GOETHE AND FAUST
I
GOETHE’S YOUTH
Goethe’s youth—Pessimism of youth—Werther—Tendency to
suicide—Work and love—Goethe’s conception of life in
his maturity
There can be drawn from analysis of the lives of great men information
that is very important in the study of the constitution of man. I have
chosen Goethe for several reasons. He was a man of genius distinguished
by the comprehensive character of his ability. He was a poet and
dramatist of the highest rank, his mind was stored with the most
varied knowledge, and he contributed to the advancement of natural
science. As minister of state and as the director of a theatre, he was
occupied with practical affairs. He reached the age of eighty-three
years, and he passed through the phases of life in relatively normal
circumstances; in his many writings there are most valuable facts which
throw a keen light on his life and nature. The Goethe cult in Germany
has brought about the existence of fuller biographical details than
exist regarding any other great man. He aspired to lead “the higher
life,” and, throughout his existence, he occupied himself with the most
serious problems of humanity.
It is not surprising that Goethe became a subject of investigation for
me, but as the main facts as to his history are widely known I need not
elaborate them here.
Goethe was reared in circumstances that were favourable in every
respect, and from his earliest years showed remarkable traits. As his
memory was good and his imagination vast, the study of ancient and
modern languages and the routine curriculum of a classical education
were little more than an amusement to him. The rich library of his
father placed all sorts of books at his disposal, and whilst he was
still young he devoted himself to reading with the enthusiasm and
passion that were the chief qualities of his character. When he was
fifteen years old he began to write verses, although he was still
unconscious of his destiny as a poet. He intended to be a learned man,
and looked forward to the career of a professor.
At the age of sixteen, he entered the University of Leipzig with the
intention of studying natural science seriously. Law and philosophy
interested him but little; he turned to natural science and medicine,
although his actual study was rather superficial. His disposition was
lively and restless; he made many friends, frequented the theatre
and plunged into all kinds of gaiety. Extracts from letters he wrote
during this period show the kind of life he led. When he was a student,
eighteen years old, he wrote to a friend, “And so good-night; I am
drunk as a hog.” A month later, to the same friend, he summed up his
life as a “delirium in the arms of Jetty.”
He graduated in law at Strassburg, and became a barrister, but
realising that such a career was unsuitable, he became a man of
letters, encouraged by the success of his first literary efforts.
From the point of view of a writer, he sought all kinds of experiences.
He devoted himself to literature and science, including even the
occult sciences, and frequented the theatre and society. He was
specially attracted by the imaginative side and gave little thought to
the problems of science. “I must have movement,” he wrote in one of his
note-books.
When he was young, his temper was violent and he fell into fits of
passionate rage. His contemporaries have related that when he was in
such a condition he would destroy the illustrations and tear up the
books on his work-table. These experiences have been vividly described
in his famous romance, _The Sorrows of Werther_. I shall give a few
extracts to show the exact state of mind of the young pessimist. “It is
the fate of some men not to be understood.” “Human life is a dream; I
am not the first to say that, but the idea haunts me. When I reflect on
the narrow limits which circumscribe the powers of man, his activities
and intelligence; when I see how we exhaust our forces in satisfying
our wants and that these wants are for no more than the prolongation
of a miserable existence; that our acquiescence in so much is merely
resignation engendered by dreams, like that of a prisoner who has
covered the walls of his cell with pictures and new landscapes; such
things, my friend, plunge me into silence.” “Our learned teachers
all agree that children do not know why they have desires; but that
grown men should move on the earth like children, and, like these, be
ignorant whence they have come and whither they go, like these strive
little for real things, but be ruled by cakes and sweets and rods; no
one will believe such things, though their truth is patent. I admit
readily (for I know what you will say) that they are the happiest men
who live from day to day like children, who play with their dolls,
dress them and undress them, who reverence the cupboard where mamma
keeps the gingerbread, and who, when they have got what they wish,
cry, with their mouths full, ‘How happy we are!’”
Werther proclaimed his pessimism before his romance with Charlotte, and
it was his view of life that made his love-affair turn out unhappily.
But the fame of Goethe’s _Werther_ was due, not to the tragic fate
of the young lover, but to the general views which were in harmony
with the conception of the world held by the best minds of the time.
Byronism was born before Byron.
_Werther_ affords a good illustration of the disharmonies in the
development of man’s psychical nature. Inclination and desires develop
extremely strongly and before will. Just as in the development of
the reproductive functions, as I showed in _The Nature of Man_, the
different factors develop unequally and unharmoniously, so there is
inequality and disharmony in the order of the appearance of the higher
psychical faculties. Sexual appreciation and a vague attraction to
the other sex appear at a time when there can be no possibility of
the normal physical side of sex, with the result that many evils come
about in the long period of youth. The precocious development of
sensibility brings about a kind of diffused hyperæsthesia which may
lead to trouble. The infant wishes to lay hold of everything he sees
before him; he stretches out his arms to grasp the moon and suffers
from his inability to gratify his desires. In youth there is still
well-marked disharmony. Young people cannot realise the true relations
of things, and formulate their desires before they understand that
their will-power is not strong enough to gratify them, as will is the
latest of the human powers to develop.
Werther fell in love with a kindred spirit and gave way to his passion
without consideration of the difficulties, Charlotte being already
betrothed to another. This is the plot of the tragedy of the young
man, who committed suicide, having given way to pessimism. He had not
the will-power to conquer his sentiments and so fell into a state of
lassitude, until, weary of life, he could see no other end than to blow
out his brains.
I need not linger over the last phase of the story of Werther, for it
is the character of Goethe himself that is of interest. Goethe was
able to subdue his passion for Lotte, and, after many amorous woes,
consoled himself with another woman. Notwithstanding this difference,
it is certain that in _Werther_, Goethe was telling part of the story
of his own youth. Goethe himself is a witness to this, for in a letter
to Kestner he wrote that “he was at work on the artistic reproduction
of his own case.” The letter was written in July, 1773, whilst Goethe,
then a writer twenty-four years old, was relating the sorrows of young
Werther.
The general tendency of _Werther_ has been described excellently
by Carlyle.[190] “_Werther_,” he wrote, “is but the cry of that
dim, rooted pain, under which all thoughtful men of a certain age
were languishing; it paints the misery, it passionately utters the
complaint; and heart and voice, all over Europe, loudly and at once
responded to it.” Werther was “the first thrilling peal of that
impassioned dirge which, in country after country, men’s ears have
listened to, till they were deaf to all else.”
In the pessimistic period of his life, Goethe often cherished the idea
of suicide. In his biography he relates that at this time he used to
have, by his bedside, a poisoned dagger, and that he had repeatedly
tried to plunge it in his bosom. Of these times he wrote to his friend
Zelter[191]—“I know what it has cost me in effort to resist the waves
of death.” The suicide which was the subject of the end of his romance
made a deep impression upon him. Although he overcame his passion
for Charlotte, his view of life remained tinged with pessimism for
many years; in a note-book of 1773, for instance, he wrote “I am not
made for this world.”[192] These words are the more striking as they
date from a period when exact ideas regarding the adaptation of the
organism and the character to the environment did not exist. Goethe,
with his too delicate sensibility, felt himself out of harmony with his
environment.
It is very interesting to trace Goethe’s subsequent development and
the transformation of a youthful pessimist into a convinced optimist.
Goethe found a remedy for his crises of grief in work, poetical
creation and love. He declared that the mere describing his woes on
paper brought assuagement. The tears that they shed console women and
children; and the poetry in which he expresses his suffering consoles
the poet. Goethe’s romance with Charlotte was not quite at an end when
he found himself ready to love her sister Helen. He wrote to Kestner in
December, 1772:—“I was about to ask you if Helen had arrived, when I
got the letter telling me of her return.” “To judge from her portrait
she must be charming, even more charming than Charlotte. Well, I am
free and I am thirsting for love.” “I am here at Frankfort again with
new plans and new dreams, and all will be well if I find someone to
love.” Soon afterwards, in another letter to Kestner, he wrote:—“Tell
Charlotte that I have found here a girl whom I love with all my heart;
if I wanted to marry, I should choose her before anyone else.”
As he had not yet realised his true vocation, Goethe became a court
minister at Weimar. He devoted himself to his duties with an
enthusiasm that carried him far beyond the usual affairs of state.
He wished to deepen his knowledge of such administrative problems as
the construction of roads and the management of mines, and he studied
geology and mineralogy with a real zest. Forest administration and
agriculture led him seriously into botany, and as he had the direction
of a school of design, he thought it necessary to learn anatomy.
Such varied work gave him a real taste for science. It was no longer
the superficial interest that characterised his work at Leipzig and
Strassburg but a true devotion which led him to important discoveries,
some of which have become classic.
Even such varied occupations did not absorb his prodigious genius. In
his leisure he wrote poetry and prose. Engrossed in so much work, he
was happy. His discovery of the human intermaxillary bone suffused him
with joy. His intense activity was strengthened by his love for Madame
von Stein, a love that he declared was “a life-belt supporting him in
the sea.” A few hours with her in the evenings set free his soul.
The powerful influence of love on the life of Goethe was specially
prominent in this period when he was passing from pessimistic youth to
optimistic maturity. Being forced to separate from Madame von Stein,
he gave way to grief that plunged him again in the worst hours of his
life. At the age of thirty-seven he fell back into a crisis like that
of the days of _Werther_. “I have discovered,” he said in 1786, “that
the author of _Werther_ would have done well to blow out his brains
when he had finished his work.” Soon afterwards he wrote that “death
would have been better than the last years of his life.”
This relapse into pessimism was shorter and less acute than his first
experience. He began to find that frequently his delight in existence
and sense of life were proved by his fear of death. When he was little
more than thirty years old, he began to take precautions against the
chance of his death. He wrote to Lavater:—“I have no time to lose; I
am already getting on in years, and it may be that fate will destroy
me in the midst of my life.” On all sides his wish to live and his
shrinking from death reveal themselves. It was at this time, a few
days after his thirty-first birthday, that he wrote those famous
lines, counted amongst the finest of his poetry, on the summit of
the Gickelhahn, on the wall of a small room, and which end with the
presentiment of his own death, “Before long, you also will be at rest.”
The crisis through which he passed at the age of thirty-seven, as the
immediate result of his separation from Madame von Stein, but perhaps
also partly due to brain fatigue, brought about his sudden departure
from Weimar and his long sojourn in Italy. There he came to life again,
and everything interested him, archæology, art and nature. The joy of
life came back to him, and he soon consoled himself for the lost love
of the blue-stocking Baroness in the arms of a pretty, blue-eyed girl
of Milan. This girl, whose name was Maddalena Riggi, like Charlotte,
was already betrothed, a circumstance, however, that had a different
result. Even after she had given up the man to whom she had been
engaged, Goethe avoided any permanent bond and soon abandoned her
definitely. He chose to associate with Faustine, another Italian girl,
with whom he lived during the last period of his stay at Rome. This
affair, which was less ideal and much simpler than his love for Madame
von Stein, he has described in his _Roman Elegies_, which throw a vivid
light on his temperament. I shall give some characteristic extracts.
“A sacred enthusiasm inspires me on this classic soil; the old world
and the world around me raise their voices and draw me to them.
Here I follow the ideas and turn over the pages of the ancient
writers, giving myself no rest whilst day lasts and ever reaching new
delights. By night love calls me to other cares; and if I am only half
a philosopher, I am twice happy. But may I not say that I am also
learning when my eye follows the contours of a loving breast, when with
my hand I trace the lines of her form? It is then that I understand
marble, I think and compare, I see with an eye that touches and touch
with a hand that sees.” “Often I have made verses in her arms; often
my playful finger has softly beaten out my hexameters on her back. As
she breathes in her sweet sleep, her breath burns me to my innermost
soul.”[193]
His stay in Italy brought Goethe definitely to maturity. On this
important stage in his life let us hear his biographer, Bielschowsky.
“The voyage to Italy made a new man of him. His sickliness and
nervousness disappeared. The melancholy which led him to think of early
death and made him regard death as better than the former conditions
of his life was replaced by a sublime serenity and joy in living. The
taciturn and preoccupied man who in no society abandoned his grave
thoughts had become happy as a child” (vol. i, p. 412). “From this
time on, in calm and enviable security, he passed through the cycle of
life which seemed so mysterious to others. Goethe became the serene
Olympian, the wonder of posterity, whilst many of his contemporaries no
longer saw in him the passionate pilgrim” (_ibid._, p. 417).
It was after reaching the age of forty years that Goethe entered on the
optimistic phase of his life.
II
GOETHE AND OPTIMISM
Goethe’s optimistic period—His mode of life
in that period—Influence of love in artistic
production—Inclinations towards the arts must be
regarded as secondary sexual characters—Senile love of
Goethe—Relation between genius and the sexual activities
The moral equilibrium of the great writer was not established once
for all. In the course of his life, Goethe had several relapses into
pessimism which, however, were ephemeral, and after which he became a
man as complete and harmonious as was possible in the circumstances of
his life. He reached a serene old age, and his activity did not relax
until after his eightieth year, when he died.
As I have already said, Goethe realised the value of life in good
time. Having become an optimist, he experienced the joy of existence
and coveted as much of it as possible. When he was an old man, he
declared that life, like the Sibylline books, became more valuable
the fewer of them were left. There appeared in him a normal phase of
human nature. The conditions under which he lived, however, were far
from ideal. His health was indifferent. In his youth he suffered from
severe hæmorrhage, probably tuberculous, and throughout his life he was
subject to various more or less serious maladies, such as gout, colic,
nephritis, and intestinal troubles. His habits were unwholesome. He
was brought up in a region of vineyards, and in his youth he acquired
the habit of drinking wine in quantities certainly harmful. This he
himself realised, and when he was thirty-one years old, after he had
acquired the instinct of life, he gave it serious attention. “I wish I
could abstain from wine,” he wrote in his note-book. Some weeks later
he wrote, “I now drink almost no wine.”[194]
But he had not the strength of character to remain temperate, and soon
after his decision, he had fits of bleeding at the nose, which he
attributed to “having taken some glasses of wine.”[195] To his last
day, he took wine regularly, and sometimes to excess. J. H. Wolff,
who dined with him at Weimar, when he was in his eightieth year, was
surprised by his appetite and by the quantity of wine he drank. “In
addition to other food, he ate an enormous portion of roast goose, and
drank a bottle of red wine.”[196] In Eckermann’s interesting narrative
of the last ten years of Goethe’s life (1822-1832) there is repeated
mention of wine. Goethe seized every occasion to drink it. Sometimes
it was the visit of a stranger, sometimes a present of some famous
vintage. It was said that he drank from one to two bottles of wine
daily (Moebius). None the less, he was convinced that wine was not good
for intellectual work. He had remarked that when his friend Schiller
had drunk more than usual, to increase his strength and stimulate his
literary activity, the result was deplorable. He said to Eckermann
(March 11, 1828), “He will ruin his health and will spoil his work.
That is why he has made the faults the critics have pointed out.” In
another conversation (March 11, 1828) he stated that what was written
under the influence of wine was abnormal and forced, and ought to be
deleted.
Love was the great stimulus of Goethe’s genius. The love affairs,
the histories of which fill his biography, are well known. Many have
been shocked by them; others have tried to justify them. It has been
suggested that his disposition made it necessary for him to impart his
ideas and obtain sympathy for them, and that his love for women was the
expression of a purely artistic feeling and had nothing in common with
the ordinary passion.
The truth is that artistic genius and perhaps all kinds of genius are
closely associated with sexual activity. I agree with the proposition
formulated by Dr. Moebius[197] that “artistic proclivities are probably
to be regarded as secondary sexual characters.” Just as the beard
and some other male characters are developed as means of attracting
the female sex, so also bodily strength, strong voice and many of
the talents must be regarded as due to the need to fulfil the sexual
relations. In primitive conditions woman worked more than man; man’s
superior force served him principally in fighting with other males, the
object of the combats usually being possession of a woman. Just as a
victorious combatant covets the presence of a woman as witness of his
prowess, so an orator speaks better in the presence of a woman to whom
he is devoted. Singers and poets are stimulated in their arts by the
love they awaken. Poetic genius is intimately associated with sexual
power and castration inhibits it. Just as castrated animals retain
their physical strength, but become changed in character, losing in
particular their combative nature, so a man of genius loses much of
his quality with the sexual function. Amongst the eunuchs on record,
Abelard is the only poet, but Abelard was forty years old when he
ceased to be a man, and at the same time he ceased to be a poet. Many
singers have been eunuchs, but they have been merely executants, and
have taken no part in musical creation. Some musical composers have
been eunuchs, but these were of mediocre ability and their names have
been forgotten. When castration has taken place at an early age, it
has a much more powerful influence in modifying the secondary sexual
characters.
From the point of view of a naturalist, I cannot agree with the
moralists who have blamed Goethe for his sexuality, nor do I share the
views of those defenders of him who have wished to deny the facts or to
explain them away by the suggestion that they did not relate to sexual
love.
Extracts from the _Roman Elegies_ show quite clearly what was the
nature of Goethe’s love affairs. His feelings towards the Baroness von
Stein have been taken as revealing merely idealistic love. But some of
his letters to her are clear evidence that their relations were erotic
(Moebius, _Goethe_, vol. ii, p. 89). The love which he bore for Minna
Herzlieb, the girl who inspired him to write _Elective Affinities_
(_Wahlverwandschaften_), has been described by Goethe himself in a poem
so crudely erotic that it has been impossible to publish it (Lewes,
vol. ii, p. 314).
A fact to which I specially desire to call attention is that Goethe’s
amorous temperament survived until the end of his life, and all the
world has been astonished by the vigour of his poetic genius in extreme
old age.
Goethe has been the subject of derision because at the age of
seventy-four years he fell deeply in love with Ulrique de Lewetzow, who
was quite a young girl. This incident, however, merits close attention
as it is a typical case of senile love in a man of genius.
Whilst he was at Carlsbad, Goethe became acquainted with a pretty girl
seventeen years old, with beautiful blue eyes, brown hair, and of an
ardent, good-humoured and happy disposition. In the first two seasons
nothing in particular happened. But in the third summer, at Marienbad,
Goethe became passionately enamoured of Ulrique, who was then nineteen
years old and in the full bloom of her young womanhood. His love made
him young again; he passed long hours with her and took to dancing with
her. “I am quite certain,” he wrote to his son, “that it is many years
since I have enjoyed such health of body and mind” (Aug. 30, 1823). His
passion became so serious that the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, on behalf
of his friend, made a formal proposal of marriage for Mademoiselle de
Lewetzow. The mother gave an evasive answer, and the matter rested
in suspense for long, and ended in a refusal. Goethe withdrew to his
family, but encountered there strong opposition to his project of
marriage.
This misadventure troubled the old poet so seriously that he fell ill.
He suffered from pain in the region of the heart and from profound
mental disturbance. He complained to Eckermann “that he could do
nothing, that he could get to work on nothing, and that his mind had
lost its power.” “I can no longer work,” he said. “I cannot even read,
and it is only in rare and fortunate moments that I can think, feeling
myself partially soothed” (Eckermann, Nov. 16, 1823). Eckermann makes
the following reflection on the state of mind of the great old man.
“His trouble seems to be not merely physical. The passionate desire
which he acquired for a young lady at Marienbad this summer, and
against which he is still struggling, must be regarded as the chief
cause of his illness” (Nov. 17, 1823).
As in all earlier crises, Goethe sought consolation in poetry and
love. He left Marienbad in a carriage and began to set down verses
astonishingly vigorous for so old a man. His Marienbad elegy is held to
be one of the best of his poetical achievements. The following extracts
will give an idea of his state of mind at that period.
“I am lost in unconquerable desire; there is nothing left but
everlasting tears. Let them flow, let them flow unceasingly. But they
can never extinguish the fire that burns me. My heart rages; it is
torn in pieces, this heart where life and death meet in a horrible
combat.” “I have lost the universe, I have lost myself, I who until now
have been the favourite of the gods; they have put me to the question,
they offered me Pandora, rich in treasure and still richer in perilous
seductions; they made me drunken with the kisses of her mouth, which
gave me its sweets; they have torn me from her arms, and have struck me
with death.”
Goethe concealed his elegy for some time, guarding it as something
sacred, but eventually handed it over to Eckermann. Poetic creation
soothed his mind only for a time. His nature demanded some more
efficacious consolation. A few weeks after the separation he began to
complain bitterly of the absence of the Countess Julie von Egloffstein,
whom he wanted very much. “She cannot know what she is keeping from me
and what she makes me lose, nor can she know how I love her and how
she engrosses my mind.” He derived a little comfort from the visits of
Madame Szymanowska, whom he admired “not only as a great artist, but
as a pretty woman” (Eckermann, Nov. 3, 1823). “I am deeply grateful
to this charming woman,” he said to the chancellor, “for her beauty,
her sweetness, and her art have soothed my passionate heart” (Bode, p.
151). He also renewed his relations with Marianne Jung, the retired
actress and dancer. “When Goethe had to turn his thoughts from Ulrique,
the image of the pretty owner of Gerbermühle again occupied his mind. A
visit to her, and intimate correspondence with her, restored peace to
his heart so greedy of love” (Bielschowsky, vol. ii, p. 487).
His devotion to Ulrique was Goethe’s last acute attack of love; but
until the end of his days he felt the need of being surrounded by
pretty women. As director of the theatre, he came in contact with many
young women who wished engagements. He confessed to Eckermann that he
required much strength of mind to resist feminine charms which tempted
him to be unjustly favourable to the prettiest of those who sought
employment. “If I allowed myself to fall into an intrigue of gallantry,
I would become like a demagnetised needle as soon as the girl found a
real lover” (Eckermann, March 22, 1825).
His daughter-in-law’s sister has related that Goethe liked to have
young girls in his study whilst he was at work. They had to sit
quietly, neither working nor talking, often a difficult task for them
(Bode, p. 155).
Even on the last day of his life, whilst in delirium, he cried out,
“What a pretty woman’s head with black curls on a black ground” (Lewes,
vol. ii, p. 372). After uttering several other more or less incoherent
phrases, he drew his last breath.
The facts which I described in the chapter of this book dealing with
old age have made clear how long sexuality persists in men. As the
testes resist atrophy better than other organs, and even in extreme old
age still form active spermatozoa, it is natural that their condition
should be reflected on the organism generally, and that feelings of
love should still be excited. If by some accident Goethe had become
a eunuch early in life, he would have been a different being. The
moralists who have been shocked by his amorous intrigues would have
been satisfied, but the world would have lost a great poet. Moreover,
Goethe is no exceptional case amongst writers. The temperament of
Victor Hugo and his devotion to women up to the end of his days are
well known. More recently, after the death of Ibsen, a profound
sensation was made by the revelation of his love for Mademoiselle
Bardach, who inspired his genius during the last period of his life.
Not only poetic creation but other forms of genius are intimately
associated with the sexual function. The philosopher Schopenhauer, who
was no ascetic, wrote as follows, at the age of twenty-five, when he
was in full creative activity, “In the days and at the hours when the
voluptuous instinct is strongest, when it is a burning covetousness,
it is then that the greatest forces of the mind and the greatest
stores of knowledge are ready for the most intense activity.” “At
such moments life is truly at its strongest and most active, for its
two poles are then operating most actively; and this is plain in the
man of the highest intelligence. In these hours one sees more than in
years of passivity” (quoted in Moebius’ _Schopenhauer_, p. 55). “This
means that in Schopenhauer intellectual creation was linked with erotic
excitement” (_ibid._, p. 57).
It was facts of such a nature that led Brown-Séquard to his idea of
strengthening cerebral activity by injections of the substance of
testes. To obtain the same effect, he prescribed another means, the
value of which was proved in the case of two individuals aged from
forty-five to fifty years, the observations being continued over
several years. “By my advice,” he said, “when these had to perform
any great physical or intellectual work, they got themselves into a
condition of sexual excitement.” “The testes being in this way thrown
into functional activity, there was soon produced the desired increase
in the power of the nerve centres.”[198]
Although I insist on the existence of a close relation between
intellectual activity and the sexual function, I do not mean to assert
that there have not existed exceptions to the rule.
Now that I have described certain important factors in the genius of
Goethe, I shall pass on to a study of his state of mind in the last
period of his life, the splendour and harmony of which have been so
often admired.
III
GOETHE’S OLD AGE
Old age of Goethe—Physical and intellectual vigour of
the old man—Optimistic conception of life—Happiness in
life in his last period
Drinkers of wine may take the case of Goethe as an argument against
temperance. Although he was not healthy in his youth, his large
consumption of wine did not prevent him from enjoying an old age full
of force and intellectual work. Eckermann, who was his intimate and
constant companion in the last ten years of his life, was never weary
of expressing his surprise and delight at the physical and moral vigour
of the distinguished old man. He found Goethe on his return to Jena,
at the age of seventy-four, in a condition “very pleasant to see; he
was in good health and robust, so that he could walk for hours” (Sept.
15, 1823). His eyes were “brilliant and clear and his whole expression
was that of joy, vigour and youth” (Oct. 29). In walks with Eckermann,
Goethe forced the pace and showed strength which filled his companion
with delight (March, 1824). His voice was full of character and of
force (March 30, 1824), and every word showed his vitality (July 9,
1827).
In a conversation that Eckermann had with Goethe when the latter was
seventy-nine years old “the sound of his voice and the fire in his eyes
were of such strength as would have been normal in the full flush
of youth” (Mar. 11, 1828). Such characters were preserved until the
end of the life of the great man, and a few months before his death
Eckermann jotted in his book that he saw him every day in full vigour
and freshness, looking as if his health might be prolonged indefinitely
(Dec. 21, 1831). In the beginning of the following spring, Goethe
caught a feverish cold, possibly pneumonic, and died, probably from
weakness of the heart. His illness lasted a week. If he had not been a
drinker of wine he would have been able to withstand this attack and to
live still longer.
The intellectual vigour of Goethe was even greater and more remarkable
than his physical strength. His interests were extremely wide, and his
thirst for knowledge was never appeased. Once, when he was absorbed
by the interest of hearing d’Alton describe in detail the skeleton of
rodents, Eckermann states his surprise that a man not far short of
eighty years old “did not give up seeking for and gaining knowledge.”
But in these matters he never lost his interest. He wished always to go
further and further, always to learn, so showing himself to be a man
of eternal and undying youth (April 16, 1825). Goethe’s aptitude for
understanding and his memory were most unusual. When he was more than
eighty, he surprised those who heard him “by the incessant flow of his
ideas and by his extraordinary fertility in invention” (Oct. 7, 1828).
“The old age of Goethe is the most striking proof of the extreme force
of his constitution,” said his medical biographer, Dr. Moebius. Works
which were written in his last years are for the most part beyond
praise, both because of their finished form, and by their wisdom and
feeling. What other man of eighty has written anything of the same
character? From the physiological point of view I am more surprised
at his works when he was old than at those of his youthful activity”
(Moebius, _Goethe_, i, 200, 201).
Although Goethe’s character, which was fiery and intense in his youth,
became much more calm with age, there still came to him moments when
he was carried away. He had certain eccentricities of an old man, and
in particular was often very despotic, and this trait has been the
occasion of many stories. His temper, however, became much more certain
in his old age, and his general conceptions much more optimistic.
Apart from certain short crises, he was happy in his life. In 1828, he
settled down at Dornburg and there passed a tranquil existence. “I stay
out of doors nearly all day and engage in private conversations with
the tendrils of the vine which communicate their excellent ideas to
me, ideas about which I shall have marvellous things to tell you”—he
wrote to Eckermann on June 15, 1828—“I am composing verses which are
quite good, and I hope that it will be given to me to live long in
this condition. I am quite contented,” he said to his collaborator,
“at the beginning of spring, when I see the first green leaves, I am
pleased to watch how, from week to week, one leaf after another appears
on the stem. I am delighted in May, when I see a flower-bud; I feel
really happy, when in June the rose offers to me its splendour and its
perfume” (Eckermann, April 27, 1825). His delight in life at this epoch
is also revealed in many letters. “I wish to whisper this in your ear,”
he wrote to Zelter on April 29, 1830. “I am delighted to find that even
at my great age, ideas come to me the pursuit and development of which
would require a second life.”
His conception of life had changed enormously since the epoch of
_Werther_. Goethe himself said: “When one is old, one thinks many
things about this world quite different from when one was young”
(Eckermann, Dec., 1829). The youthful sensitiveness which had brought
him so much suffering was notably dulled. Eckermann was astonished
at the way he accepted wounds to his pride. It happened that his
design for the new theatre at Weimar was abandoned while it was being
constructed, and replaced by another not his own work. Eckermann
was much disturbed by this, and went to see Goethe in a state of
apprehension. “I was afraid,” he said, “that so unexpected a step
would profoundly wound Goethe. Well, there was nothing of the sort;
I found him in the best of tempers, quite calm, absolutely above all
feelings in the matter.” When he had reached his eighty-fourth year,
Goethe had no weariness of life. In his last illness, he showed not
the smallest desire to die. He expected to get better, and thought
that the approach of summer would restore his strength. The desire to
live was strong in him. None the less, he recognised that his cycle of
life was finished, and although he had no weariness of life, he felt
a kind of satisfaction that life was over. “When, like me, a man has
lived eighty years,” he said, “he has hardly the right to live, but
ought to be ready every day to die, and to think of putting his house
in order” (Eckermann, May 15, 1831). None the less, he continued his
work, in particular revising the last two chapters of the second part
of _Faust_. When he had finished them, Goethe was extremely pleased. “I
can consider,” he said, “any days which come to me yet as a real gift,
as it is a matter of no moment if I write anything more or what such
work should be” (Eckermann, June 1, 1831).
Goethe gave Faust one hundred years of life, and it is probable that he
thought of that period as his own span. Although he did not reach it,
he approached it, after having lived a most active life, full of most
valuable lessons for posterity.
IV
GOETHE AND “FAUST”
_Faust_ the biography of Goethe—The three monologues
in the first Part—Faust’s pessimism—The brain-fatigue
which finds a remedy in love—The romance with Marguerite
and its unhappy ending
“Goethe was Faust, Faust Goethe,” said the biographer of the great
poet (Bielschowsky, vol. ii, p. 645). Most people admit that in
_Faust_ Goethe gave his autobiography on a more detailed scale than
in _Werther_. Why then should I follow my analysis of Goethe himself,
which was based on exact facts, with an analysis of Faust? I do so
because in addition to the biographical details in _Faust_, there are
many ideas which illuminate the poet’s conception of life. Goethe’s
life explains _Faust_, and _Faust_ explains the soul of its author.
And I am convinced that an accurate study of so great a man is of high
importance in the investigation of human nature.
The two Parts of _Faust_ correspond with two distinct periods in
Goethe’s life. In the first Part, Faust was pessimistic, in the second
optimistic. Although many of the high problems that occupy humanity are
raised and discussed in _Faust_, love is the centre on which the drama
turns.
In the first Part, conceived and for the most part written during
his youth, the chief theme is the love of a young man for a pretty
and attractive girl towards whom the hero acts in a fashion opposed
to conventional morality. As in most of his principal works, Goethe
has made an episode in his own life the basis of _Faust_. It is the
well-known story of Frederique, the daughter of a clergyman, for
whom the brilliant young author conceived a violent passion and who
returned his affection with a deeper and more enduring feeling. Goethe
was alarmed at the possibility of definitely settling his future, and
deserted the poor victim of love in an unfortunate state. Later on, he
confessed to the Baroness von Stein that he had abandoned Frederique
at a time when his desertion was likely to cause the death of the poor
girl. “I had wounded to the quick,” he wrote (Bielschowsky, vol. i, p.
135), “the best heart in the world, and I had to repent of it long and
almost unendurably.” As an atonement, he made Frederique the heroine
of “Goetz” and of “Clavigo,” but not thinking these worthy of her, he
immortalised her as the Marguerite of _Faust_.
A learned doctor, skilled in all human knowledge, but who had found
no satisfaction in his studies, found consolation in the beauty and
charm of a young girl with whom he fell passionately in love. It will
be interesting to trace the psychological process which induced him to
leave the scene of his scientific studies for the streets and resorts
where he found Marguerite.
Although Faust was represented as an old man, who had had time enough
to absorb all human learning, his image bears the stamp of green youth.
“Discontented with all his knowledge, he wished to know the secret
entrails of the world, to be a witness of the centre of all activity,
to unveil the principle of life.”[199] These are the demands of a young
man seeking to resolve the most intricate problems at one stroke. The
speech in question dates from the period of _Werther_, when Goethe
was twenty-five years old, and for that reason leaves no very serious
impression.[200] The second monologue, which ends with the attempt to
take poison, is later, and is absent in the edition of 1790 (Fragment).
It was revised when Goethe had reached his fiftieth year, and displays
a riper maturity. Although lacking exactness, it depicts in an
interesting fashion the miseries of life.
Some alien substance more and more is cleaving
To all the mind conceives of grand and fair;
When this world’s Good is won by our achieving,
The Better, then, is named a cheat and snare.
The fine emotions, whence our lives we mould,
Lie in the earthly tumult dumb and cold.
If hopeful Fancy once, in daring flight,
Her longings to the Infinite expanded,
Yet now a narrow space contents her quite,
Since Time’s wild wave so many a fortune stranded.
Care at the bottom of the heart is lurking;
Her secret pangs in silence working,
She, restless, rocks herself, disturbing joy and rest;
In newer masks her face is ever drest,
By turns as house and land, as wife and child, presented,—
As water, fire, as poison, steel;
We dread the blows we never feel,
And what we never lose is yet by us lamented.[201]
Fear of the evils which lie in wait for us and against which we can
make no provision render life insupportable. Faust’s frame of mind as
described in these lines recalls Schopenhauer, who was always afraid of
something; fear, sometimes of thieves, sometimes of diseases, tormented
him. He would never go to a barber’s to be shaved, and always carried
his own drinking cup with him.
“Is it not better to end such a life, and to kill oneself, even if it
mean annihilation?” asked Faust. He took up the poisoned goblet and
put it to his lips, but, arrested by singing and the sound of bells
outside, he refrained, and life laid hold of him. Not religious faith,
however, but memories of childhood, “the happy sports of youth and the
gay festivals of spring” were the agencies that recalled Faust to the
earth. He went out of doors, mingled with the crowd, tried to amuse
himself amongst men, and savoured the beauty of the new-born spring,
but all these could not make him forget the evil of life. He met his
pupil, talked with him, and again displayed his pessimism.
O happy he, who still renews
The hope, from Error’s deeps to rise for ever!
That which one does not know, one needs to use;
And what one knows, one uses never.[202]
Then follows the celebrated monologue of Faust over which so many
commentators have lost their heads and wasted oceans of ink.
Two souls, alas! reside within my breast,
And each withdraws from, and repels, its brother.
One with tenacious organs holds in love
And clinging lust the world in its embraces;
The other strongly sweeps, this dust above,
Into the high ancestral spaces.[203]
On this passage has been built up a whole theory of “double natures”
with which has been incorporated the dualism of Manicheism, the two
natures of Christ and what not besides.[204]
There exists in literature no better expression of human disharmony
than this monologue “of the two souls.” It portrays the unbalanced
condition so frequent in youth and is a valuable indication of the real
youth of Faust.
On his return to his study, Faust again revealed his pessimism.
But ah! I feel, though will thereto be stronger,
Contentment flows from out my breast no longer.
Why must the stream so soon run dry and fail us,
And burning thirst again assail us?
Therein I’ve borne so much probation![205]
It is at this point that Faust addresses the Spirit “that denies” and
that is called “sin” and “evil.” This spirit invokes before his eyes
“the fairest images of dreams,” that is to say, a woman’s body in its
beautiful nudity. Faust declares himself
Too old to play with passion,
Too young to be without desire.[206]
Pursued by desire
... when night descends, how anxiously
Upon my couch of sleep I lay me.
There, also, comes no rest to me;
But some wild dream is sent to fray me.[207]
So that
Death is desired, and Life a thing unblest.
O fortunate, for whom, when victory glances,
The bloody laurels on the brow he bindeth!
Whom, after rapid, maddening dances,
In clasping maiden-arms he findeth![208]
Faust thus reached the ecstasy of passion. Soon afterwards in the
Witches’ kitchen, he saw in a mirror a “heavenly form” and cried:—
O lend me, Love, the swiftest of thy pinions,
And bear me to her beauteous field.
A woman’s form, in beauty shining!
Can woman, then, so lovely be?
And must I find her body, there reclining;
Of all the heavens, the bright epitome?
Can Earth with such a thing be mated?[209]
Discontent with life, sense of the insufficiency of human knowledge
and the most gloomy pessimism lead to the passion of love which,
eventually, after many devious paths, throws Faust into the arms of
Marguerite. The story is one of the world’s great romances and everyone
knows it. Faust all unconsciously was following the prescription of
Brown-Séquard. Brain-fatigue had made the continuation of the study
which caused it impossible. The condition is plainly stated in the
following lines:—
The thread of Thought at last is broken,
And knowledge brings disgust unspoken.
Let us the sensual deeps explore.[210]
The brain has refused to work, and blind instinct, in the guise of
dreams, whispers that there is in the organism something that can
restore the intellectual forces. This something, however, is what is
called sin, and much courage is needed to plunge into it. Without this
evil, life cannot last. Faust has to choose between love and death, and
chooses love.
The end of the romance of Goethe and Frederique was bad, and that of
Faust and Marguerite was still worse. The poet painted it in the most
sombre colours. Marguerite killed her child, poisoned her mother,
became crazy, and was beheaded. Faust’s cup of misery was filled to the
brim; he blamed his evil genius, he made desperate efforts to save the
poor woman, and cried “O that I had never been born.”
To sum up: in the first Part, Faust is a young, learned man who
expects too much from science and life, and whose genius requires
extra-conjugal love as a stimulant; he is unbalanced and inevitably
pessimistic. It is not surprising that his life goes badly, and that
his conduct leaves him much to repent of. But although, at first,
a vague general discontent nearly drives him to suicide, later on
the terrible evil which he had wrought on a poor creature he loved
passionately did no more than plunge him into misery that was bitter
but far from mortal. His mind had developed far in the direction of
optimism. The crisis through which he passed, serious as it was, ended
by his return to a life of great activity and enterprise.
V
THE OLD AGE OF FAUST
The second Part of _Faust_ is in the main a description
of senile love—Amorous passion of the old man—Humble
attitude of the old Faust—Platonic love for Helena—The
old Faust’s conception of life—His optimism—The general
idea of the play
The first Part of _Faust_ was acclaimed by the world almost as soon as
it appeared, but the second Part met a very cold reception. Everyone
knows and reads the first Part; the second Part has few readers, and
these chiefly poets and dramatists. No doubt it has more effect on the
stage than when it is read, but this is due to subsidiary features in
which it resembles a fine ballet. There is general agreement that the
real meaning of the second Part is obscure, complex and difficult to
interpret. Many literary critics have racked their brains in the effort
to discover the author’s central idea. When Eckermann, who persuaded
Goethe to revise and finish the second Part, asked what was the meaning
of some of the scenes in it, Goethe evaded the question and played the
sphinx. Thus, with regard to the famous “mothers” Goethe answered,
with a mysterious air:—“You have the manuscript; study it, and see
what you can make of it” (January 10, 1830). G. H. Lewes, although
one of Goethe’s most resolute admirers, admitted the impossibility
of grasping the sense of the second Part. The Wanderjahre and the
second Part of _Faust_ were arsenals of symbols, and it pleased the
old poet to see acute critics labouring to interpret them whilst he
was silent and refused to help them. Lewes thought that Goethe, so far
from showing the smallest wish to clear up their difficulties, took
a pleasure in giving them new problems to puzzle over. Lewes himself
thought that the second Part was poor in idea and execution, and
admitted that he had failed after repeatedly trying to get a conception
of it that would reveal its beauties. In writing about it, he contented
himself with giving a summary of it. Now this second Part, although its
general lines had been laid down for long, was actually written during
several years in the last period of the poet’s life. The fact that it
was composed out of the regular sequence of the Acts and Scenes gives
us an important clue. The third Act and then the second Part of the
fifth Act were put on paper first. Next followed the first Act and part
of the second; the classical Walpurgis night was written in 1830, the
fourth Act in 1831, and last of all the beginning of the fifth Act.
As the second Part of _Faust_ is a crowded motley, containing many
subjects, obviously of minor importance, such as the volcanic theory
of the earth and the disquisition on paper-money, the key-note may be
found in the portions which were first composed. Now Act III. contains
the story of Helena, and the second part of Act V. Faust’s activity for
the general welfare.
Setting out from the conception that the works of Goethe reflect the
acts and incidents of his own life, I shall try to explain on that
basis the meaning of the most obscure of his writings.
I have already stated that love was the stimulus of Goethe’s activity
in youth and age; it is the scarlet thread running through his
history. There was no difficulty in his using his love for Frederique
as material for a play; that a young man should love a young girl
was natural enough. The story of an old man enamoured of a young
beauty was quite another matter. It was said that one of the reasons
that prevented his marriage with Ulrique de Lewetzow was the fear of
ridicule (Lewes, _op. cit._, ii, p. 345), a fear that plays a large
part in human affairs. It is easy to understand that the old poet was
in a difficulty when he came to write of senile love. Faust’s love for
Helena was not that of a supposed old man who became young by doffing
his beard and changing his cloak, but of a real old man whom no mystery
nor magic was to make young again. And yet old Faust’s love was a true
passion, and Goethe has written no finer lines than those describing it.
When the second Part begins, Faust has passed through the terrible
crisis of the first Part. Wearied and restless, he seeks a new mode of
life.
Life’s pulses now with fresher force awaken
To greet the mild ethereal twilight o’er me;
This night, thou, Earth! hast also stood unshaken,
And now thou breathest, new-refreshed before me,
And now beginnest, all thy gladness granting,
A vigorous resolution to restore me,
To seek that higher life for which I’m panting.[211]
The invoked image of the most beautiful woman in the history of the
world transforms Faust’s desire of love into an overwhelming passion.
Have I still eyes? Deep in my being springs
The fount of Beauty, in a torrent pouring!
A heavenly gain my path of terror brings.
The world was void, and shut to my exploring,—
And, since my priesthood, how hath it been graced!
Enduring 'tis, desirable, firm-based.
And let my breath of being blow to waste,
If I for thee unlearn my sacred duty!
The form, that long erewhile my fancy captured,
That from the magic mirror so enraptured,
Was but a frothy phantom of such beauty!
'Tis Thou, to whom the stir of all my forces,
The essence of my passion's courses,—
Love, fancy, worship, madness,—here I render.[212]
In the throes of this passion, Faust is tortured by jealousy when he
sees the lovely woman clinging to and kissing a young man. He desires
her at all costs.
Am I nothing here? To stead me,
Is not this key still shining in my hand?
Through realms of terror, wastes and waves it led me,
Through solitudes, to where I firmly stand,
Here foothold is! Realities here centre!
The strife with spirits here the mind may venture,
And on its grand, its double lordship enter!
How far she was, and nearer, how divine!
I’ll rescue her and make her doubly mine.
Ye Mothers! Mothers! Crown this wild endeavour!
Who knows her once must hold her, and for ever.[213]
The disappearance of the beautiful woman so moved Faust that he fainted
and fell into a prolonged sleep. As soon as he recovered consciousness
he asked: “Where is she?” and set out to seek for her. When he learned
that Chiron had already carried off Helena on his back Faust cried
out:—
Her didst thou bear?
_Chiron_: This back she pressed.
_Faust_: Was I not wild enough, before;
And now such seat, to make me blest!
O, I scarcely dare
To trust my senses!—tell me more!
She is my only Aspiration!
Whence didst thou bear her—to what shore?[214]
Thou saw’st her once; _to-day_ I saw her beam,
The dream of Beauty, beautiful as Dream!
My soul, my being, now is bound and chained;
I cannot live, unless she be attained.[215]
Chiron found this attitude of passionate emotion so strange that he
advised Faust to take care of his health.
After many wanderings and difficulties Faust again met the woman he
coveted and spoke to her as follows:—
What else remains, but that I give to thee
Myself, and all I vainly fancied mine?
Let me, before thy feet, in fealty true,
Thee now acknowledge, Lady, whose approach
Won thee at once possession and the throne![216]
This language, so very different from what the same man had formerly
addressed to Marguerite, is much more like that of an old lover to a
young beauty whom he admires. When Helena invited Faust to sit on the
throne beside her, he replied:—
First, kneeling, let the dedication be
Accepted, lofty Lady! Let me kiss
The gracious hand that lifts me to thy side.
Confirm me as co-regent of thy realm,
Whose borders are unknown, and win for thee
Guard, slave and worshipper, and all in one![217]
The old man in the throes of a passion so great that he was wholly
absorbed by it did not dare to address the beloved woman except in the
most humble terms.
Helena made no declaration of love, but was complacent to him, and when
Faust suggested: “Now let our throne become a bower unblighted,” Helena
agreed to follow him to a secluded and green bower. There they remained
alone for some time, cared for by an old servant.
The result of this union was not a child like that to which Marguerite
gave birth and afterwards killed. It was a strange and peculiar being;
a boy who immediately after his birth began to leap about and to alarm
his parents by the activity of his movements.
Although Goethe preserved an obstinate silence when he was asked to
explain many of the scenes in the second Part, he had no hesitation in
explaining the significance of this astonishing child. “The child was
not a human being but an allegory, in which was personified poetry,
which is not bound to any time, to any place, or to any person”
(Eckermann, December 20, 1829). Struck by the tragic fate of Byron,
Goethe made the son of Faust and Helena a symbol of the English poet.
Literary critics, setting out from the categorical explanation of
Goethe himself, have declared that the union of Faust and Helena
was meant to denote the alliance of romanticism and classicism, a
marriage from which was born modern poetry, personified in its highest
representative, Byron. This, however, cannot be the idea of Goethe, who
himself was far from an enthusiast about classicism and romanticism.
“What,” he said, “is all this noise about the classic and the romantic?
The essential thing is that a piece of work should be wholly good and
serious; then it will also be classic” (Eckermann, October 17, 1828).
It is much more probable that Goethe intended poetry to spring from the
relations between the old Faust and his adorable companion, relations
of a kind to be included in so-called platonic love. Such love inspires
the creation of perfect work even in an old poet, when he is stimulated
by a beautiful woman.
When Faust and Helena emerged from the grotto with their son, Helena
said:—
_Helena_: Love, in human wise to bless us,
In a noble pair must be;
But divinely to possess us,
It must form a precious Three.
_Faust_: All we seek has therefore found us;
I am thine and thou art mine!
So we stand as love hath bound us;
Other fortune we resign.[218]
After the death of her son, Helena abandoned Faust, leaving him her
garments:—
_Helena_: Also in me, alas! an old word proves its truth,
That Bliss and Beauty ne’er enduringly unite.
Torn is the link of Life, no less than that of Love;
So, both lamenting, painfully I say: Farewell!
And cast myself again,—once only,—in thine arms.[219]
After this crisis the old Faust sought to console himself in the bosom
of nature, just as after the terrible catastrophe with Marguerite the
contemplation of nature had given him the strength to live. On this
occasion he reached the summit of a high mountain from which he watched
the changing vapours of a cloud which seemed to him to assume the form
of female beauty. But Faust was old, and now saw only memories of love.
He cried out:—
Yes! mine eyes not err!—
On sun-illumined pillows beauteously reclined,
Colossal, truly, but a godlike woman-form,
I see! The like of Juno, Leda, Helena,
Majestically lovely, floats before my sight!
Ah! now ’tis broken! Towering broad and formlessly,
It rests along the east like distant icy hills,
And shapes the grand significance of fleeting days.
Yet still there clings a light and delicate band of mist
Around my breast and brow, caressing, cheering me.
Now light, delaying, it soars and higher soars,
And folds together.—Cheats me an ecstatic form,
As early-youthful, long-foregone and highest bliss?
The first glad treasures of my deepest heart break forth;
Aurora’s love, so light of pinion, is its type,
The swiftly-felt, the first, scarce-comprehended glance,
Outshining every treasure, when retained and held.
Like Spiritual Beauty mounts the gracious Form,
Dissolving not, but lifts itself through ether far,
And from my inner being bears the best away.[220]
This state of mind resembles Goethe’s condition after the rupture with
Ulrique.
Love and poetry alike were over for him. None the less his craving for
the higher life was not yet weakened. The desire to live was still
very strong in the old Faust. But now he no longer as in the days
of his youth dreamed of an ideal which could not be attained. When
Mephistopheles asked him ironically:—
Then might one guess whereunto thou hast striven?
Boldly-sublime it was, I’m sure.
Since nearer to the moon thy flight was driven,
Would now thy mania that realm secure?
_Faust_: Not so! This sphere of earthly soil
Still gives us room for lofty doing.
Astounding plans e’en now are brewing:
I feel new strength for bolder toil.[221]
Such optimistic language, extraordinarily different from Faust’s
lamentations in the first Part, becomes still more marked. When he was
approaching his centenary he made the following profession of faith:—
I only through the world have flown:
Each appetite I seized as by the hair;
What not sufficed me, forth I let it fare,
And what escaped me, I let go.
I’ve only craved, accomplished my delight,
Then wished a second time, and thus with might
Stormed through my life: at first ’twas grand, completely,
But now it moves most wisely and discreetly.
The sphere of Earth is known enough to me;
The view beyond is barred immutably:
A fool, who there his blinking eyes directeth,
And o’er his clouds of peers a place expecteth!
Firm let him stand, and look around him well!
This World means something to the Capable.
Why needs he through Eternity to wend?
He here acquires what he can apprehend.[222]
When he had reached the maturity of his wisdom, Faust organised
drainage works, the object of which was to increase the area of land
that could be utilised:—
To many millions let me furnish soil,
Though not secure, yet free to active toil;
Green, fertile fields.
A land like Paradise here, round about.
Yes! to this thought I hold with firm persistence;
The last result of wisdom stamps it true:
He only earns his freedom and existence,
Who daily conquers them anew.
Thus here, by dangers girt, shall glide away
Of childhood, manhood, age, the vigorous day:
And such a throng I fain would see,
Stand on free soil among a people free!
Then dared I hail the Moment fleeing:
“_Ah, still delay—thou art so fair!_”
The traces cannot, of mine earthly being,
In æons perish,—they are there!—
In proud fore-feeling of such lofty bliss,
I now enjoy the highest Moment,—this![223]
These were the last words of the wise centenarian. It has been said
that they contain the quintessence of Goethe’s moral philosophy, and
that they preach the sacrifice of the individual for the benefit of
society. Lewes, for instance, takes this view, holding that Faust was
the exposition of a man who had conquered the vanity of individual
aspirations and joys, and had come to the knowledge of the great truth
that man must live for man, and can find lasting happiness only in
work for the benefit of humanity. For my own part, it seems to me that
according to Goethe’s _Faust_ man must dedicate a large part of his
life to the complete development of his own individuality, and that
it is only in the second half of his life, when he has grown wise by
experience and feels satisfied as an individual, that he should use
his activity for the good of mankind. It was no part either of the
ideas of Goethe or of the nature of his work to preach the sacrifice of
individuality.
Goethe was thus absorbed in _Faust_ by the problem of the conflict
between certain actions and guiding principles. The misdeeds of the
hero in the first Part of his life had to be redeemed. He said to
Eckermann that “the key to the salvation of Faust was to be found in
the Angels’ Chorus”:—
The noble spirit now is free,
And saved from evil scheming:
Whoe’er aspires unweariedly
Is not beyond redeeming.[224]
However, that of which he did not speak, and which none the less was
most important in Faust and in Goethe himself, is the action of love as
a stimulant to artistic creation, and it was probably to this that he
referred at the end of his tragedy. The mystical chorus sent up prayers
in a religious and erotic ecstasy, and their mysterious song is:—
The Indescribable,
Here it is done;
The Woman-Soul leadeth us
Upward and on![225]
Although these verses have been interpreted as love which sacrifices or
even love which leads to the grace of God (Bode, p. 149), it is much
more probable that it is love for feminine beauty, a love which makes
possible the execution of wonderful things. Such an interpretation
agrees with the fact that the verses are spoken by a _mystic_ choir
which speaks of the _indescribable_ (_das Unbeschreibliche_) in
which we must see the amorous passion of the old man. In such an
interpretation the whole of _Faust_ (and especially the second Part) is
an eloquent pleading for the importance of love in the higher activity
of man, in accordance with the law of human nature, which is a much
better justification of Goethe’s conduct than all the arguments of his
interpreters and admirers.
I do not agree with the common idea that the two Parts of _Faust_ are
two distinct works, but regard them as complementary. In the first Part
we see the young pessimist, full of ardour and of desires, ready to
make an end of his days and stopping at nothing to satisfy his thirst
for love. In the second Part we have a mature old man still loving
women, but in a different way, a man who is wise and optimistic, and
who, having satiated the wants of his individual life, dedicates the
rest of his days to mankind, and who, having reached a century, dies
extremely happy, in fact almost exhibiting the instinct of natural
death.