Иоганн Вольфганг фон Гёте
The Autobiography of Goethe
In the meantime, the hospitality of our house once laid open caused many an inconvenience to my good parents and myself. At any rate it had not proved in any way beneficial to my steadfast desire to notice the Higher, to study it, to further it, and if possible to imitate it. Men, I saw, so far as they were good, were pious; and, so far as they were active, were unwise and oftentimes unapt. The former could not help me, and the latter only confused me. One remarkable case I have carefully written down.
Jung or Stilling.
In the beginning of the year 1775, Jung, afterwards called Stilling, from the Lower Rhine, announced to us that he was coming to Frankfort, being invited as an oculist, to treat an important case; the news was welcome to my parents and myself, and we offered him quarters.
Herr von Lersner, a worthy man advanced in years, universally esteemed for his success in the education and training of princely children, and for his intelligent manners at court and on his travels, had been long afflicted with total blindness; his strong hope of obtaining some relief of his affliction was not entirely extinct. Now, for several years past, Jung, with much courage and modest boldness, had, in the Lower Rhine, successfully couched for the cataract, and thus had gained a wide-spread reputation. The candor of his soul, his truth fulness of character, and genuine piety, gained him universal confidence; this extended up the river through the medium of various parties connected by business. Herr von Lersner and his friends, upon the advice of an intelligent physician, resolved to send for the successful oculist, although a Frankfort merchant, in whose case the cure had failed, earnestly endeavored to dissuade them. But what was a single failure against so many successful cases! So Jung came, enticed by the hope of a handsome remuneration, which heretofore he had been accustomed to renounce; he came, to increase his imputation, full of confidence and in high spirits, and we congratulated ourselves on the prospect of such an excellent and lively table-companion.
At last, after a preparatory course of medicine, the cataract upon both eyes was couched. Expectation was at its height. It was said that the patient saw the moment after the operation, until the bandage again shut out the light. But it was remarked that Jung was not cheerful, and that something weighed on his spirits; indeed, on further inquiry he confessed to me that he was uneasy as to the result of the operation. Commonly, for I had witnessed several operations of the kind in Strasburg, nothing in the world seemed easier than such cases; and Stilling himself had operated successfully a hundred times. After piercing the insensible cornea, which gave no pain, the dull lens would, at the slightest pressure, spring forward of itself; the patient immediately discerned objects, and only had to wait with bandaged eyes, until the completed cure should allow him to use the precious organ at his own will and convenience. How many a poor man, for whom Jung had procured this happiness, had invoked God's blessing and reward upon his benefactor, which was now to be realized by means of this wealthy patient!
Jung confessed to me that this time the operation had not gone off so easily and so successfully; the lens had not sprung forward, he had been obliged to draw it out, and indeed, as it had grown to the socket, to loosen it; and this he was not able to do without violence. He now reproached himself for having operated also on the other eye. But Lersner and his friends had firmly resolved to have both couched at the same time, and when the emergency occurred, they did not immediately recover presence of mind enough to think what was best. Suffice it to say, the second lens also did not spontaneously spring forward; but had to be loosened and drawn out with difficulty.
How much pain our benevolent, good-natured, pious friend felt in this case, it is impossible to describe or to unfold; some general observations on his state of mind will not be out of place here.
To labor for his own moral culture, is the simplest and most practicable thing which man can propose to himself; the impulse is inborn in him; while in social life both reason and love, prompt or rather force him to do so.
Stilling could only live in a moral religious atmosphere of love; without sympathy, without hearty response, he could not exist; he demanded mutual attachment; where he was not known, he was silent; where he was only known, not loved, he was sad; accordingly he got on best with those well-disposed persons, who can set themselves down for life in their assigned vocation and go to work to perfect themselves in their narrow but peaceful sphere.
Such persons succeed pretty well in stifling vanity, in renouncing the pursuit of outward power, in acquiring a circumspect way of speaking, and in preserving a uniformly friendly manner towards companions and neighbors.
Frequently we may observe in this class traces of a certain form of mental character, modified by individual varieties; such persons, accidentally excited, attach great weight to the course of their experience; they consider everything a supernatural determination, in the conviction that God interferes immediately with the course of the world.
With all this there is associated a certain disposition to abide in his present state, and yet at the same time to allow themselves to be pushed or led on; which results from a certain indecision to act of themselves. The latter is increased by the miscarriage of the wisest plans, as well as by the accidental success brought about by the unforeseen concurrence of favorable occurrences.
Now, since a vigilant manly character is much checked by this way of life, it is well worthy of reflection and inquiry, how men are most liable to fall into such a state.
The things sympathetic persons of this kind love most to talk of, are the so-called awakenings and conversions, to which we will not deny a certain psychological value. They are properly what we call in scientific and poetic matters, an "aperçu;" the perception of a great maxim, which is always a genius-like operation of the mind; we arrive at it by pure intuition, that is, by reflection, neither by learning or tradition. In the cases before us it is the perception of the moral power, which anchors in faith, and thus feels itself in proud security in the midst of the waves.
Such an aperçu gives the discoverer the greatest joy, because, in an original manner, it points to the infinite; it requires no length of time to work conviction; it leaps forth whole and complete in a moment; hence the quaint old French rhyme:
En peu d'heure
Dieu labeure.
Outward occasions often work violently in bringing about such conversions, and then people think they see in them signs and wonders.
Stilling.
Love and confidence bound me most heartily to Stilling; I had moreover exercised a good and happy influence on his life, and it was quite in accordance with his disposition, to treasure up in a tender grateful heart the remembrance of all that had ever been done for him; but in my existing frame of mind and pursuits his society neither benefited nor cheered me. I was glad to let every one interpret as he pleased and work out the riddle of his days, but this way of ascribing to ail immediate divine influence, all the good that after a rational manner occurs to us in our chanceful life, seemed to me too presumptuous; and the habit of regarding the painful consequences of the hasty acts and omissions of our own thoughtlessness or conceit, as a dime chastisement, did not at all suit me. I could, therefore, only listen to my good friend, but could not give him any very encouraging reply; still I readily suffered him, like so many others, to go his own way, and defended him since then, as well as before, when others, of too worldly a mind, did not hesitate to wound his gentle nature. Thus I never allowed a roguish remark to come to his ears, made by a waggish man who once very earnestly exclaimed: "No! indeed, if I were as intimate with God as Jung is, I would never pray to the Most High for gold, but for wisdom and good counsel, that I might not make so many blunders which cost money, and draw after them wretched years of debt."
In truth, it was no time for such jests. Between hope and fear several more days passed away; with him the latter grew, the former waned, and, at last, vanished altogether; the eyes of the good patient man had become inflamed, and there remained no doubt that the operation had failed.
The state of mind to which our friend was reduced hereby, is not to be described; he was struggling against the deepest and worst kind of despair. For what was there now that he had not lost! In the first place, the warm thanks of one restored to sight – the noblest reward which a physician can enjoy; then the confidence of others similarly needing help; then his worldly credit, while the interruption of his peculiar practice would reduce his family to a helpless state. In short, we played the mournful drama of Job through from beginning to end, since the faithful Jung took himself the part of the reproving friends. He chose to regard this calamity as the punishment of his former faults; it seemed to him that in taking his accidental discovery of an eye-cure as a divine call to that business, he had acted wickedly and profanely; he reproached himself for not having thoroughly studied this highly important department, instead of lightly trusting his cures to good fortune; what his enemies had said of him recurred again to his mind; he began to doubt whether perhaps it was not all true? and it pained him the more deeply when he found that in the course of his life he had been guilty of that levity which is so dangerous to pious men, and also of presumption and vanity. In such moments he lost himself, and in whatever light we might endeavour to set the matter, we, at last, elicited from him only the rational and necessary conclusion that the ways of God are unsearchable.
My unceasing efforts to be cheerful, would have been more checked by Jung's visit, if I had not, according to my usual habit, subjected his state of mind to an earnest friendly examination, and explained it after my own fashion. It vexed me not a little to see my good mother so poorly rewarded for her domestic care and pains-taking, though she did not herself perceive it, with her usual equanimity and ever bustling activity. I was most pained for my father. On my account he, with a good grace, had enlarged what hitherto had been a strictly close and private circle, and at table especially, where the presence of strangers attracted familiar friends and even passing visitors, he liked to indulge in a merry, even paradoxical conversation, in which I put him in good humor and drew from him many an approving smile, by all sorts of dialectic pugilism: for I had an ungodly way of disputing everything, which, however, I pertinaciously kept up in every case so long only as he, who maintained the right, was not yet made perfectly ridiculous. During the last few weeks, however, this procedure was not to be thought of; for many very happy and most cheering incidents, occasioned by some successful secondary cures on the part of our friend, who had been made so miserable by the failure of his principal attempt, did not affect him, much less did they give his gloomy mood another turn.
Stilling's Jew Patient.
One incident in particular was most amusing. Among Jung's patients there was a blind old Jewish beggar, who had come from Isenburg to Frankfort, where in the extremity of wretchedness, he scarcely found a shelter, scarcely the meanest food and attendance; nevertheless his tough oriental nature helped him through and he was in raptures to find himself healed perfectly and without the least suffering. When asked if the operation pained him, he said, in his hyperbolical manner, "If I had a million eyes, I would let them all be operated upon, one after the other, for half a Kopfstück."72 On his departure he acted quite as eccentrically in the Fahrgasse (or main thoroughfare); he thanked God, and in good old testament style, praised the Lord and the wondrous man whom He had sent. Shouting this he walked, slowly on through the long busy street towards the bridge. Buyers and sellers ran out of the shops, surprised by this singular exhibition of pious enthusiasm, passionately venting itself before all the world, and he excited their sympathy to such a degree, that, without asking anything, he was amply furnished with gifts for his travelling expenses.
This lively incident, however, could hardly be mentioned in our circle; for though the poor wretch, with all his domestic misery, in his sandy home beyond the Main, could still be counted extremely happy; the man of wealth and dignity on this side of the river, for whom we were most interested, had missed the priceless relief so confidently expected.
It was sickening, therefore, to our good Jung to receive the thousand guilders, which, being stipulated in any case, were honorably paid by the high-minded sufferer. This ready money was destined to liquidate, on his return, a portion of the debts, which added their burden to other sad and unhappy circumstances.
And so he went off inconsolable, for he could not help thinking of his meeting with his care-worn wife, the changed manner of her parents, who, as sureties for so many debts of this too confiding man, might, however well-wishing, consider they had made a great mistake in the choice of a partner for their daughter. In this and that house, from this and that window, he could already see the scornful and contemptuous looks of those who even when he was prospering, had wished him no good; while the thought of a practice interrupted by his absence, and likely to be materially damaged by his failure, troubled him extremely.
And so we took our leave of him, not without all hope on our parts; for his strong nature, sustained by faith in supernatural aid, could not but inspire his friends with a quiet and moderate confidence.
SEVENTEENTH BOOK
Lili – Betrothal – Ulrich von Hutten
In resuming the history of my relation to Lili, I have to mention the many very pleasant hours I spent in her society, partly in the presence of her mother, partly alone with her. On the strength of my writings, people gave me credit for knowledge of the human heart, as it was then called, and in this view our conversations were morally interesting in every way.
But how could we talk of such inward matters without coming to mutual disclosures? It was not long before, in a quiet hour, Lili told me the history of her youth. She had grown up in the enjoyment of all the advantages of society and worldly comforts. She described to me her brothers, her relations, and all her nearest connexions; only her mother was kept in a respectful obscurity.
Little weaknesses, too, were thought of; and among them she could not deny, that she had often remarked in herself a certain gift of attracting others, with which, at the same time, was united a certain peculiarity of letting them go again. By prattling on we thus came at last to the important point, that she had exercised this gift upon me too, but had been punished for it, since she had been attracted by me also.
These confessions flowed forth from so pure and childlike a nature, that by them she made me entirely her own.
We were now necessary to each other, we had grown into the habit of seeing each other; but how many a day, how many an evening till far into the night, should I have had to deny myself her company, if I had not reconciled myself to seeing her in her own circles! This was a source of manifold pain to me.
My relation to her was that of a character to a character – I looked upon her as, to a beautiful, amiable, highly accomplished daughter; it was like my earlier attachments, but was of a still higher kind. Of outward circumstances, however, of the interchange of social relations, I had never thought. An irresistible longing reigned in me; I could not be without her, nor she without me; but from the circle which surrounded her, and through the interference of its individual members, how many days were spoiled, how many hours wasted.
The history of pleasure parties which ended in displeasure; a retarding brother, whom I was to accompany, who would however always be stopping to do some business or other which perhaps somewhat maliciously he was in no hurry to finish, and would thereby spoil the whole well-concerted plan for a meeting, and ever so much more of accident and disappointment, of impatience and privation, – all these little troubles, which, circumstantially set forth in a romance, would certainly find sympathizing readers, I must here omit. However, to bring this merely contemplative account nearer to a living experience to a youthful sympathy, I may insert some songs, which are indeed well known but are perhaps especially impressive in this place.
Heart, my heart, O, what hath changed thee?
What doth weigh on thee so sore?
What hath from myself estranged thee.
That I scarcely know thee more?
Gone is all which once seemed dearest,
Gone the care which once was nearest
Gone thy toils and tranquil bliss,
Ah! how couldst thou come to this?
Does that bloom so fresh and youthful, —
That divine and lovely form, —
That sweet look, so good and truthful.
Bind thee with resistless charm?
If I swear no more to see her,
If I man myself, and flee her,
Soon I find my efforts vain
Forc'd to seek her once again.
She with magic thread has bound me,
That defies my strength or skill,
She has drawn a circle round me,
Holds me fast against my will.
Cruel maid, her charms enslave me,
I must live as she would have me,
Ah! how great the change to me!
Love! when wilt thou set mo free!
With resistless power why dost thou press me
Into scenes so bright?
Had I not – good youth – so much to bless me
In the lonely night?
In my little chamber close I found me,
In the moon's cold beams;
And their quivering light fell softly round me.
While I lay in dreams.
And by hours of pure, unmingled pleasure,
All my dreams were blest,
While I felt her image, as a treasure,
Deep within my breast.
Is it I, she at the table places,
'Mid so many lights?
Yes, to meet intolerable faces,
She her slave invites.
Ah! the Spring's fresh fields no longer cheer me,
Flowers no sweetness bring;
Angel, where thou art, all sweets are near me, —
Love, Nature, and Spring.
Whoever reads these songs attentively to himself or better still, sings them with feeling, will certainly feel a breath of the fulness of those happy hours stealing over him.
But we will not take leave of that greater, and more brilliant society, without adding some further remarks, especially to explain the close of the second poem.
Lili's Soirées.
She, whom I was only accustomed to see in a simple dress which was seldom changed, now stood before me on such occasions in all the splendor of elegant fashion, and still she was the same. Her usual grace and kindliness of manner remained, only I should say her gift of attracting shone more conspicuous; – perhaps, because brought into contact with several persons, she seemed called upon to express herself with more animation, and to exhibit herself on more sides, as various characters approached her. At any rate, I could not deny, on the one hand, that these strangers were annoying to me, while on the other I would not for a great deal have deprived myself of the pleasure of witnessing her talents for society, and of seeing that she was made for a wider and more general sphere.
Though covered with ornaments it was still the same bosom that had opened to me its inmost secrets, and into which I could look as clearly as into my own; they were still the same lips that had so lately described to me the state of things amidst which she had grown up, and had spent her early years. Every look that we interchanged, every accompanying smile, bespoke a noble feeling of mutual intelligence, and I was myself astonished, here in the crowd, at the secret innocent understanding which existed between us in the most human, the most natural way.
But with returning spring, the pleasant freedom of the country was to knit still closer these relations. Offenbach on the Main showed even then the considerable beginnings of a city, which promised to form itself in time. Beautiful, and for the times, splendid buildings, were already erected. Of these Uncle Bernard, (to call him by his familiar title) inhabited the largest; extensive factories were adjoining; D'Orville, a lively young man of amiable qualities, lived opposite. Contiguous gardens and terraces, reaching down to the Main, and affording a free egress in every direction into the lovely surrounding scenery, put both visitors and residents in excellent humor. The lover could not find a more desirable spot for indulging his feelings.
André-Ewald – Bürger's Leonore.
I lived, at the house of John André, and since I am here forced to mention this man, who afterwards made himself well enough known, I must indulge in a short digression, in order to give some idea of the state of the Opera at that time.
In Frankfort, Marchand was director of the theatre, and exerted himself in his own person to do all that was possible. In his best years he had been a fine, large well-made man, the easy and gentle qualities appeared to predominate in his character; his presence on the stage, therefore, was agreeable enough. He had perhaps as much voice as was required for the execution of any of the musical works of that day; accordingly he endeavoured to adapt to our stage the large and smaller French operas.
The part of the father in Gretry's opera of "Beauty and the Beast," particularly suited him and his acting was quite expressive in the scene of the Vision which was contrived at the back of the stage.
This opera, successful in its way, approached, however the lofty style, and was calculated to excite the tenderest feelings. On the other hand a Demon of Realism had got possession of the opera-house; operas founded upon different crafts and classes were brought out. The Huntsmen, the Coopers, and I know not what else, were produced; André chose the Potter. He had written the words himself, and upon that part of the text which belonged to him, had lavished his whole musical talent.
I was lodging with him, and will only say so much as occasion demands of this ever ready poet and composer.
He was a man of an innate lively talent and was settled at Offenbach, where he properly carried on a mechanical business and manufacture; he floated between the chapel-master (or Precentor) and the dilettante. In the hope of meriting the former title, he toiled very earnestly to gain a thorough knowledge of the science of music; in the latter character he was inclined to repeat his own compositions without end.
Among the persons who at this time were most active in filling and enlivening our circle, the pastor Ewald must be first named. In society an intellectual agreeable companion, he still carried on in private quietly and diligently the studies of his profession, and in fact afterwards honourably distinguished himself in the province of theology. Ewald in short was an indispensable member of our circle, being quick alike of comprehension and reply.
Lili's pianoforte-playing completely fettered our good André to our society; what with instructing, conducting, and executing, there were few hours of the day or night in which he was not either in the family circle or at our social parties.
Bürger's "Leonore," then but just published, and received with enthusiasm by the Germans, had been set to music by by him; this piece he was always forward to execute however often it might be encored.
I too, who was in the habit of repeating pieces of poetry with animation, was always ready to recite it. Our friends at this time did not get weary of the constant repetition of the same thing. When the company had their choice which of us they would rather hear, the decision was often in my favour.
All this (however it might be) served to prolong the intercourse of the lovers. They knew no bounds, and between them both they easily managed to keep the good John André continually in motion, that by repetitions he might make his music last till midnight. The two lovers thus secured for themselves, a precious and indispensable opportunity.
If we walked out early in the morning, we found ourselves in the freshest air, but not precisely in the country. Imposing buildings, which at that time would have done honor to a city; gardens, spreading before us and easily overlooked, with their smooth flower and ornamental beds; a clear prospect commanding the opposite banks of the river, over whose surface even at an early hour might be seen floating a busy line of rafts or nimble market-skiffs and boats – these together formed a gently gliding, living world, in harmony with love's tender feelings. Even the lonely rippling of the waves and rustling of the reeds in a softly flowing stream was highly refreshing, and never failed to throw a decidedly tranquillising spell over those who approached the spot. A clear sky of the finest season of the year overarched the whole, and most pleasant was it to renew morning after morning her dear society, in the midst of such scenes!
Should such a mode of life seem too irregular, too trivial to the earnest reader, let him consider that between what is here brought closely together for the sake of a convenient order, there intervened whole days and weeks of renunciation, other engagements and occupations, and indeed an insupportable tedium.
Men and women were busily engaged in their spheres of duty. I, too, out of regard for the present and the future, delayed not to attend to all my obligations; and I found time enough to finish that to which my talent and my passion irresistibly impelled me.
The earliest hours of the morning I devoted to poetry; the middle of the day was assigned to worldly business, which was handled in a manner quite peculiar. My father, a thorough and indeed finished jurist, managed himself such business as arose from the care of his own property, and a connexion with highly valued friends; for although his character as Imperial Councillor did not allow him to practise, he was at hand as legal adviser to many a friend, while the papers he had prepared were signed by a regular advocate, who received a consideration for every such signature.
This activity of his had now become more lively since my return, and I could easily remark, that he prized my talent higher than my practice, and on that account did what he could to leave me time for my poetical studies and productions. Sound and thoroughly apt, but slow of conception and execution, he studied the papers as private Referendarius, and when we came together, he would state the case, and left me to work it out, in which I shewed so much readiness, that he felt a father's purest joy, and once could not refrain from declaring, "that, if I were not of his own blood, he should envy me."
My Worldly Affairs.
To lighten our work we had engaged a scribe whose character and individuality, well worked out, would have helped to adorn a romance. After his school-years, which had been profitably spent, and in which he had become fully master of Latin, and acquired some other useful branches of knowledge, a dissipated academic life had brought trouble on the remainder of his days. He dragged on a wretched existence for a time in sickness and in poverty, till at last he contrived to improve his circumstances by the aid of a fine hand-writing and a readiness at accounts. Employed by some advocates, he gradually acquired an accurate knowledge of the formalities of legal business, and by his faithfulness and punctuality made every one he served his patron. He had been frequently employed by our family, and was always at hand in matters of law and account.
He also was an useful assistant in our continually increasing business, which consisted not only of law matters, but also of various sorts of commissions, orders and transit agencies. In the council-house he knew all the passages and windings; in his way, he was in tolerable favor at both burgomasters' audiences; and since, from his first entrance into office, and even during the times of his equivocal behaviour, he had been well acquainted with many of the new senators, some of whom had quickly risen to the dignity of Schöffen, he had acquired a certain confidence, which might be called a sort of influence. All this he knew how to turn to the advantage of his patrons, and since the state of his health forced him to limit his application to writing, he was always found ready to execute every commission or order with care.
His presence was not disagreeable; he was slender in person and of regular features; his manner was unobtrusive, though a certain expression betrayed his conviction that he knew all what was necessary to be done; moreover, he was cheerful and dexterous in clearing away difficulties. He must have been full forty, and (to say the same thing over again), I regret that I have never introduced him as the mainspring in the machinery of some novel.
Hoping that my more serious readers are now somewhat satisfied by what I have just related, I will venture to turn again to that bright point of time, when love and friendship shone in their fairest light.
It was in the nature of such social circles that all birth-days should be carefully celebrated, with every variety of rejoicing; it was in honor of the birth-day of the pastor Ewald, that the following song was written: —
When met in glad communion,
When warm'd by love and wine,
To sing this song in union,
Our voices we'll combine,
Through God, who first united,
Together we remain:
The flame which once He lighted,
He now revives again.
Since this song has been preserved until this day, and there is scarcely a merry party at which it is not joyfully revived, we commend it also to all that shall come after us, and to all who sing it or recite it we wish the same delight and inward satisfaction which we then had, when we had no thought of any wider world, but felt ourselves a world to ourselves in that narrow circle.
