By GOETHE and ECKERMANN.
_March 12, 1828._—After I had quitted Goethe yesterday evening, the
important conversation I had carried on with him remained constantly
in my mind. The discourse had also been upon the sea and sea air; and
Goethe had expressed the opinion that he considered all islanders and
inhabitants of the sea-shore in temperate climates far more productive,
and possessed of more active force, than the people in the interior of
large continents.
Whether or not it was that I had fallen asleep with these thoughts, and
with a certain longing for the inspiring powers of the sea; suffice
it to say, I had in the night the following pleasant, and to me very
remarkable dream:
I saw myself in an unknown region, amongst strange men, thoroughly
cheerful and happy. The most beautiful summer day surrounded me in a
charming scene, such as might be witnessed somewhere on the shores
of the Mediterranean, in the south of Spain or France, or in the
neighborhood of Genoa. We had been drinking at noon round a merry
table, and I went with some others, rather young people, to make
another party for the afternoon.
We had loitered along through bushy and pleasant low lands, when we
suddenly found ourselves in the sea, upon the smallest of islands, on
a jutting rock, where there was scarcely room for five or six men,
and where one could not stir for fear of slipping into the water.
Behind us, whence we had come, there was nothing to be seen but sea;
but before us lay the shore at about a quarter of an hour’s distance,
spread out most invitingly. The shore was in some places flat, in
others rocky and somewhat elevated; and one might observe between
green leaves and white tents, a crowd of joyous men, in light-colored
clothes, recreating themselves with music, which sounded from the
tents. “There is nothing else to be done,” said one of us to the other,
“we must undress and swim over.” “It is all very well to say so,”
said I, “you are young, handsome fellows, and good swimmers; but I
swim badly, and I do not possess a shape fine enough to appear, with
pleasure and comfort, before the strange people on shore.” “You are
a fool,” said one of the handsomest, “undress yourself, give me your
form, and you shall have mine.” At these words I undressed myself
quickly, and was soon in the water, and immediately found myself in
the body of the other as a powerful swimmer. I soon reached the
shore, and, naked, and dripping, stepped with the most easy confidence
amongst the men. I was happy in the sensation of these fine limbs; my
deportment was unconstrained, and I at once became intimate with the
strangers, at a table before an arbor, where there was a great deal of
mirth. My comrades had now reached land one by one, and had joined us,
and the only one missing was the youth with my form, in whose limbs I
found myself so comfortable. At last he also approached the shore, and
I was asked if I was not glad to see my former self? At these words I
experienced a certain discomfort, partly because I did not expect any
great joy from myself, and partly because I feared my young friend
would ask for his own body back again. However, I turned to the water,
and saw my second self swimming close up to me, and laughing at me with
his head turned a little on one side. “There is no swimming with those
limbs of yours,” exclaimed he, “I have had a fine struggle against
waves and breakers, and it is not to be wondered at that I have come
so late, and am last of all.” I at once recognized the countenance; it
was my own, but grown young, and rather fuller and broader, with the
freshest complexion. He now came to land, and whilst he raised himself
and first stepped along the sand, I had a view of his back and legs,
and was delighted with the perfection of the form. He came up the rocky
shore to us, and as he came up to me he had completely my new stature.
“How is it,” thought I to myself, “that your little body has grown so
handsome. Have the primeval powers of the sea operated so wonderfully
upon it, or is it because the youthful spirit of my friend has
penetrated the limbs?” Whilst we enjoyed ourselves together for some
time, I silently wondered that my friend did not show any inclination
to resume his own body. “Truly,” thought I, “he looks bravely, and it
may be a matter of indifference to him in which body he is placed,
but it is not the same thing to me; for I am not sure whether in that
body I may not shrink and become as diminutive as before.” In order to
satisfy myself on this point, I took my friend aside, and asked him
how he felt in my limbs? “Perfectly well,” said he; “I have the same
sensation of my own natural power as before; I do not know what you
have to complain of in your limbs. They are quite right with me; and
you see one only has to make the best of oneself. Remain in my body as
long as you please; for I am perfectly contented to remain in yours
through all futurity.” I was much pleased by this explanation, and as
in all my sensations, thoughts, and recollections, I felt quite as
usual, my dream gave me the impression of a perfect independence of the
soul, and the possibility of a future existence in another body.
“That is a very pretty dream,” said Goethe, when, after dinner to-day,
I imparted to him the principal features. “We see,” continued he, “that
the muses visit you even in sleep, and, indeed, with particular favor;
for you must confess that it would be difficult for you to invent
anything so peculiar and pretty in your waking moments.”
“I can scarcely conceive how it happened to me,” returned I; “for I had
felt so dejected all day, that the contemplation of so fresh a life was
far from my mind.”
“Human nature possesses wonderful powers,” returned Goethe, “and has
something good in readiness for us when we least hope for it. There
have been times in my life when I have fallen asleep in tears; but in
my dreams the most charming forms have come to console and to cheer me,
and I have risen the next morning fresh and joyful.
“There is something more or less wrong among us old Europeans; our
relations are far too artificial and complicated, our nutriment
and mode of life are without their proper nature, and our social
intercourse is without proper love and good will. Every one is polished
and courteous; but no one has the courage to be hearty and true, so
that an honest man, with natural views and feelings, stands in a very
bad position. Often one can not help wishing that one had been born
upon one of the South Sea Islands, a so-called savage, so as to have
thoroughly enjoyed human existence in all its purity, without any
adulteration.
“If in a depressed mood one reflects deeply upon the wretchedness of
our age, it often occurs to one that the world is gradually approaching
the last day. And the evil accumulates from generation to generation!
For it is not enough that we have to suffer for the sins of our
fathers, but we hand down to posterity these inherited vices increased
by our own.”
“Similar thoughts often occur to me,” answered I; “but if, at such
a time, I see a regiment of German dragoons ride by me, and observe
the beauty and power of these young people, I again derive some
consolation, and say to myself, that the durability of mankind is after
all not in such a desperate plight.”
“Our country people,” returned Goethe, “have certainly kept up their
strength, and will, I hope, long be able not only to furnish us with
good horsemen, but also to secure us from total decay and destruction.
The rural population may be regarded as a magazine, from which the
forces of declining mankind are always recruited and refreshed. But
just go into our great towns, and you will feel quite differently. Just
take a turn by the side of a second _diable boiteux_, or a physician
with a large practice, and he will whisper to you tales which will
horrify you at the misery, and astonish you at the vice with which
human nature is visited, and from which society suffers.
“But let us banish these hypochondriacal thoughts. How are you going
on? What are you doing? What else have you seen to-day? Tell me, and
inspire me with good thoughts.”
“I have been reading Sterne,” returned I, “where Yorick is sauntering
about the streets of Paris, and makes the remark that every tenth man
is a dwarf. I thought of that when you mentioned the vices of great
towns. I also remember to have seen, in Napoleon’s time, among the
French infantry, one battalion which consisted entirely of Parisians,
who were all such puny, diminutive people, that one could not
comprehend what could be done with them in battle.”
“The Scotch Highlanders, under the Duke of Wellington,” rejoined
Goethe, “were doubtless heroes of another description.”
“I saw them in Brussels a year before the battle of Waterloo,” returned
I. “They were, indeed, fine men; all strong, fresh, and active, as if
just from the hand of their Maker. They all carried their heads so
freely and gallantly, and stepped so lightly along with their strong,
bare legs, that it seemed as if there were no original sin, and no
ancestral failing, as far as they were concerned.”
“There is something peculiar in this,” said Goethe. “Whether it lies in
the race, in the soil, in the free political constitution, or in the
healthy tone of education,—certainly, the English in general appear
to have certain advantages over many others. Here in Weimar, we see
only a few of them, and, probably, by no means the best; but what
fine, handsome people they are. And however young they come here, they
feel themselves by no means strange or embarrassed in this foreign
atmosphere; on the contrary, their deportment in society is as full
of confidence, and as easy as if they were lords everywhere, and the
whole world belonged to them. This it is which pleases our women, and
by which they make such havoc in the hearts of our young ladies. As
a German father of a family, who is concerned for the tranquility of
his household, I often feel a slight shudder, when my daughter-in-law
announces to me the expected arrival of some fresh, young islander.
I already see in my mind’s eye the tears which will one day flow when
he takes his departure. They are dangerous young people; but this very
quality of being dangerous is their virtue.”
“Still, I would not assert,” answered I, “that the young Englishmen
in Weimar are more clever, more intelligent, better informed, or more
excellent at heart than other people.”
“The secret does not lie in these things, my good friend,” returned
Goethe. “Neither does it lie in birth and riches; it lies in the
courage which they have to be that for which nature has made them.
There is nothing vitiated or spoilt about them, there is nothing
half-way or crooked; but such as they are, they are thoroughly complete
men. That they are also sometimes complete fools, I allow with all my
heart; but that is still something, and has still always some weight in
the scale of nature.
“The happiness of personal freedom, the consciousness of an English
name, and of the importance attached to it by other nations, is an
advantage even to the children; for in their own family, as well as in
scholastic establishments, they are treated with far more respect, and
enjoy a far freer development, than is the case with us Germans.
“In our own dear Weimar, I need only to look out of the window to
discover how matters stand with us. Lately, when the snow was lying
upon the ground, and my neighbor’s children were trying their little
sledges in the street, the police was immediately at hand, and I saw
the poor little things fly as quickly as they could. Now, when the
spring sun tempts them from the houses, and they would like to play
with their companions before the door, I see them always constrained,
as if they were not safe, and feared the approach of some despot of the
police. Not a boy may crack a whip, or sing or shout; the police is
immediately at hand to forbid it. This has the effect with us all of
taming youth prematurely, and of driving out all originality and all
wildness, so that in the end nothing remains but the Philistine.
“You know that scarcely a day passes in which I am not visited by some
traveling foreigner. But if I were to say that I took great pleasure in
the personal appearance, especially of young, learned Germans from a
certain northeastern quarter, I should tell a falsehood.
“Short-sighted, pale, narrow-chested, young without youth; that is a
picture of most of them as they appear to me. And if I enter into a
conversation with any of them, I immediately observe that the things
in which one of us takes pleasure seem to them vain and trivial, that
they are entirely absorbed in the Idea, and that only the highest
problems of speculation are fitted to interest them. Of sound senses or
delight in the sensual, there is no trace; all youthful feeling and all
youthful pleasure are driven out of them, and that irrecoverably; for
if a man is not young in his twentieth year, how can he be so in his
fortieth?”
Goethe sighed and was silent.
I thought of the happy time in the last century, in which Goethe’s
youth fell; the summer air of Sesenheim passed before my soul, and I
reminded him of the verses—
In the afternoon we sat,
Young people, in the cool.
“Ah,” sighed Goethe, “those were, indeed, happy times. But we will
drive them from our minds, that the dark foggy days of the present may
not become quite insupportable.”
“A second Redeemer,” said I, “would be required to remove from us the
seriousness, the discomfort, and the monstrous oppressiveness of the
present state of things.”
“If he came,” answered Goethe, “he would be crucified a second time.
Still, we by no means need anything so great. If we could only alter
the Germans after the model of the English, if we could only have less
philosophy and more power of action, less theory and more practice,
we might obtain a good share of redemption, without waiting for the
personal majesty of a second Christ. Much may be done from below by the
people by means of schools and domestic education; much from above by
the rulers and those in immediate connection with them.
“Thus, for instance, I can not approve the requisition, in the studies
of future statesmen, of so much theoretically-learned knowledge, by
which young people are ruined before their time, both in mind and
body. When they enter into practical service, they possess, indeed, an
immense stock of philosophical and learned matters; but in the narrow
circle of their calling, this can not be practically applied, and must
therefore be forgotten as useless. On the other hand, what they most
needed they have lost; they are deficient in the necessary mental
and bodily energy, which is quite indispensable when one would enter
properly into practical life.
“And then, are not love and benevolence also needed in the life of
a statesman—in the management of men? And how can any one feel and
exercise benevolence toward another, when he is ill at ease with
himself?
“But all these people are in a dreadfully bad case. The third part of
the learned men and statesmen, shackled to the desk, are ruined in
body, and consigned to the demon of hypochondria. Here there should be
action from above that future generations may at least be preserved
from a like destruction.
“In the meantime,” continued Goethe, smiling, “let us remain in a state
of hopeful expectation as to the condition of us Germans a century
hence, and whether we shall then have advanced so far as to be no
longer _savants_ and philosophers, but men.”
* * * * *
Now, it has occurred to me, when I recollect, that we love our
children, and call them our second selves, merely because we have
begotten them, that there is another kind of progeny springing from us,
not less worthy of our esteem; for what we engender by the mind, the
offspring of our understanding, diligence, and genius, emanates from
nobler parts of us than what springs from the body, and is much more
our own. We are both father and mother in this act of generation. They
cost us more and bring us more honor if they have any good in them. For
the value of our other children depends much more on themselves than
on us; the share we have in them is very little, but of these all the
beauty, grace, and excellence is ours. For in this way they are a more
complete representation and copy of ourselves than the others. Plato
adds that these are immortal children which truly immortalize and deify
their fathers, as Lycurgus, Solon, and Mino.—_Montaigne._
So Spencer, “F. Q.,” v. 1:
“The noble heart that harbors virtuous thought,
And is with child of glorious, great intent,
Can never rest until it forth have brought
Th’ eternal brood of glory excellent.”
* * * * *
In my opinion the want of occupation is no less the plague of society
than of solitude. Nothing is so apt to narrow the mind; nothing
produces more trifling, silly stories, mischief-making, lies, than
being eternally shut up in a room with one another, reduced as the only
alternative to be constantly twaddling. When everybody is occupied,
we only speak when we have something to say; but when we are doing
nothing, we are compelled to be always talking, and of all torments,
that is the most annoying and the most dangerous.—_Rousseau_.