Here Goethe and Schiller once promenaded in a company that has become
historic. And cannot Weimar lay claim to a Tannhaeuser performance as
early as 1849, the Lohengrin production in 1850, and the Flying Dutchman
in 1853? What a collection of musical manuscripts, trophies, jewels,
pictures, orders, letters--I saw one from Charles Baudelaire to
Liszt--and testimonials from all over the globe, which accumulated
during the career of this extraordinary man!
The Steinway grand pianoforte, once so dearly prized by the master, has
been taken away to make room for the many cases containing precious
gifts from sovereigns, the scores of the Christus, Faust Symphony,
Orpheus, Hungaria, Berg Symphony, Totentanz, and Festklaenge. But the old
instrument upon which he played years ago still stands in one of the
rooms. Marble casts of Liszt's, Beethoven's, and Chopin's hands are on
view; also Liszt's hand firmly clasping the slender fingers of the
Princess Sayn-Wittgenstein. Like Chopin, Liszt attracted princesses as
sugar buzzing flies.
* * * * *
There is a new Weimar--not so wonderful as the two old Weimars--the
Weimar of Anna Amalia and Karl August, of Goethe, Wieland, Herder, and
Schiller, Johanna Schopenhauer and her sullen son Arthur, the
pessimistic philosopher--and not the old Weimar of Franz Liszt and
his brilliant cohort of disciples; nevertheless, a new Weimar, its
intellectual rallying-point the home of Elisabeth Foerster-Nietzsche,
the tiny and lovable sister of the great dead poet-philosopher,
Friedrich Nietzsche.
To drift into this delightful Thuringian town; to stop at some curious
old inn with an eighteenth century name like the Hotel Zum Elephant; to
walk slowly under the trees of the ducal park, catching on one side a
glimpse of Goethe's garden house, on the other Liszt's summer home,
where gathered the most renowned musicians of the globe--these and
many other sights and reminiscences will interest the passionate
pilgrim--interest and thrill. If he be bent upon exploring the past
glories of the Goethe regime there are bountiful opportunities; the
Goethe residence, the superb Goethe and Schiller archives, the ducal
library, the garden house, the Belvidere--here we may retrace all the
steps of that noble, calm Greek existence from robust young manhood to
the very chamber wherein the octogenarian uttered his last cry of "More
light!" a cry that not only symbolised his entire career, but has served
since as a watchword for poetry, science, and philosophy.
If you are musical, is there not the venerable opera-house wherein more
than a half century ago Lohengrin, thanks to the incredible friendship
and labour of Franz Liszt, was first given a hearing? And this same
opera-house--now no more--is a theatre that fairly exhales memories of
historic performances and unique dramatic artists. Once Goethe resigned
because against his earnest protest a performing dog was allowed to
appear upon the classic boards which first saw the masterpieces of
Goethe and Schiller.
But the new Weimar! During the last decade whether the spot has a
renewed fascination for the artistic Germans or because of its increased
commercial activities, Weimar has worn another and a brighter face. The
young Grand Duke Ernst, while never displaying a marked preference for
intellectual pursuits, is a liberal ruler, as befits his blood.
Great impetus has been given to manufacturing interests, and the city is
near enough to Berlin to benefit by both its distance and proximity.
Naturally, the older and conservative inhabitants are horrified by the
swift invasion of unsightly chimneys, of country disappearing before the
steady encroachment of railroads, mills, foundries, and other
unpicturesque but very useful buildings. And the country about Weimar is
famed for its picturesque quality--Jena, Tiefurt, Upper Weimar, Erfurt,
museums, castles, monuments, belvideres, wayside inns, wonderful roads
overhung by great aged trees. But other days, other ways.
Weimar has awakened and is no longer proud to figure merely as a museum
of antiquities. With this material growth there has arisen a fresh
movement in the stagnant waters of poetic and artistic memories--new
ideas, new faces, new paths, new names. It is a useless, though not
altogether an unpleasant theme, to speculate upon the different Weimar
we would behold if Richard Wagner's original plan had been put into
execution as to the location of his theatre. Most certainly Bayreuth
would be a much duller town than it is to-day--and that is saying much.
But emburgessed prejudices were too much for Wagner, and a stuffy
Bavarian village won his preference, thereby becoming historical.
However, Weimar is not abashed or cast down. A cluster of history-making
names are hers, and who knows, fifty years hence she may be proud to
recall the days when one Richard Strauss was her local Kapellmeister and
that within her municipal precincts died a great poetic soul, the
optimistic philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche.
Now, Weimar is the residence and the resort of a brilliant group of
poets, dramatists, novelists, musicians, painters, sculptors, and
actors. Professor Hans Olde, who presides over the imposing art
galleries and art school, has gathered about him an enthusiastic host of
young painters and art students.
There have been recently two notable exhibitions, respectively devoted
to the works of the sculptor-painter, Max Klinger, and the French
sculptor, Auguste Rodin. Nor is the new artistic leaven confined to the
plastic arts. Ernst von Wildenbruch, a world-known novelist and
dramatist (since dead); Baron Detlev von Liliencron, one of Germany's
most gifted lyric poets; Richard Dehmel, a poet of the revolutionary
order, whose work favourably compares with the productions of the
Parisian symbolists; Paul Ernst, poet; Johannes Schlaf, who a few years
ago with Arno Holz blazoned the way in Berlin for Gerhart Hauptmann and
the young realists--Schlaf is the author of several powerful novels and
plays; Count Kessler, a cultured and ardent patron of the fine arts and
literature, and Professor van de Velde, whose influence on architecture
and the industrial arts has been great, and the American painter Gari
Melchers, are all in the Weimar circle.
In the summer Conrad Ansorge, a man not unknown to the New York musical
public, gathers around him in pious imitation of his former master,
Liszt, a class of ambitious pianists. A former resident of New York, Max
Vogrich, pianist and composer, has taken up his residence at Weimar. In
its opera-house, which boasts an excellent company of singers, actors,
and a good orchestra, the premiere of Vogrich's opera Buddha occurred in
1903. Gordon Craig, the son of Ellen Terry, often visits the city, where
his scheme for the technical reform of the stage--lighting, scenery,
costumes, and colours--was eagerly appreciated, as it was in Berlin, by
Otto Brahm, director of the Lessing Theatre. Mr. Craig is looked upon as
an advanced spirit in Germany. I wish I could praise without critical
reservation the two new statues of Shakespeare and Liszt which stand in
the park; but neither one is of consummate workmanship or conception.
When I received the amiable "command" of Elisabeth Foerster-Nietzsche,
bidding me call at a fixed hour on a certain day, I was quite conscious
of the honour; only the true believers set foot within that artistic and
altogether charming Mecca at the top of the Luisenstrasse.
The lofty and richly decorated room where repose the precious mementos
of the dead thinker is a singularly attractive one--it is a true abode
of culture. Here Nietzsche died in 1900; here he was wheeled out upon
the adjacent balcony, from which he had a surprising view of the hilly
and delectable countryside.
His sister and devoted biographer is a comely little lady, vivacious,
intellectual, bright of cheek and eye, a creature of fire and
enthusiasm, more Gallic than German. I could well believe in the legend
of the Polish Nietzskys, from whom the philosopher claimed descent,
after listening to her spirited discussion of matters that pertained to
her dead brother. His memory with her is an abidingly beautiful one. She
says "my poor brother" with the accents of one speaking of the vanished
gods.
His sister showed me all her treasures--many manuscripts of early and
still unpublished studies; his original music, for he composed much
during his intimacy with Richard Wagner; the grand pianoforte with which
he soothed his tortured nerves; the stately bust executed by Max
Klinger; the painful portrait etched by Hans Olde, and many other
souvenirs.
Mrs. Foerster-Nietzsche, who once lived in South America--she speaks
English, French, and Italian fluently--assured me that she sincerely
regretted the premature publication in English of The Case of the
Wagner. This book, so terribly personal, is a record of the
disenchanting experiences of a shattered friendship.
Madame Foerster spoke most feelingly of Cosima Wagner and deplored the
rupture of their intimate relations. "A marvellous woman! a fascinating
woman!" she said several times. What with her correspondence in every
land, the publication of the bulky biography and the constant editing of
unpublished essays, letters and memorabilia, this rare sister of a great
man is, so it seems to me, overtaxing her energies. The Nietzsche
bibliography has assumed formidable proportions, yet she is conversant
with all of it. A second Henrietta Renan, I thought, as I took a
regretful leave of this very remarkable woman, not daring to ask her
when Nietzsche's unpublished autobiography, Ecce Homo, would be given to
the world. (This was written in 1904; Ecce Homo has appeared in the
meantime.)
Later, down in the low-ceilinged cafe of the Hotel zum Elephant,
I overheard a group of citizens, officers, merchants--all
cronies--discussing Weimar. Nietzsche's name was mentioned, and
one knight of this round table--a gigantic officer with a button
head--contemptuously exclaimed:--"Nietzsche Rauch!" (smoke). Yes, but
what a world-compelling vapour is his that now winds in fantastic
spirals over the romantic hills and valleys of the new Weimar and
thence about the entire civilised globe! Friedrich Nietzsche, because
of his fiery poetic spirit and ecstatic pantheism, might be called the
Percy Bysshe Shelley of philosophers.