Messiah," into which you
have so deeply penetrated.
As the main idea of Lutheranism rests on a very excellent foundation, it
affords a fine opportunity both for poetical and also for musical
treatment. Now, this basis rests on the decided contrast between the law
and the Gospel, and secondly on the accommodation of these two extremes.
And now, if in order to attain a higher standpoint we substitute for
those two words the terms "necessity" and "freedom," with their
synonyms, their remoteness and proximity, you see clearly that
everything interesting to mankind is contained in this circle.
And thus Luther perceives in the Old and New Testaments the symbol of
the great and ever-recurring world-order. On the one hand, the law,
striving after love; on the other, love, striving back towards the law,
and fulfilling it, though not of its own power and strength, but through
faith; and that, too, by exclusive faith in the all-powerful Messiah
proclaimed to all.
Thus, briefly, are we convinced that Lutheranism can never be united
with the Papacy, but that it does not contradict pure reason, so soon as
reason decides to regard the Bible as the mirror of the world; which
certainly should not be difficult. To express these ideas in a poem
adapted to music, I should begin with the thunder on Mount Sinai, with
the _Thou shalt_! and conclude with the resurrection of Christ, and the
_Thou wilt_!
This may be the place to add a few words about Catholicism. Soon after
its origin and promulgation, the Christian religion, through rational
and irrational heresies, lost its original purity. But as it was called
on to check barbarous nations, harsh methods were needed for the
service, not doctrine. The one Mediator between God and man was not
enough, as we all know. Thus arose a species of pagan Judaism, sustained
even to this day. This had to be revolutionised entirely in the minds of
men, therefore Lutheranism depends solely on the Bible. Luther's
behaviour is no secret, and now that we are going to commemorate him, we
cannot do so in the right sense unless we acknowledge his merit, and
represent what he accomplished for his own age and for posterity. This
celebration should be so arranged that every fair-minded Catholic should
be able to participate in it. The Weimar friends of art have already
prepared their designs for the monument. We make no secret of the
matter, and at all events hope to contribute our share.
_Jena, February_ 16, 1818. You know Jena too little for it to mean
anything to you when I say that on the right bank of the Saale, near the
Camsdorf bridge, above the ice-laden water rushing through the arches, I
have occupied a tower which has attracted me and my friends for years.
Here I pass the happiest hours of the day, looking out on the river,
bridge, gravel walks, meadows, gardens, and hills, famous in war, rising
beyond. At sunset I return to town.
In observing atmospheric changes I endeavour to interweave cloud-forms
and sky-tints with words and images. But as all this, except for the
noise of wind and water, runs off without a sound, I really need some
inner harmony to keep my ear in tune; and this is only possible by my
confidence in you and in what you do and value. Therefore, I send you
only a few fervent prayers as branches from my paradise. If you can but
distil them in your hot element, then the beverage can be swallowed
comfortably, and the heathen will be made whole. Apocalypse, last
chapter, and the second verse.
_Vienna, July_ 27. Pyrotechnical displays seem to me the only pleasure
in which the Austrians are willing to dispense with their music, which
here persecutes us in every direction. In Carlsbad a musician declared
to me that music as a profession was a sour crust. I replied that the
musicians were better off than the visitors. "How so?" asked he. Said I,
"Surely they can eat without music."
The good man went away ashamed, and I felt sorry for him, though my
remark was quite in place, for it is really cruel in this manner to
torture patients and convalescents. I can, indeed, endure much, but
when, after coming from the opera, I sit down to supper, and am annoyed
instantly by the strains of a harp or a singer, jarring with what I have
been hearing, it is too much; and, wretch that I am, I am forgetting
that this scribble is also too much. So farewell. God bless you!
_Vienna, July_ 29, 1819. Beethoven, whom I should have liked to see once
more in this life, lives somewhere in this country, but nobody can tell
me where. I wanted to write to him, but I am told he is almost
unapproachable, as he is almost without hearing. Perhaps it is better
that we should remain as we are, for it might make me cross to find him
cross.
Much is thought of music here, and this in contrast to Italy, which
reckons itself the "only saving Church." But the people here are really
deeply cultured in music. It is true that they are pleased with
everything, but only the best music survives. They listen gladly to a
mediocre opera which is well cast; but a first-class work, even if not
given in the best style, remains permanently with them.
Beethoven is extolled to the heavens, because he toils strenuously and
is still alive. But it is Haydn who presents to them their national
humour, like a pure fountain unmingled with any other stream, and it is
he who lives among them, because he belongs to them. They seem each day
to forget him, and each day he rises to life again among them.
_III.--"Poetry and Truth"_
_Weimar, March_ 29, 1827. The completion of a work of art in itself is
the eternal, indispensable requisite. Aristotle, who had perfection
before him, must have thought of the effect. What a pity! Were I yet, in
these peaceful times, possessed of my youthful energies, I would
surrender myself entirely to the study of Greek, in spite of all the
difficulties of which I am conscious. Nature and Aristotle would be my
aim. We can form no idea of all that this man perceived, saw, noticed,
observed; but certainly in his explanations he was over-hasty.
But is it not just the same with us to-day? Experience does not fail us,
but we lack serenity of mind, whereby alone experience becomes clear,
true, lasting, and useful. Look at the theory of light and colour as
interpreted before my very eyes by Professor Fries of Jena. It is a
series of superficial conclusions, such as expositors and theorists have
been guilty of for more than a century. I care to say nothing more in
public about this; but write it I will. Some truthful mind will one day
grasp it.
_Weimar, April_ 18, 1827. Madame Catalini has scented out a few of our
extra groschen, and I begrudge her them. Too much is too much! She makes
no preparation for leaving us, for she has still to ring the changes on
a couple of old-new transmogrified airs, which she might just as well
grind out gratis. After all, what are two thousand of our thalers, when
we get "God save the King" into the bargain?
It is truly a pity. What a voice! A golden dish with common mushrooms in
it! And we--one almost swears at oneself--to admire what is execrable!
It is incredible! An unreasoning beast would mourn at it. It is an
actually impossible state of things. An Italian turkey-hen comes to
Germany, where are academies and high schools, and old students and
young professors sit listening while she sings in English the airs of
the German Handel. What a disgrace if that is to be reckoned an honour!
In the heart of Germany, too!
_Weimar, December_ 25, 1829. Lately by accident I fell in with "The
Vicar of Wakefield" and felt constrained to read it again from beginning
to end, impelled not a little by the lively consciousness of all that I
have owed to the author for the last seventy years. It would not be
possible to estimate the influence of Goldsmith and Sterne, exercised on
me just at the chief point of my development. This high, benevolent
irony, this gentleness to all opposition, this equanimity under every
change, and whatever else all the kindred virtues may be called--such
things were a most admirable training for me, and surely these are the
sentiments which, in the end, lead us back from all the mistaken paths
of life. By the way, it is strange that Yorick should incline rather to
that which has no form, while Goldsmith is all form, as I myself aspired
to be when the worthy Germans had convinced themselves that the
peculiarity of true humour is to have no form.
_Weimar, February_ 15, 1830. As to the title, "Poetry and Truth," of my
autobiography, it is certainly somewhat paradoxical. I adopted it
because the public always cherishes doubt as to the truth of such
biographical attempts. My sincere effort was to express the genuine
truth which had prevailed throughout my life. Does not the most ordinary
chronicle necessarily embody something of the spirit of the time in
which it was written? Will not the fourteenth century hand down the
tradition of a comet more ominously than the nineteenth? Nay, in the
same town you will hear one version of an incident in the morning, and
another in the evening.
All that belongs to the narrator and the narrative I included under the
word _Dichtung_ (poetry), so that I could for my own purpose avail
myself of the truth of which I was conscious. In every history, even if
it be diplomatically written, we always see the nation, the party of the
writer, peering through. How different is the accent in which the French
describe English history from that of the English themselves!
Remember that with every breath we draw, an ethereal stream of Lethe
runs through our whole being, so that we have but a partial recollection
of our joys, and scarcely any of our sorrows. I have always known how to
value, and use, this gift of God.
_IV.--The Birth of "Iphigenia"_
_Weimar, March_ 31, 1831. I have received a delightful letter from
Mendelssohn, dated Rome, March 5, which gives the most transparent
picture of that rare young man. About him we need cherish no further
care. The fine swimming-jacket of his genius will carry him safely
through the waves and surf of the dreaded barbarism.
Now, you well remember that I have always passionately adopted the cause
of the minor third, and was angry that you theoretical cheap-jacks would
not allow it to be a _donum naturæ_. Certainly a wire or piece of
cat-gut is not so precious that nature should exclusively confide to it
her harmonies. Man is worth more, and nature has given him the minor
third, to enable him to express with cordial delight to himself that
which he cannot name, and that for which he longs.
_Weimar, November_ 23, 1831. To begin with, let me tell you that I have
retreated into my cloister cell, where the sun, which is just now
rising, shines horizontally into my room, and does not leave me till he
sets, so that he is often uncomfortably importunate--so much so that for
a time I really have to shut him out.
Further, I have to mention that a new edition of the "Iphigenia in
Aulis" of Euripides has once more turned my attention to that
incomparable Greek poet. Of course, his great and unique talent excited
my admiration as of old, but what has now mainly attracted me is the
element, as boundless as it is potent, in which he moves.
Among the Greek localities and their mass of primeval, mythological
legends, he sails and swims, like a cannon-ball on a quick-silver sea,
and cannot sink, even if he wished. Everything is ready to his
hand--subject matter, contents, circumstances, relations. He has only to
set to work in order to bring forward his subjects and characters in the
simplest way, or to render the most complicated limitations even more
complex, and then finally and symmetrically, to our complete
satisfaction, either to unravel or cut the knot.
I shall not quit him all this winter. We have translations enough which
will warrant our presumption in looking into the original. When the sun
shines into my warm room, and I am aided by the stores of knowledge
acquired in days long gone by, I shall, at any rate, fare better than I
should, at this moment, among the newly discovered ruins of Messene and
Megalopolis.
* * * * *