f 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO
 
 .ESSAYS ON 
 GERMAN LITERATURE
 
 HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN'S WORKS. 
 
 GOETHE AND SCHILLER. Their Lives and Works; with a 
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 ESSAYS ON 
 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 PROFESSOB OF THE GERMANIC LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES IN 
 COLUMBIA COLLEGE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1892
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 TROW DIRECTORY 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
 HIW YORK
 
 NOTE 
 
 THE author desires to acknowledge his indebted- 
 ness to Mr. George Barrie, of Philadelphia, for 
 permission to reprint, in a revised and amplified 
 form, the papers entitled " The Life and Works of 
 Goethe" and "The Life and Works of Schiller," 
 which were originally written as introductions to 
 the sumptuous, illustrated edition de luxe of the two 
 poets, published by Mr. Barrie.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 GOETHE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 L THE LIFE AND WORKS OP GOETHE, ... 3 
 II. GOETHE AND CARLYLE, 58 
 
 III. THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OP GOETHE, . . 85 
 
 IV. SOME ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE, . 109 
 V. SEUMONS FROM GOETHE, 129 
 
 VI. GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN, . . . 148 
 
 SCHILLER 
 VIL THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER, . . 177 
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 
 
 VIII. THE EVOLUTION OF THE GERMAN NOVEL, . 213 
 IX. STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL, . . . 240 
 X. "CARMEN SYLVA," 264 
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 
 
 XI. SOCIAL ASPECTS OF THE GERMAN ROMANTIC 
 
 SCHOOL, - . . 281 
 
 XII. NOVALIS AND THE BLUE FLOWER, . . . 307 
 XIII. LITERARY ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL, 332
 
 GOETHE
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF 
 GOETHE 
 
 IT is told of the philosopher Hegel that he once 
 complained because so few understood his 
 writings. "Of all living men," he said, "there is 
 but one who has understood me ; and," he added, 
 after a moment's reflection, " he misunderstood me." 
 The common judgment of a man who spoke thus 
 would be that he was himself at fault, that his ut- 
 terance was needlessly obscure, since it failed to 
 appeal to ordinary human intelligence. In Hegel's 
 case such a judgment would not have been far 
 wrong. German philosophers, as a rule, cultivate 
 involved obscurity of diction, and perhaps even pride 
 themselves on their unintelligibility. 
 
 But for all that it is not to be denied that there is 
 a region of thought which lies beyond the range of 
 the ordinary intellect, and which is none the less ex- 
 alted and beautiful because of its inaccessibility to 
 the multitude. The fact that you or I do not see 
 anything in works of this or that poet, does not, of 
 necessity, prove that there is nothing in them. That 
 which you or I do not understand is not on that ac-
 
 4 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 count unintelligible. If the second part of " Faust " 
 fails to convey any meaning to the ordinary omni- 
 scient critic of the daily papers, it is generally sup- 
 posed that the second part of " Faust " stands there- 
 by condemned. That Goethe has opened a new 
 realm of thought to which even a college degree is 
 not necessarily a passport, that he has in " Faust " 
 expounded a deep philosophy of life, for the com- 
 prehension of which a more than ordinary large- 
 ness of vision and grasp of intellect are required, is 
 scarcely dreamed of by the herd of shallow, nimble- 
 witted critics who pat him kindly on the shoulder 
 and compare him blandly with Byron, Coleridge, 
 and "Wordsworth. 
 
 Of English wiiters only Carlyle seems to have had 
 an adequate conception of Goethe's greatness, al- 
 though he, too, was certainly at variance with the 
 fundamental principles which underlay his hero's 
 life and poetic activity. That he unconsciously dis- 
 torted the meaning of " Faust " is very obvious to 
 any student of Goethe who reads his essay on 
 " Helena." 
 
 It was the direct purpose of Goethe to be the 
 intellectual deliverer of his age, as he distinctly 
 avowed to Eclcermann when he said that the name 
 which he would prefer to all others was "Befreier." 
 The tendency of his life and his writings, after his 
 return from Italy, is all in the same direction. They 
 all teach, even whei'e no didactic purpose is ap- 
 parent, that liberty is attainable, not by defiance of 
 moral and physical law, but by obedience to it ; that
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 5 
 
 happiness is to be found only in a cheerful acquies- 
 cence in the rationality of existence. In this lesson 
 there is deliverance to him who properly estimates 
 and apprehends it. Thus barrenly stated it sounds 
 commonplace enough to us of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury ; but it is largely due to Goethe's influence 
 that it has become so generally accepted. Before 
 " Faust " was written there were few who would 
 have been able to defend such a proposition, even 
 though they might profess to accept it. 
 
 Johann Wolfgang Goethe was born in Frankfort- 
 on-the-Main, August 28, 1749. His family, a few 
 generations back, had been plain artisans, and had 
 by dint of talent and energy risen to prosperity and 
 social importance. Goethe's father had inherited a 
 respectable fortune, enjoyed a good education, and 
 had travelled considerably in his own country and 
 in Italy. He was a stern and methodical man, rig- 
 idly upright, impatient of all irregularities, and 
 somewhat pedantic in his habits and opinions. His 
 bearing was dignified, his disposition despotic. At 
 the age of thirty-eight he married Katharine Eliza- 
 beth, daughter of the Magistrate Textor, and bought 
 the title of Imperial Counsellor. There were no 
 duties connected with this office, but it conferred a 
 social rank which in those days was highly prized. 
 The young wife whom the counsellor installed in 
 his spacious house in the Hirschgraben was a con- 
 trast to him in almost everything. She was genial 
 and full of wholesome mirth. Her culture was 
 probably moderate enough, but she possessed a
 
 6 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 nature which compensated for all deficiencies of ed- 
 ucation. An exuberant fancy, inexhaustible good- 
 humor, and an ever - ready mother - wit made her 
 the most delightful of companions ; and no one 
 valued more highly her many charming gifts than 
 her son Johann Wolfgang. As he grew out of in- 
 fancy she became his playmate and friend, and the 
 confidant of his boyish sorrows. She listened with 
 delight to his improvisations, and secretly took his 
 part in his occasional rebellion against the paternal 
 authority. 
 
 In the invention of stories she was an expert ; her 
 serials ran from evening to evening, and were con- 
 tinued ad libitum. Goethe and his sister Cornelia 
 would then tell them at second-hand to their Grand- 
 mother Textor, indulging in conjectures as to the 
 future course of events, and expressing their hopes 
 for a satisfactory ending. These speculations Grand- 
 mother Textor would again confide to her daughter, 
 who would then take care to make Wolfgang's con- 
 jectures come true, meting out the most gratifying 
 justice to the villain, and to suffering virtue an am- 
 ple reward. 
 
 Frau Aja, as she was called, became in later years, 
 as her son's fame grew, a character in German lit- 
 erature. His friends became her friends, and no 
 one of any consequence passed through the city of 
 Frankfort without stopping to pay his respects to 
 her. Her cheerful view of life, her absolute refusal 
 to entertain gloomy subjects, her easy-going desire 
 to please and be pleased made her a universal favor-
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE J 
 
 ite. Previous to her death (1808) she arranged the 
 minutest details of her funeral, even warning her 
 servants not to skimp the raisins in the cake, with 
 which the guests were to be regaled. Receiving an 
 invitation to a party, as she felt the approach of 
 death, she returned the answer that " Madame 
 Goethe could not come, because she was, just then, 
 engaged in dying." 
 
 Goethe's father seems to have inspired most biog- 
 raphers with ill-will. And yet he was, though less 
 lovable than his wife, a well-endowed, conscientious, 
 and estimable man. That he was a sterner disci- 
 plinarian than his wife (who herself declared that she 
 was unfit to educate anybody) was a fortunate cir- 
 cumstance for his children. For Frau Aja systemati- 
 cally spoiled them, indulging all their whims, and 
 granting all their wishes, if they would only be 
 pleasant and not cry. There is plenty of evidence 
 that the counsellor had a great ambition for his 
 son, and took a deep interest in. his education. He 
 coirected and criticised his drawings, directed his 
 studies, watched his progress, and expressed his 
 displeasure when the boy failed to come up to his 
 expectation. Fortunate is the boy who has such a 
 father, even though he may not have the sagacity to 
 appreciate him. And doubly needed were the re- 
 straining force, the iusistance upon duty, and the 
 occasional severity of the Counsellor Goethe, as a 
 counterpoise to the utter laxity of the pleasure-lov- 
 ing mother. 
 
 Goethe's well-known views concerning his ances-
 
 8 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 try show that he valued in maturer years both his 
 paternal and maternal heredity : 
 
 " Vom Vater hab' ich die Statur, 
 Des Lebens ernstes Fiihren ; 
 Vom Miitterchen die Frohnatur 
 Die Lust zu fabuliren,'* 
 
 which Professor J. T. Blackie translates thus : 
 
 " My goodly frame and earnest soul 
 
 I from my sire inherit ; 
 My happy heart and glib discourse 
 Was my brave mother's merit." 
 
 Goethe was a precocious child, richly endowed 
 physically and mentally. He absorbed knowledge 
 spontaneously and without effort. His fancy, too, 
 was active, and he took delight in relating marvel- 
 lous tales, which he himself invented, to a company 
 of admiring friends. The two fairy tales, "The 
 New Paris " and " The New Melusine," which he re- 
 printed in a somewhat improved shape in his auto- 
 biography, belong to this period. 
 
 A charming anecdote is related apropos of his 
 fondness for Klopstock's biblical epic, "The Mes- 
 siah." Frau Aja had surreptitiously borrowed this 
 book, and went about with it in her pocket, because 
 her husband disapproved of Klopstock's wild and re- 
 bellious rhapsodies. Goethe and his younger sister 
 Cornelia, sharing their mother's predilections, there- 
 fore committed the precious verses to memory, and 
 amused themselves with personating the enraged
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 9 
 
 Satan and his subordinate fiends. Standing on 
 chairs in the nursery they would hurl the most 
 delightfully polysyllabic maledictions at each other. 
 One Saturday evening, while their father was receiv- 
 ing a professional visit from his barber, the two 
 children (who were always hushed and subdued in 
 his presence) were seated behind the stove whisper- 
 ing sonorous curses in each other's ears. Cornelia, 
 however, carried away by the impetus of her inspi- 
 ration, forgot the father's presence, and spoke with 
 increasing violence : 
 
 " Help me ! h&lp ! I implore thee, and if thou demand'st it 
 Worship thee, outcast ! Thou monster and black male- 
 factor ! 
 
 Help me ! I suffer the torments of death, the eternal 
 avenger ! " etc. 
 
 The barber, frightened out of his wits by such 
 extraordinary language, poured the soap-lather over 
 the counsellor's bosom. The culprits were sum- 
 moned for trial, and Klopstock was placed upon the 
 index expuryatorius. 
 
 In 1765 Goethe was sent to the University of 
 Leipsic, where he was matriculated as a student of 
 law. It was his father's wish that he should fit 
 himself for the legal profession, and in time inherit 
 the paternal dignity as a counsellor and honored 
 citizen of the free city of Frankfort. Agreeably to 
 this plan Goethe attended lectures on logic and 
 Roman law, but soon grew so tired of these bar- 
 ren disciplines that he absented himself from lect-
 
 IO GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 ures altogether. A brief and innocent love affair 
 with Kiithchen Schdnkopf, the daughter of the laud- 
 lord with whom he took his dinners, may have 
 tended to distract his attention. Loving your land- 
 lord's daughter is as a rule antagonistic both to law 
 and logic. A serious illness further interfered with 
 his studies, and in 1768, after three years' sojourn 
 at the university, Goethe was called home to Frank- 
 fort, where he spent two years, regaining his health. 
 Goethe's sojourn in Leipsic brought him into 
 contact with the French rococo culture, which then 
 predominated in all the higher circles of Ger- 
 many. The periwig period, with its elaborately 
 artificial manners and " elegant " sentiments, had 
 set its monuments in German literature as in that 
 of France. Gottsched, who was a servile imitator 
 of the authors of the age of Louis XIV. and Louis 
 XV., was a professor in Leipsic while Goethe was 
 there, though his influence as a dictator of taste 
 was greatly on the wane. Nevertheless the tone of 
 Leipsic society remained French, and it was natural 
 that an impressible young poet like Goethe should 
 assume the tone of his surroundings. We therefore 
 see that his first literary efforts, a volume of poems 
 published as texts for musical compositions, bear 
 the rococo stamp and are as frivolous and full of 
 artificial conceits, as if they had been addressed to 
 one of the beauties of Versailles. Poetry was then 
 believed to be a graceful ingenuity of language and 
 sparkling play of fancy. Nature was banished, as 
 rude and uncouth, or, if admitted, laced in a very
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE II 
 
 tight corset, rouged and powdered, befrilled and be- 
 dizened, until it could pass muster in the "elegant" 
 salons of the period. Goethe's youthful drama, 
 "The Accomplices" ("Die Mitschuldigen "), is in 
 this strain, and is radically alien to German moral- 
 ity. 
 
 In April, 1770, Goethe was sufficiently restored to 
 health to resume his studies. He did not, however, 
 return to Leipsic, but went to the University of 
 Strassburg, where the teaching of the law was held 
 to be very efficient. The city of Strassburg was 
 then, as it has ever since remained, essentially Ger- 
 man, though there was an infusion of Gallic life 
 from the French officials who governed the con- 
 quered province. It was here, where Gallic and 
 Teutonic life ran in friendly parallelism, that Goethe 
 first discovered the distinctive features of each. It 
 was here he met Herder, whose oracular utterances 
 on the subjects of poetry, religion, and society pow- 
 erfully affected him. Herder was a disciple of Rous- 
 seau,' and had declared war, not against civilization 
 in- general, but against that phase of it which was 
 represented by France. He detested -the entire peri- 
 wig spirit, and denounced in vigorous rhetoric its 
 hollow frivolity. He clamored for truth and sim- 
 plicity, and selected from the literature of the world 
 certain books in which he detected the strong and 
 uncorrupted voice of nature. Among these were the 
 Bible, Homer, Shakespeare, Ossian, and the ballad 
 literature of all nations. It is curious, indeed, to find 
 Ossian in such a company, but it must be remem-
 
 I 
 
 12 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 bered that MacPhersou's deception had not then 
 been exposed. 
 
 Goethe drank in eagerly these new and refreshing 
 doctrines. He began to read the wiiters Herder 
 recommended, and in his enthusiasm for Shakespeare 
 soon went beyond his teacher. He condemned his 
 own frivolous imitations of French models, and 
 wrestled with gigantic plans for future productions 
 which should infuse new vigor into the enervated 
 literature of the Fatherland. It was during this 
 period of Titanic enthusiasm that he conceived the 
 idea of " Faust," for the complete embodiment of 
 which he labored, though with many interruptions, 
 for sixty years, until a few months before his death. 
 A lively interest in natural science also began to de- 
 velop itself in him, while his disinclination for the 
 law showed no signs of abating. At lectures he was 
 not a frequent guest ; but for all that his intellect- 
 ual life was aroused and he was by no means idle. 
 With his great absorptive capacity he assimilated a 
 large amount of the most varied knowledge, but in- 
 sisted upon exercising his choice as to the kind of 
 learning which his nature and faculties craved. 
 The result was that, when the time came for taking 
 the doctor's degree, Johann Wolfgang Goethe, un- 
 questionably the most brilliant intellect Germany 
 has produced, failed to pass his examinations. He 
 was, however, not ignominiously " flunked," but 
 was permitted to depart with the more modest title 
 of " Licentiate of the Law." It was not his legal 
 learning which was found to be deficient, but his
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 13 
 
 thesis was tinctured with alarming sentiments which 
 savored of Rousseau. The faculty felt itself justi- 
 fied in stamping such dangerous doctrines with its 
 disapproval This was not what the old gentleman 
 in Frankfort had looked forward to, and it is pre- 
 sumable that the reception he gave his son, when he 
 returned in 1771 to the city of his fathers, was not 
 over-cordial. He was probably not wise enough to 
 see that he himself was to blame for having compelled 
 the boy to devote himself to a study for which he 
 had neither taste nor inclination. 
 
 An incident of Goethe's life in Strassburg, which 
 greatly influenced his literary activity, was his meet- 
 ing with Frederika Brion, the daughter of the par- 
 son at Sesenheim. The parsonage was about six 
 hours' journey from the city, and Goethe was in the 
 habit of visiting there with his friend Weyland, who 
 was a relative of the family. The parson was a 
 plain, God-fearing man, who went about in dress- 
 ing-gown and slippers and with a long pipe in his 
 mouth. His daughters, Salome and Frederika, were 
 what the daughters of country clergymen are apt to 
 be nice, domestic girls, who would make charm- 
 ing wives for almost anybody who would have the 
 good sense to propose to them. Frederika was 
 pretty, and moreover she had an unfortified heart. 
 She possessed a few artless accomplishments such 
 as playing and singing but when she was to dis- 
 play these before company, everything went wrong. 
 Her portrait, as drawn by Goethe in his autobiog- 
 raphy, is one of the loveliest things in German lit-
 
 14 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 erature. Her simple talk and strictly practical in- 
 terests, far removed from all sentimentality, seemed 
 to be in perfect accord with her little " tip-tilted 
 nose " and her half-rustic Alsatian costume. It is 
 obvious that she appealed to Goethe's artistic nat- 
 ure ; that he gloried in the romantic phases of his 
 simple life at the parsonage. He had already then 
 the keenest appreciation of what one might call the 
 literary aspect of his experiences. He knew at 
 once, and probably anticipated in spirit, how they 
 would look in a book. But he was at the same time 
 an inflammable youth, whose heart was readily 
 touched through the medium of his fancy. By de- 
 grees, as he established himself in the favor of every 
 member of the Brion family, his relation to Fred- 
 erika became that of a lover. The father and the 
 mother accepted him in this capacity, and Fred- 
 erika herself was overflowing with deep and quiet 
 happiness. By an unlucky chance, however, the 
 two Brion sisters were invited 'to spend some time 
 with friends in Strassburg. Goethe was charmed 
 at the prospect. But, strange to say, torn out of 
 the idyllic frame in which he had been wont to see 
 her, Frederika seemed no longer so miraculous. 
 She needed the rural parsonage and the yellow 
 wheat-fields for a setting ; amid the upholstered 
 furniture and gilded conventionalities of the city 
 she seemed only a simple-hearted country girl, per- 
 haps a little deficient in manners. From that time 
 the charm was broken. Frederika returned to her 
 home ; Goethe, too, soon left Strassburg. Freder-
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 1 5 
 
 ika waited for him month after month, but he did 
 not come. He lacked courage to tell her of the 
 changed state of his feelings, aiid left her to pine 
 away between hope and cruel disappointment. A 
 serious illness was the result, which came near end- 
 ing her life. Eight years later Goethe, then a world- 
 renowned man, revisited Sesenheim and found her 
 yet unmarried. She was as frank and friendly as 
 ever, but her youthful gayety was gone ; she was 
 pale, hushed, and subdued. She made no allusion 
 to the relation which had once existed between 
 them, but she conducted him silently to the arbor 
 in the garden where they had spent so many rapt- 
 urous hours together. There they sat down and 
 talked of indifferent things ; but many strange 
 thoughts arose in the minds of both. 
 
 Frederika died of consumption in 1813. 
 
 After his return to Frankfort, in 1771, Goethe 
 made an earnest effort to please his father by laying 
 the foundation of a legal practice. The counsellor 
 himself aided him in every possible way, looked up 
 his authorities, and acted as a private referee in 
 doubtful questions. For all that, it was literature 
 and not law which filled Goethe's mind and fash- 
 ioned his visions of the future. In the intervals of 
 business he paid visits to the city of Darmstadt, 
 where he made the acquaintance of Herder's fiancee, 
 Caroline Flachsland, and of Merck, who became his 
 model for Mephistopheles. It was an interesting 
 society which he here encountered, a society ani- 
 mated by an exalted veneration for poetic and intel-
 
 1 6 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 lectual achievements and devoted to a kind of emo- 
 tional extravagance an artificial heightening of 
 every fine feeling and sentiment. Caroline Flachs- 
 land and her circle, recognizing Goethe's extraor- 
 dinary endowment, and feeling, perhaps, doubly 
 inclined in his favor by his handsome exterior, ac- 
 cepted him, as it were, on trust, and honored him 
 for what he was going to do rather than for any-, 
 thing which he had actually accomplished. His 
 love affair with Frederika, which was here senti- 
 mentally discussed, also added to the interest with 
 which he was regarded. A man who is known to 
 have broken many hearts is naturally invested with 
 a tantalizing charm to women who have yet hearts 
 to be broken. At all events the great expectations 
 which were entertained of him in the Darmstadt 
 circle, stimulated him to justify the reputation 
 which had been thrust upon him. In 1772 he pub- 
 lished the drama, " Gotz von Berlichingen," which at 
 one stroke established his position as the foremost 
 among German poets. It must be remembered, 
 however, that Germany had at that time no really 
 great poet. Lessing was, indeed, alive, and had 
 written dramas which, in point of theatrical effec- 
 tiveness and brilliancy, were superior to " Gotz." 
 But Lessing disclaimed the title of poet, and his 
 prominence as a critic and a polemic defender of ra- 
 tionalism overshadowed, in the minds of his con- 
 temporaries, his earlier activity in the service of the 
 muses. Moreover, it is not to be denied that 
 "Gotz," with all its crudity of construction, is a
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE I? 
 
 warmer and more full-blooded production than any 
 of the plays which Lessiug had written for the pur- 
 pose of demonstrating the soundness of his canons 
 of dramatic criticism. 
 
 " Gotz " is a somewhat chaotic performance, ob- 
 viously written in imitation of Shakespeare. It 
 violates, whether purposely or not, every law of 
 dramatic construction. It is a touching and poeti- 
 cal story, displaying psychological insight and vig- 
 orous characterization. But it takes a nimble fancy 
 to keep up with the perpetual changes of scene ; 
 and even the tendency and morale of the piece are 
 open to criticism. Goethe enlists the reader's sym- 
 pathies in behalf of the law-breaker, whose sturdy 
 manhood and stubborn independence bring him 
 into conflict with the state. Gotz, in spite of his 
 personal merits, represents the wild and disorderly 
 individualism of the Middle Ages, at war with the 
 forces of order and social progress, represented by 
 the Emperor and the free cities. Therefore it is 
 scarcely proper to apostrophize him as the martyr 
 of a noble cause. 
 
 In " Gotz " Goethe deals, secondarily, with faith- 
 lessness as a psychological problem. He practically 
 assigns to himself the part of the villain, Weisslingen, 
 who from sheer weakness, " possessing no resolu- 
 tion either for good or for ill," breaks the heart of 
 a noble young girl. But Weisslingen is faithless 
 not because of any sinister delight in breaking 
 hearts, but because he lacks the courage to be true, 
 when he falls under the spell of a more dazzling and
 
 1 8 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 more powerful charmer. The latter, Adelaide von 
 Walldorf, is the only conventionally wicked stock 
 character of the drama to be found in all Goethe's 
 writings ; and she is, curiously enough, the only 
 one of his female characters for whom no living 
 original or prototype has been found. A sec- 
 ond revised edition of "Gotz" was published in 
 1773, in which some of the most daring unconven- 
 tionalities of the first edition are changed or omit- 
 ted, and the dramatic action is concentrated and 
 much improved. 
 
 After having practised law in a leisurely fashion 
 in Frankfort, Goethe removed, at his father's rec- 
 ommendation, to Wetzlar, where he was admitted 
 as a practitioner at the Imperial Chamber of Justice. 
 This removal took place in May, 1774. Among the 
 first acquaintances which he made in this city were 
 a young jurist named Kestner and his fiancee, 
 Charlotte Buff. Kestner and Goethe became good 
 friends, in spite of differences of temperament and 
 character, and their friendship soon came to include 
 Lotte. The jurist, who was a plain, practical man, 
 and the soul of honor, could see no danger in the 
 daily association of his betrothed with a handsome 
 and brilliant young poet, who confided to her his 
 hopes and ambitions, romped with her small broth- 
 ers and sisters, and captivated the entire family 
 by the reckless grace and charm of his manners. 
 Kestner did not suspect that there were depths 
 in Lotte's nature which he had never sounded, 
 regions of sentiment and fancy which he could
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE IQ 
 
 never hope to explore. For Lotte, though she had 
 a strong sense of duty, had by no means as well- 
 regulated and business-like a heart as her practical 
 lover. Thus the strange thing came to pass : Lotte 
 fell in love with Goethe, and Goethe with Lotte. 
 They made no confession of their secret even to 
 each other, but they revelled in each other's com- 
 pany, undisturbed by Kestner's presence. At last, 
 however, a crisis occurred. Goethe began to see 
 that he was treading on dangerous ground. One 
 evening, as he was lounging at Lotte's feet, playing 
 with the flounces on her dress, and the talk had 
 taken a serious turn, he remarked, referring to a 
 brief journey which he was about to undertake, that 
 he hoped they would meet "jenseits " (beyond), 
 meaning beyond the mountains which he was going 
 to cross. Lotte misunderstood the allusion, and, 
 quite forgetting Kestner's presence, answered, fer- 
 vently, that she could well be reconciled to losing 
 him in this world, implying that she hoped to be 
 united to him in the hereafter. It was a sudden 
 flash which revealed to Goethe the fact that Lotte 
 loved him. He was Kestner's friend, was trusted 
 by him, and could not act dishonorably. So he took 
 his leave, packed his trunks that very night, and 
 wrote three despairing letters, in which he avowed 
 his love for Lotte, and gave this as the reason of his 
 departure. He made it appear, probably in order 
 to shield her, that his love was hopeless and that 
 her happiness was dearer to him than his own. 
 That this is the true version of the Wetzlar affair
 
 20 GERMAN 1 LITERATURE 
 
 is made plain by the documents published by Her- 
 man Grimm, in his " Lectures on Goethe." 
 
 This episode with Charlotte Buff and Kestner 
 furnished Goethe with the material for his celebrated 
 romance, " The Sorrows of Werther," which he 
 published in September, 1774.' As was usual with 
 him, and indeed with every great poet, he did not 
 copy the actual relation, but he borrowed from it 
 what was typical and immortal, and left out what 
 was accidental and insignificant. Thus Lotte in 
 " Werther " is not Charlotte Buff, though she sat 
 for her model and furnished the main features of the 
 beautiful type. In a still less degree is the pitiful 
 Albert the author's friend Kestner, though he is 
 sufficiently like the latter to justify him in being of- 
 fended. The character of Werther himself is more 
 of a free creation, though his external fate was bor- 
 rowed from that of a young secretary named Jeru- 
 salem, who shot himself for love of a married 
 woman. In all other respects Werther is Goethe 
 himself in his " Storm and Stress " period, while 
 all the vital juices of his being were in ferment, 
 while his youthful heart beat loudly in sympathy 
 with the world's woe ; while the tumultuous cur- 
 rents of emotion swayed him hither and thither, 
 and could not be made to run in the safe con- 
 ventional channels. And yet, even in those days, 
 there was a still small voice of reason in Goethe's 
 soul which restrained him from excesses an under- 
 current of sanity and sobriety which kept him always 
 sound in his innermost core. If Werther had been
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 21 
 
 like his prototype in this respect he would not have 
 killed himself in other words, he would not have 
 been Werther. 
 
 The amazing popularity which " The Sorrows of 
 Werther " attained, not only in Germany but 
 throughout the civilized world, cannot be due to the 
 story as such, which is as simple as any episode of 
 daily life. It is only explainable on the supposition 
 that the book for the first time voiced a sentiment 
 which was well - nigh universal in Europe, during 
 the eighteenth century. The Germans call it Welt- 
 schmerz i.e., world -woe. It takes in "Werther" 
 the form of a tender melancholy, a sense of poetic 
 sadness, which, after the unhappy love affair, deepens 
 into a gentle despair and leads to self-destruction. 
 Psychologically, this is a very interesting phenome- 
 non. The pent-up energy of the nation, which was 
 denied its natural sphere of action in public and 
 political life, takes a morbid turn and wastes itself 
 in unwholesome introspection, coddling of artificial 
 sentiment, and a vague discontent with the world in 
 general. 
 
 During the year 1774 Goethe also published the 
 tragedy " Clavigo," which was a great disappoint- 
 ment to his friends. Its plot is borrowed from the 
 " Memoirs of Beaumarchais," and deals again with 
 the problem of faithlessness. In poetic intensity 
 and fervor it is inferior to " Gotz " and " Werther," 
 while, in point of dramatic construction, it marks 
 an advance. It is his own faithlessness to Fred- 
 erika which Goethe obviously has in mind and which
 
 22 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 he is endeavoring psychologically to account for. 
 But even from this point of view the tragedy can 
 scarcely be called a success ; for the reader closes 
 the book with the conviction that Clavigo was, if 
 not a villain, at all events a weak poltroon, though 
 as such a perfectly comprehensible one. 
 
 After his departure from Wetzlar, Goethe once 
 more took up his residence in his native city, and, 
 before long, was again involved in a tender relation. 
 This time, it was a rich and beautiful lady of society 
 who attracted him quite a contrast to the rural 
 Frederika and the amiable and domestic Lotte. 
 Anna Elizabeth Schonemann, generally known as 
 Lilli, was about sixteen years old when Goethe fell 
 a victim to her charms. She was a spoiled child, 
 wilful and coquettish, but high-bred and with a 
 charm of manner, when she chose to be agreeable, 
 which fully explains the poet's devotion to her. More- 
 over, there was nothing meek and abjectly admiring 
 about her. She teased her adorer, tormented him 
 by her whims, and took delight in exercising her 
 power over him. This was quite a new experience 
 to a young man who had been accustomed to easy 
 conquests and uncritical adoration. He was now 
 drawn into general society, and, after his engage- 
 ment with Lilli had been made public, was com- 
 pelled to dance attendance upon her, early and late, 
 at balls and dinner-parties. As an experience this 
 might be valuable enough, but Goethe soon tired of 
 it, and protested in prose and verse against his ser- 
 vitude. Lilli, howevei', though she was sincerely
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 2$ 
 
 attached to him, could not be made to give up the 
 youthful gayety which seemed so attractive to her. 
 Quarrels ensued, alienations and reconciliations, and 
 finally a complete rupture. In many poems from 
 this period Goethe chronicles the various stages of 
 his love for Lilli and laments her loss. There is no 
 doubt that she had the making of a noble woman in 
 her ; her later life, and particularly her utterances 
 concerning her relation to Goethe, show that she 
 was neither frivolous nor shallow-hearted. But she 
 was young and beautiful, and had a sense of power 
 which it was but natural for her to exercise. The 
 meek and submissive maiden is in undue favor with 
 men, and Goethe's biographers, being all men, have 
 done their best to revile the memory of Lilli. 
 
 Among the friends who were warmly attached to 
 Goethe at this time, Fritz Jacobi and Lavater demand 
 a passing notice. Both presented a queer mixture 
 of character, which accounts for their subsequent 
 alienation from the poet. It is worthy of remark 
 that scarcely any of the associates of Goethe's youth 
 maintained their intimate relations with him through 
 life. He valued a friend only as long as he was in 
 sympathy with him, and as he outgrew his youthful 
 self, the friends who had been identified with this 
 self lapsed into the distance. He did not value 
 fidelity in the ordinary sense of the term, when it 
 involved a perpetual strain upon the heart when it 
 had become a matter of duty rather than of affec- 
 tion. As regards Lavater, he was, with all his os- 
 tentatious, spirituality, a good deal of a charlatan,
 
 24 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 even so much so as to justify Goethe's epigram in 
 the " Xenien : " 
 
 " Oh, what a pity that Nature but one inaii made out of you, 
 
 friend ! 
 
 Besides for an honest man, there was also the stuff for a 
 knave." 
 
 He reminds one of Carlyle's friend Irving, who 
 also started as an honest zealot and lapsed into 
 emotional excesses, which leave one no choice but 
 to question either his sanity or his honesty. The 
 so-called science of physiognomy, which Lavater 
 claimed to have discovered, at one time interested 
 Goethe ; but later, when he became familiar with 
 scientific methods of research, he could no longer 
 accept Lavater as a guide. 
 
 Fritz Jacobi was an honest sentimentalist, who 
 ardently revered Goethe for his great powers of 
 mind and intellect. They travelled together, and 
 revelled in the emotions of love and sympathy which 
 welled forth from the souls of both. Everything 
 that they saw filled them with ecstatic wonder, and 
 furnished themes for extravagant discourses and 
 poetic dreams. Jacobi, even though the years 
 sobered him, never completely outgrew this state, 
 and when he published his sentimental romance 
 " Woldemar," which Goethe could not admire, their 
 friendship began to cool. They drifted slowly apart, 
 though there was no rupture to signalize their es- 
 trangement. 
 
 In spite of all his efforts, Goethe could not obtain
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 2$ 
 
 any lasting satisfaction from bis occupation with the 
 law, and he grew lax in his attention to professional 
 duties. The counsellor was grievously disappointed, 
 and the relation between father and son grew so 
 strained that all the diplomacy of the mother was 
 required to keep them from open disagreement. It 
 was therefore a godsend to Goethe when, in 1775, 
 the two princes of Saxe-Weimar arrived in Frank- 
 fort, and extended to him an invitation to visit their 
 court. The eldest of the brothers, Karl August, 
 took a great fancy to the author of " Werther," and 
 made every effort to keep him as a friend and com- 
 panion. To this end he conferred upon Goethe the 
 title of Privy Counsellor, with an annual salary of 
 twelve hundred thalers and a vote in the ducal 
 cabinet. Goethe had thus at last got firm ground 
 under his feet, and could now, without fear of the 
 future, give himself up to his favorite pursuits. His 
 arrival in Weimar made a sensation. His fame, his 
 beauty, and his winning manners gave him at once a 
 prestige, which he maintained undimiuished to the 
 end of his days. The duke, who was a blunt and 
 honest fellow, fond of pleasure and yet zealous for 
 the welfare of his subjects, found in Goethe a firm 
 support for his noblest endeavors. As a boon-com- 
 panion in pleasure he found the poet no less attrac- 
 tive ; though it is now conceded that the tales which 
 were circulated concerning the excesses of the two 
 friends, at court festivals and rural excursions, were 
 greatly exaggerated. It is true, a pause occurs in 
 Goethe's literary activity after his arrival in Wei-
 
 26 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 mar ; but this was due not to preoccupation with 
 pleasure, but to the zeal with which he devoted him- 
 self to his official duties. It was important to Goe- 
 the, as a poet, to gain a deeper insight into practical 
 reality, and he seized the present opportunity to 
 familiarize himself with many phases of life which 
 hitherto had lain beyond his horizon. Strange as 
 it may seem to those who identify with the name of 
 poet everything that is fantastic and irregular, he 
 made a model official punctual and exact in all his 
 dealings, painstaking, upright, and inflexible. 
 
 During his early youth, Goethe had been identified 
 with the school in German literature known as the 
 "Storm and Stress " ("Sturm und Drang"). The 
 members of this school had clamored for a return to 
 Nature meaning by Nature absence of civilization. 
 Civilization was held responsible for all the ills to 
 which flesh is heir, and the remedy was held to be 
 the abolishment of all the artificial refinements of 
 life which interfered with the free expression of 
 Nature. Goethe never went to the same length in 
 these doctrines as some of his associates (Klinger, 
 Lenz, Leisewitz), but he was, for all that, like them, 
 a disciple of Rousseau, and had, both in " Gotz " 
 and "Werther," made war upon civilized society. 
 It is therefore notable that, after his arrival in Wei- 
 mar and his closer contact with the actualities of 
 life, a profound change came over him, which 
 amounted to a revolution in his convictions. The 
 wild ferment of his youth had found its natural ex- 
 pression in the fervid, tumultuous diction of the
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 2J 
 
 " Storm and Stress," but his maturer manhood de- 
 manded a clearer, soberer, and more precise utter- 
 ance. The change that took place in his style dur- 
 ing the first ten years of his sojourn in Weimar was 
 therefore a natural one, and ought to have caused 
 no surprise to those who knew him. 
 
 A very exhaustive record of Goethe's inner and 
 outer life during this period, is contained in his cor- 
 respondence with Frau von Stein, the wife of Baron 
 von Stein, a nobleman in the duke's service. She 
 was seven years older than the poet, and the mother 
 of seven children. Beautiful she was not, but she 
 was a woman of exceptional culture and finely at- 
 tuned mind, capable of comprehending subtle shades 
 of thought and feeling. Her face, as the portraits 
 show, was full of delicacy and refinement. Her 
 marriage was unhappy, and without any protest on 
 the part of her husband, she sought in daily inter- 
 course with Goethe a consolation for the miseries of 
 her life. Yet there is no sufficient reason for be- 
 lieving that the relation was anything more than a 
 bond of sympathy and an intellectual friendship. 
 His letters, appointing interviews and overflowing 
 with affectionate assurances, are those of a lover. 
 Unfortunately Frau von Stein's own letters have not 
 been preserved ; she took the precaution to demand 
 them back and burn them, when their friendship 
 came to an end.* 
 
 In September, 1786, Goethe started from Karls- 
 
 * For a fuller account see the essay on " Goethe's Rela- 
 tions with Women."
 
 28 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 bad for Italy, and arrived in October in Rome. For 
 many years it bad been bis dearest desire to see tbe 
 Eternal City, and to study with bis own eyes tbe 
 masterpieces of ancient art. In bis trunk be car- 
 ried several unfinisbed manuscripts, and in bis bead 
 a number of literary plans wbicb he bere boped to 
 mature, in tbe presence of tbe marble gods and 
 heroes of tbe ancient world. He associated chiefly 
 witb the artists Tiscbbein, Meyer, Philip Hackert, 
 and Angelica Kaufrnann, and revelled in art talk 
 and criticism. He took up again tbe study of 
 Homer, and began to meditate upon an Homeric 
 drama, to be called "Nausicaa." Italy, witb its 
 bright sky, its gently sloping mountains, clad witb 
 silvery olive-trees, and its shores washed by the 
 blue Mediterranean waves, became a revelation to 
 him, and he apprehended keenly her deepest poetic 
 meaning. A cheerful paganism henceforth animates 
 his writings, a delight in sensuous beauty, and a cer- 
 tain impatience with the Christian ideal of self-ab- 
 negation. The Hellenic ideal of harmonious cult- 
 ure an even development of all the powers of body 
 and soul appealed powerfully to him. He flung 
 away his Gothic inheritance, undervaluing, in bis 
 devotion to the Greeks, what was noble and beauti- 
 ful in tbe sturdy, self-denying manhood of the North. 
 His drama "Iphigenia," which he had first written 
 in prose, he now rewrote in classical pentameters 
 and sent it home to his friends in Weimar, who were 
 completely mystified, and did not quite dare to say 
 that they did not comprehend it. For ab 1 that, this
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 29 
 
 drama is a very remarkable production, uniting, as 
 it were, the Greek and the Germanic ideal, and be- 
 ing in spirit as close to the latter as it is in form to 
 the former. Goethe dealt with this old classic tale 
 as no Greek could ever have done. He makes the 
 gentle womanhood of Iphigenia soften the man- 
 ners of the fierce Taurians, and by her noble charac- 
 ter act as a civilizing influence in the midst of the 
 barbarous race. The Greeks had not arrived at 
 such an estimate of women ; nor would Euripides, 
 who dealt with the same legend, have understood 
 Goethe's version of it any better than did Herder 
 and his friends in Weimar. 
 
 In June, 1788, Goethe again turned his face 
 northward, after an absence of nearly two years. 
 One of the first effects of his Italian experience was 
 that he took a mistress, named Christiane Vulpius, 
 whom many years later he married. Christiane was 
 a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked girl, with an abundance 
 of curly hair, in no wise intellectual, and belonging 
 to ;i family in which drunkenness was hereditary. 
 She was of redundant physical development, had al- 
 ways a bright smile, and was sufficiently intelligent 
 to take a mild interest in her lover's literary and 
 scientific pursuits. But that his liaison with her 
 was, for all that, a deplorable mistake, can scarcely 
 be questioned. In the first place she developed, as 
 she grew older, her hereditary vice, and was fre- 
 quently unpresentable on account of intoxication. 
 The son whom she bore to Goethe inherited the 
 same failing, and died suddenly in Rome, as has
 
 3O GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 been surmised, from the effects of a carouse. The 
 young man, who was handsome in person and well 
 endowed, had been married some years before and 
 was the father of two sons, both of whom died un- 
 married. Walter von Goethe, who lived until April, 
 1885, was a chamberlain at the Court of Weimar, 
 and at one time cherished poetical-aspirations. With 
 his death the race of Goethe became extinct in the 
 direct line. It is, indeed, true that the sins of the 
 fathers avenge themselves upon the children. 
 
 Christiane's removal to Goethe's house, where he 
 henceforth claimed for her the place and respect due 
 to a wife, caused a grievous commotion in Weimar. 
 Frau von Stein was the first to take offence, and a 
 rupture of their former relation was the result. 
 Herder also remonstrated, and soon ceased to count 
 himself among Goethe's friends. 
 
 In 1789 Goethe completed a drama which, like the 
 "Iphigenia," had existed in an earlier prose version. 
 It was entitled "Tasso," and dealt with the history 
 of the Italian poet of that name. Its purpose seems 
 to be to protest against the over-estimation of a poet's 
 calling, then in vogue, and to assert the rights of 
 practical reason as against those of the imagination. 
 Tasso is represented as an impulsive and warm- 
 hearted man who is violently swayed by his emotions, 
 while the cool-headed man of the world, Antonio, 
 represents the opposite type. In the contest which 
 arises between them Tasso is worsted ; and it is 
 Goethe's purpose to convince the reader that he de- 
 serves his fate. In this, however, he is not entirely
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 31 
 
 successful. Antonio, the adroit and sagacious diplo- 
 mat, is an unattractive character as compared with 
 the noble and generous Tasso, who errs from in- 
 ability to restrain his passionate adoration of the 
 Princess Leonora. The world is apt to sympathize 
 more with generous folly than with far-seeing sagac- 
 ity and nicely-adjusted calculation. And yet, when 
 we have advanced another century, I am inclined to 
 think that we shall agree that Goethe's judgment 
 was right. 
 
 As an acting play "Tasso" is even less effective 
 than " Gotz " and " Iphigenia," being rather a poetic 
 and admirably conceived story, told in dramatic 
 form, than a drama in the ordinary acceptation of 
 the term. 
 
 If further proof were needed that Goethe was not 
 a dramatist, "Egmont" furnishes conclusive evi- 
 dence. Here were again a series of delightful 
 characterizations, subtle, and yet vigorous ; and pic- 
 turesquely effective scenes, strung together most en- 
 tertainingly, but only with remote reference to the 
 requirements of the stage. There is no perceptible 
 acceleration of the action, as it progresses, no sharp 
 accentuation of motives and effects, and no inexor- 
 able necessity, either internal or external, which 
 hurries the hero to his destruction. No poet, 
 however great, can emancipate himself from these 
 laws, if he wishes to produce a successful tragedy. 
 As a mere literary production, "Egmont" is fully 
 worthy of the author of "Gotz " and " Werther," and 
 deserves the immortality which it has earned. The
 
 32 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 types of Clarchen and Egmont have a perennial 
 beauty, of which no critic can deprive them. The 
 great elemental passion, which is the mainspring of 
 their speech and action, appeals to all hearts alike, 
 and invests them with a charm which can never grow 
 old. 
 
 The critic who first expressed substantially the 
 above opinion of " Egmont " was a young man named 
 Frederick Schiller, who was just then glorying in his 
 first fame as the author of " The Bobbers " and other 
 sensational dramas. He had had a great desire to 
 make the acquaintance of Goethe, whom he revered ; 
 though he was probably aware of the dislike which 
 Goethe entertained for the violent and declamatory 
 school which he represented. At a meeting which 
 took place in September, 1788, Schiller was quite 
 grieved at the coolness with which the elder poet re- 
 ceived him ; and at a subsequent interview he like- 
 wise failed to make any advance in Goethe's favor. 
 It was not until six years later that a literary enter- 
 prise (" Die Horen "), which Schiller had started, 
 brought them into closer contact ; and Goethe learned 
 to value the genius of the man whom he had politely 
 repelled. From this time forth they saw much of 
 each other, and remained in correspondence when- 
 ever chance separated them. A beautiful friendship, 
 founded upon mutual respect and community of in- 
 terests, sprung up between them, and deepened with 
 every year, until death separated them. Literature 
 has no more perfect relation to show between two 
 great men than this between Goethe and Schiller.
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 33 
 
 No jealousy, no passing disagreement, clouded the 
 serenity of their intercourse. They met, as it were, 
 only upon the altitudes of the soul, where no small 
 and petty passions have the power to reach. Their 
 correspondence, which has been published, is a 
 noble monument to the worth of both. The ear- 
 nestness with which they discuss the principles of 
 their art, the profound conscientiousness and high- 
 bred courtesy with which they criticise each other's 
 works, and their generous rivalry in the loftiest ex- 
 cellence have no parallel in the entire history of lit- 
 erature. 
 
 It was chiefly due to the influence of Schiller that 
 Goethe determined to resume work upon the frag- 
 ment of "Faust," which he had kept for many years 
 in his portfolio, and finally published incomplete in 
 the edition of 1790. Schiller saw at once the possi- 
 bilities of this theme, and the magnificent dimensions 
 of the thought which underlay the daring conception. 
 Goethe, being preoccupied with the classical fancies 
 which the Italian journey had revived, was at first 
 unwilling to listen to his friend's advice, and spoke 
 disparagingly of the fragment as something too' 
 closely allied with his Gothic " Storm and Stress " 
 period, which he had now outgrown. So long, how- 
 ever, did Schiller persevere, that Goethe's interest 
 was reawakened, the plan widened and matured, and 
 for the rest of his life Goethe reserved his best and 
 noblest thought for this work, fully conscious that 
 upon it his claim to immortality would rest Still, 
 it was not until 1808 that the First Part finally ap-
 
 34 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 peared in its present form. In the meanwhile sev- 
 eral works of minor consequence occupied Goethe's 
 mind besides the romance " Wilhelm Meister," the 
 fundamental thought of which is kindred to that of 
 "Faust." The satirical poem, " Reynard the Fox," 
 founded upon an older popular model, was published 
 in 1794 and made some passing stir, and a rather 
 prolix and uninteresting romance, entitled "The 
 Conversations of German Emigrants," also engaged 
 his attention. In 1795 the first two volumes of 
 "Wilhelm Meister" were published, and were re- 
 ceived with enthusiasm by some and with censure 
 by many. The public at large, being unable to com- 
 prehend the philosophical purpose of the work, were 
 puzzled. As a story the book was sufficiently en- 
 tertaining, but it hinted everywhere at meanings 
 which it did not fully reveal It was obvious that it 
 was this hidden significance which the author had 
 at heart amid the bewildering panorama of shifting 
 scenes and persons. The plot is altogether too com- 
 plex to be unravelled here, but the philosophy of the 
 book may be briefly stated. 
 
 " Wilhelm Meister " aims at nothing less than to 
 portray the disintegration of feudal society, then vis- 
 ibly commencing the transition from a feudal to 
 an industrial civilization. The nobleman's preroga- 
 tives cannot endure unless they are founded upon 
 qualities of mind and character which make him in- 
 dispensable to the state. In other words, it is a 
 man's utility which in the end must establish his 
 place in society. All other distinctions are artificial
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 35 
 
 and evanescent. That society had not yet reached 
 this state Goethe was well aware, but he merely 
 wished to indicate the direction which the develop- 
 ment of the future must inevitably take. The quest 
 for the ideal which drives Wilhelm from the routine 
 of the paternal counting-house into a life of wild 
 adventure, is merely the individual manifestation of 
 the restless discontent which animates society at 
 large, and is slowly revolutionizing it, in accordance 
 with the changed conditions of modern life. The 
 world's ideal, like that of Wilhelm Meister, is per- 
 petually changing, and each achievement in social 
 reform is but a stepping-stone to still nobler achieve- 
 ments. Wilhelm, when young, seeks his ideal in a 
 free and unrestrained life among actors and strolling 
 vagabonds ; then the freedom from care and the 
 commanding position of a nobleman seem to offer 
 the highest felicity, and at last, after having had 
 this illusion dispelled, he finds happiness in self- 
 forgetful devotion to duty. Not in freedom from 
 labor, but in devotion to labor ; not in unrestrained 
 pursuit of pleasure, but in a well-defined sphere of 
 daily utility, can man alone find happiness. This is 
 the lesson of " Wilhelm Meister," and a noble lesson 
 it is. The Second Part of the book, which was not 
 completed until 1821, only emphasizes this same 
 moral, though the moral is concealed under a mass 
 of more or less obscure symbols, which often seem 
 needlessly perplexing. 
 
 The first fruit of Goethe's union with Schiller was 
 a series of satirical epigrams, called " Die Xenien "
 
 36 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 (1797). These were intended to punish the enemies 
 and detractors of the literary firm of Goethe & 
 Schiller. They do not indeed spare persons, but 
 they seem chiefly directed against what Goethe re- 
 garded as false and dangerous tendencies in German 
 literature and society ; and they attack pretence, 
 charlatanism, and unsound canons of criticism with 
 no gentle hand. They do not only tear down, they 
 also build up. They praise what is noble and chas- 
 tise what is ignoble. Witty in the French sense are 
 but few of them ; but all of them have a weighty 
 meaning. 
 
 Immediately in the wake of the " Xenien " followed 
 the rural idyl, " Hermann and Dorothea " (1797), 
 which suddenly revived Goethe's popularity with the 
 mass of readers, who, since his Italian journey, had 
 gradually drifted away from him. It was as if 
 he had meant to show them that he could be as 
 simple and popular as anybody, if he chose. Here 
 was a story of German rural life in which no one 
 had seen any poetry before, except Voss, who, in 
 his " Luise " had delivered a turgid homily in hex- 
 ameters on the rural virtues. Goethe well knew 
 this poem, but he was not afraid of incurring the 
 charge of having imitated Voss, because he knew 
 that a literary subject belongs, not to him who deals 
 with it first, but to him who deals with it best. 
 There is a delightful Homeric flavor in his hexame- 
 ters ; they roll and march along with splendid reso- 
 nance. In the characterization of the Landlord of 
 the Golden Lion and his wife and neighbors, the
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 3/ 
 
 same easy mastery is visible which gave the vivid 
 form and color to the features of Egmont, Gotz, and 
 Werther. 
 
 Far less successful, both in point of popularity 
 and literary excellence, was the tragedy, "The Nat- 
 ural Daughter," which owed its origin to Goethe's 
 excessive admiration of Sophocles and JSschylus. 
 The types are here quite colorless not because 
 Goethe could not individualize them, but from 
 conscientious motives because the Greek poets 
 deal merely with general types and avoid a too vivid 
 individualization. Far more worthy specimens of 
 Grseco-Germanic art are the beautiful classical ele- 
 gies," Alexis and Doi-a," " Euphrosyne," and " Amyn- 
 tor." Also a host of fine, spirited ballads, vigorous 
 in tone and exquisite in color, date from this period. 
 Goethe had long ago discovered the charm of the 
 German folk-song, and had estimated the poetic 
 force of this simple national strain. 
 
 In 1805 Schiller died, and Goethe was once more 
 alone ; for among his neighbors and townsmen he 
 found no more congenial companions. Scientific 
 pursuits began more and more to absorb him, and 
 the opinion became prevalent that he had now 
 ceased to be a poet, and that his absurd ambition 
 to be a scientist had disqualified him for further 
 literary production. Goethe was not in the least 
 disturbed by these rumors, but pursued his investi- 
 gations in botany, geology, and optics with undi- 
 minished zeal. All the while he worked quietly on 
 " Faust " and his " Doctrine of Color," and made
 
 38 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 experiments with the sun spectrum in which he 
 believed he had discovered phenomena which were 
 at variance with the Newtonian theory of color. 
 That he was here on a wrong track we may now 
 freely admit, but Professor Tyndale asserts that his 
 very mistakes afford evidences of his genius. The 
 fact is, he was in advance of his age in the value he 
 attached to scientific education ; and having had no 
 opportunities for such education in his youth, he 
 made up for what he had missed by an increased 
 zeal during his mature years. He beheld Nature in 
 her grand unity, and his penetrating vision saw the 
 great causal chain which unites her most varied 
 phenomena. In this, and in this alone, consisted his 
 greatness as a scientist. He was the Faust who by 
 a daring synthesis brought order into the chaos of 
 dispersed facts, which a hundred pedantic and pains- 
 taking Wagners had accumulated. The Wagners, 
 therefore, did not love him, and their hostile 
 opinions made enough noise in their day to reach 
 as a faint echo down to the present. Never- 
 theless the scientists of to - day have recognized 
 the value of Goethe's theory of the typical plant, 
 and of the leaf as the typical organ of plant life, 
 which he has fully developed in his book on " The 
 Metamorphoses of Plants." A kindred thought, 
 applied to the animal kingdom, led to the discovery 
 of the intermaxillary bone, which finally established 
 the identity of the human skeleton with that of 
 other mammals ; and in geology to his champion- 
 ing the so-called Neptunic theory of the develop-
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 39 
 
 ment of the earth against Humboldt's Vulcanism, 
 which attributed to volcanic agencies the principal 
 influence in fashioning the globe's surface. In all 
 these controversies he emphasized the essential 
 identity of Nature in all her phenomena ; the unity 
 and organic coherence of all her varied life ; and 
 he did not, in the end, hesitate to draw the logi- 
 cal conclusion from these premises, and declare 
 himself a believer in the theory of evolution, half a 
 century before Darwin had advanced the same doc- 
 trine. 
 
 All these heterogeneous studies became tributary 
 to Goethe's greatest work, "Faust " (1790 and 1808), 
 in which the highest results of his colossal knowl- 
 edge are deposited. It is his -philosophy of life 
 which he has here expounded, under a wealth of 
 symbols and images which dazzle the eye, and to 
 the superficial reader often obscure the profouuder 
 meaning. To the majority of English and Ameri- 
 can critics " Faust " is but a touching and beauti- 
 ful love-story, and the opinion is unblushingly ex- 
 pressed by hoary wiseacres that the Second Part is 
 a mistake of Goethe's old age, and in no wise worthy 
 of the First. If nothing is worth saying except that 
 which appeals to the ordinary intellect, trained in the 
 common schools, then this criticism is not to be 
 cavilled with ; but Goethe had during the latter 
 part of his life entered a realm of thought, where he 
 was hidden from the multitude ; where but a few 
 congenial minds could follow him. To these I would 
 endeavor to demonstrate what " Faust " means if the
 
 4O GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 space permitted.* All I can do here is briefly to in- 
 dicate the fundamental thought. 
 
 Goethe borrowed from Spinoza the daring prop- 
 osition that God is responsible for eviL He under- 
 took to demonstrate that evil was not an after- 
 thought on the part of God, which stole into His 
 system of the universe by an unforeseen chance, 
 but an essential part of that system from the begin- 
 ning. In other words, as he says in the " Prologue 
 in Heaven," God gave Mephistopheles as a com- 
 panion to Faust. Selfishness, which is merely 
 another form of the instinct of self-preservation, is 
 the lever of the world's history, and if a man were 
 born who was entirely free from it, he would be un- 
 able to maintain his place in the world as it is now 
 constituted. He would be trampled down, and 
 would perish. The unrestrained egoism of barbaric 
 times has gradually been limited, as civilization has 
 advanced, by laws, which in each age express the 
 average moral sense, and are intended to secure the 
 preservation of society. But egoism, though vari- 
 ously disguised and turned into useful channels, is 
 yet the leading motive in men's actions Mephis- 
 topheles, though a most civilized gentleman, is still 
 at Faust's elbow, and stimulates him to daring en- 
 terprise of which, without this unlovely companion, 
 he would never have dreamed. 
 
 Faust, then, is meant to symbolize mankind, and 
 
 * I may refer anyone who is interested in the subject to 
 my book, " Goethe and Schiller," in which will be found an 
 exhaustive commentary on ' ' Faust. "
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 41 
 
 Mephistoplieles the principle of selfishness or of 
 evil, in whatever way disguised. In the symbolic 
 fable, Mephistopheles makes a wager with the Lord, 
 that if the Lord will give him the right to tempt 
 Faust, Faust will in the end be the devil's. This 
 wager is accepted, and Mephistopheles proceeds to 
 introduce Faust to all phases of sensual pleasure, 
 in the hope of corrupting him. Faust, however, 
 though he sins, is in no wise corrupted. The love 
 affair and the subsequent tragedy with Margaret 
 are, from the author's point of view, merely epi- 
 sodes in Faust's development, cruel as it may 
 seem. Faust, in his typical capacity, rises above 
 the error which came near crippling him, to higher 
 phases of being. His ideal changes ; he goes 
 in search of culture and intellectual achievement. 
 Mephistopheles's attempts to lead him astray are 
 turned directly to useful purposes. The devil, 
 who in the sensual stage of his development had 
 had a certain predominance over him, becomes now 
 more and more subservient to him. Faust's intel- 
 lectual powers are especially employed in statesman- 
 ship and political activity for the welfare of the 
 state. Then comes the pursuit of the beautiful, 
 regarded as an educational agency, symbolized in 
 the quest for Helen of Troy and the pilgrimage to 
 Greece. Particularly in the classical Walpurgis 
 Night are the spiritual value and the ennobling in- 
 fluence of Greek art emphasized. The last and 
 concluding phase of man's development, which is 
 logically derived from the preceding ones, is altru-
 
 42 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 ism a noble devotion to humanity, and self-forget- 
 ful labor for the common weal. In this activity 
 Faust finds happiness, and exclaims to the flying 
 moment, " Stay, thou art so fair." 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to add that " Faust " re- 
 mained a sealed book to the majority of Goethe's 
 contemporaries. Some few saw the scope and pur- 
 pose of the work and valued it accordingly ; others 
 pretended to understand more than they did ; and 
 a whole literature of commentaries was supplied by 
 the learned ingenuity and zeal of the Fatherland. 
 Goethe sat at home and smiled at his critics, but 
 never undertook either to confirm or to refute their 
 theories. 
 
 In 1809 he again published a book which was a 
 puzzle both to his admirers and his enemies. This 
 was a novel entitled " Elective Affinities." He had 
 at that time made the acquaintance of a young girl 
 named Minna Herzlieb, an adopted daughter of the 
 bookseller Frommann in Jena. He became greatly 
 interested in her, addressed sonnets to her, and 
 quite turned her head. To be loved by Goethe, 
 even though he was no longer young, was a distinc- 
 tion which no girl could contemplate with indiffer- 
 ence. Moreover he was, apart from his celebrity, a 
 man of majestic presence and a kind of serene 
 Olympian beauty. Minna Herzlieb's parents, fear- 
 ing that she might lose her heart, as she already 
 had her head, made haste to send her beyond the 
 reach of Goethe's influence. Out of this relation, 
 or rather out of its possibilities, grew "Elective
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 43 
 
 Affinities." Goethe was married to Christiane, 
 whose unfortunate propensity for drink had then 
 already developed. Minna was young and fair, and 
 attracted him strongly. Here were the elements 
 for a tragedy. In the book the situation is essen- 
 tially the same, though Charlotte, Edward's wife, is 
 afflicted with no vice. It might be described as a 
 four-cornered attachment, in which everybody loves 
 the one he cannot have. These attachments are de- 
 scribed by analogy, with chemical laws, as entirely 
 irresponsible natural forces which assert themselves 
 in the individual without any guilty agency of his 
 own. The conclusion is, however, not that mar- 
 riage, which interferes with the consummation of 
 these elective affinities, is wrong, and ought to be 
 abolished. If there is any moral at all (which is 
 not perfectly obvious), it is that every man and 
 woman should be on his guard against such rela- 
 tions, as they are sure to lead to unhappiness and 
 disaster. 
 
 Christiane, Goethe's wife, died in 1816, and he 
 mourned her sincerely. Habit had bred a certain 
 attachment, of which, with all her failings, she was 
 not entirely undeserving. In her early youth, be- 
 fore she had yet assumed the name of wife, she had 
 inspired the immortal " Roman Elegies," in which 
 her lover, with pagan unrestraint, had sung the de- 
 light of the senses. She had been bis associate, too, 
 in his botanical studies, and had assisted him in 
 his search for the typical plant. But a wife in the 
 noblest sense a friend and a companion of her
 
 44 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 husband's higher life she had not been and could 
 not have been. 
 
 In the last decades of his life, Goethe was largely 
 absorbed in scientific researches, and in arranging 
 and editing the labors of his early life. Of particu- 
 lar importance is his autobiography, " Truth and 
 Fiction " (" Aus Meinena Leben, Dichtung und 
 Wahrheit "), which relates with interesting minute- 
 ness that portion of his life which preceded his 
 removal to Weimar. The book is an historical doc- 
 ument of the highest importance, though not invari- 
 ably a literal recital of fact. It gives the intellectual 
 and moral complexion of the eighteenth century in 
 Gennany, as no other work has ever done. Also his 
 letters from Italy to Herder and Frau von Stein he 
 carefully edited and collected under the title 
 " Italian Journey." Then, as if by a miracle, came 
 a poetic Indian summer, a fresh flow of lyrical verse, 
 full of youthful spontaneity and fervor. This col- 
 lection, which was published in 1819 under the 
 title, " The West- Eastern- Divan," was a free imita- 
 tion of Oriental models, translated into German by 
 Hammer Purgstall (1813). The first half of the 
 book is chiefly didactic, while the latter half contains 
 love lyrics, which in freshness of fancy and sweet- 
 ness of 'melody rival the productions of Goethe's 
 best years. A few of these poems were written by 
 Marianne Willemer, the wife of a merchant in 
 Frankfort, and with her consent included in the 
 collection. She cherished an ardent admiration for 
 the old poet, and he highly valued her friendship.
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 4$ 
 
 She is supposed to be " the beloved one " whom he 
 celebrates in the book of " Zuleika." The book of 
 " Timur " is a free poetic moralization, concerning 
 the rise and fall of Napoleon, disguised in Oriental 
 forms. What is particularly remarkable in these 
 melodious meditations is the novelty of their metres. 
 Goethe discards, for the time, the classical meas- 
 ures in which his genius had moved with such sov- 
 ereign ease, and adopts the strangely involved verse 
 of an entirely alien civilization. It is the metrical 
 forms which Platen, Heine, Riickert and Bodenstedt 
 have made so familiar to German readers, and which 
 German poets even to-day are assiduously cultivat- 
 ing. Although Goethe did not go into any such 
 minute study of Oriental prosody as, for instance, 
 Riickert, yet he was in this field, as in many other 
 departments of literary labor, the path - breaking 
 pioneer. 
 
 Another work which, though seemingly unassum- 
 ing, gained, in the course of time, much importance 
 for the intellectual life of Germany, was the "Italian 
 Journey," which was given to the public in 1817. 
 Altogether this collection of letters, containing only 
 the simplest and most direct descriptions of what 
 the writer saw, differs widely from every other 
 description of Italy that has ever been published. 
 It has no fine writing, and makes no pretentious dis- 
 play of knowledge. But for all that it is a model of 
 good style. The words are absolutely transparent, 
 and serve no purpose but to convey an accurate 
 idea of the objects described. The marvellously
 
 46 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 many-sided knowledge of the author, and, above all, 
 his wholesome and universal curiosity, are highly 
 impressive. A fact, whether it belong to the realm 
 of art or of nature, or of political history, commands 
 his immediate interest. He has, at all times and in 
 all places, a strong, healthful appetite for facts. On 
 the Lido, near Venice, he sits and contemplates 
 with a fascinated gaze the phenomena of marine 
 life ; with exactly the same devotion he listens to 
 the responsive song of the fishermen across the 
 lagoons, or studies the architecture of Palladio and 
 the paintings of Eafael and Titian. The Adriatic, 
 with its blue isles reflected in the sun-bathed waves, 
 furnishes him with a setting for the Homeric epics, 
 and Homeric life becomes clear to him, by analogy, 
 from the study of the physical conditions of the old 
 Magna Grsecia. In eveiy direction his comment is 
 pregnant with new meaning. He throws out, with 
 heedless prodigality, seed-corns of thought, and they 
 fall into good soil and bear fruit a hundred and a 
 thousand fold in the distant future. 
 
 Of Goethe's other autobiographical works, " Truth 
 and Fiction " is the most important. The title is 
 significant, because it implies that the author does 
 not mean to tie himself down to the narration of the 
 mere barren details of his life, but reserves for him- 
 self the right of artistic arrangement and poetical 
 interpretation. It has, indeed, been proved that he 
 has now and again reversed the sequence of events, 
 where a more poetic effect could be attained, at the 
 expense of the true chronology. It was his purpose
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 47 
 
 to emphasize the organic coherence of his life ; its 
 continuous and unbroken development, according to 
 certain laws which presided over his destiny. His 
 father and mother (upon whom he bestows the mi- 
 nutest description) being what they were, and the 
 environment of his early life (which he likewise de- 
 picts with the most painstaking exactness) being 
 what it was, it was natural and necessary that he 
 should become what he was. This seems to be the 
 sum and moral of the whole. Law and organic 
 evolution were the watchwords of his life. All that 
 was accidental and appeared miraculous interested 
 him only as an incentive to find in it the hidden 
 law. So in every science which he approached his 
 touch seemed creative it brought order out of 
 chaos. The slow and beautiful processes of the 
 earth's cooling and preparation for the habitation of 
 living creatures, the gradual growth and decay of 
 the mountains, and the uses of all these agencies in 
 the grand cosmic economy these were things which 
 in the latter half of his career most profoundly ab- 
 sorbed him. He loved to gather about him scien- 
 tific specialists, and to hear from them the latest 
 results of their investigations. As his isolation in 
 Weimar grew more complete, he came to depend 
 almost entirely upon such company as he could find 
 in travelling artists and scientists. As an instance 
 of his interest in scientific questions, an anecdote 
 related by his friend Soret is highly characteristic. 
 In the first days of August, 1830, Weimar was agi- 
 tated by the intelligence which had just arrived from
 
 48 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 Paris of the breaking out of the July Revolution. 
 Soret hurried to Goethe to discuss the political situ- 
 ation with him. The moment Goethe saw him he 
 exclaimed : " Well, what do you think of this great 
 event? The volcano has at last come to eruption ; 
 everything is in flames, and there is no longer any 
 question of debate behind closed doors." 
 
 "It is a terrible story," answered Soret, "but 
 what was to be expected under such conditions and 
 with such a ministry, except that it would have to 
 end with the expulsion of the royal family ? " 
 
 Goethe stared in the utmost astonishment "We 
 seem to misunderstand each other, my dear," he 
 said, after a moment's pause ; " I am not talking of 
 those people. What interests me is quite a different 
 affair. I am referring to the quarrel which has just 
 broken out in the Academy between Cuvier and 
 Geoffrey St. Hilaire, which is of the utmost signi- 
 ficance to science. The matter is of the highest im- 
 portance," he continued, after another pause, " and 
 you can have no idea of the feelings which the ses- 
 sion of July 19th has aroused in me. We have now 
 in St. Hilaire a mighty ally for a long time to come. 
 . . . The best of all, however, is that the synthe- 
 tic treatment of nature, introduced by him in France, 
 can now no more be overthrown." 
 
 It is to me a most sublime trait, this lofty scien- 
 tific absorption. Wars and revolutions and expul- 
 sions of kings are of small consequence compared to 
 the great eternal laws which hold the planets in their 
 spheres, and guide the progressive march of God's
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 49 
 
 vast creation. Cuvier held that a series of violent 
 catastrophes had taken place in the earth's history, 
 sharply separating each geologic age from the sub- 
 sequent and the preceding one. St. Hilaire, on the 
 other hand, defended Goethe's proposition, that the 
 development of the earth and its life had been an 
 uninterrupted sequence of progressive stages. How 
 deeply Goethe felt upon this subject is further evi- 
 dent from his remark to Chancellor von Miiller : 
 "About aesthetic matters everyone may tLink and 
 feel as he likes, but in natural science the false and 
 the absurd are absolutely unendurable." " This' 
 friend," he remarked on the same occasion, referring 
 to Alexander von Humboldt, who, as he thought, 
 had given undue weight to volcanic agencies, " has, 
 in fact, never had any higher method ; only much 
 common sense, zeal, and persistence." 
 
 Goethe's attitude toward politics, and particularly 
 toward the efforts of his countrymen to throw off the 
 Napoleonic yoke, has been the subject of much 
 heated controversy. The fact is, he was a German 
 only in name ; because the German nationality was 
 in his day not yet resuscitated. In the free city of 
 Frankfort, where Goethe spent his childhood and 
 early youth, there existed no such feeling as national 
 pride and patriotism. A kind of local town-feeling 
 was quite pronounced, and Goethe had his share of 
 it. But the miserable separatistic policy of the petty 
 German princes had begun to bear fruit long ago, 
 and had extinguished all sense of responsibility 
 to the empire at large and all devotion to the com-
 
 50 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 mon nationality. Where there is no national life 
 there can be no patriotism. It is responsibility 
 which engenders devotion. When, finally, N*i- 
 poleon's tyranny awakened this sentiment in the 
 hearts of the scattered and dismembered nation, 
 Goethe was too old to be affected by it. " Shake 
 your fetters," he exclaimed to his struggling coun- 
 try men, " you cannot break them. The man is too 
 strong for you." 
 
 That such language was resented by a bleeding 
 people, fighting for its existence, is not to be won- 
 dered at. At the same time the apparent indiffer- 
 ence of Goethe was not as serious a reflection upon 
 his chai'acter as his friends then assumed. He was 
 essentially a child of the eighteenth century, and had 
 imbibed its individualism. All he demanded of the 
 state was the right to pursue his own avocations in 
 peace ; and anything that broke in upon his literary 
 and scientific meditation (even though it were a war 
 of liberation) he was apt to resent as an intrusion. 
 In 1806, when, after the battle of Jena, the French 
 plundered Weimar and the grenadiers stormed in- 
 to his bedroom, he had a taste of the tribulations 
 of war, and a deep horror of its terrific waste of life 
 and barbarizing influence took possession of him. 
 He stood no longer then, as he did in the campaign 
 in France in 1792, watching the bursting shells with 
 a purely scientific interest, taking down his obser- 
 vations in his note-book. The fiery rain was no 
 longer a mere experiment in optics. 
 
 Goethe has somewhere remarked, that all his
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 5 1 
 
 writings are one continued confession. His life en- 
 tered into his work ; every experience became trans- 
 fused into his very life-blood, and gained in time a 
 poetic expression. Only war remained so repug- 
 nant to him that he nowhere felt called upon to in- 
 terpret the emotion which it aroused. 
 
 " How could I take up arms," he said to Soret, 
 " without hatred ? and how could I hate without 
 youth ? If such an emergency had befallen me when 
 I was twenty years old, I should certainly not have 
 been the last. . . . To write military songs and 
 sit in my room ! That, for sooth, was my duty ! 
 To have written them in the bivouac, while the 
 horses of the enemy's outposts are heard neighing 
 in the night, would have been well enough ! . . . 
 But I am no warlike nature, and have no warlike 
 sense ; war-songs would have been a mask which 
 would have fitted my face badly. I have never affect- 
 ed anything in poetry. I have never uttered anything 
 which I have not experienced, and which has not 
 urged me to production. I have composed love- 
 songs when I loved. How could I write songs of 
 hate without hating ? " 
 
 I have already alluded to the fact that Goethe in 
 his old age found himself isolated from the society 
 of friends and neighbors. Altogether, his relations 
 with his great contemporaries need a word of com- 
 ment. His friendship with Schiller, as we have 
 seen, remained uninterrupted to the end ; and with 
 Wieland, who was a cheerful, easy-going epicurean, 
 he also remained on amicable terms. But Wielaud
 
 52 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 had never been very near to him ; and a friendly ac- 
 quaintance will take care of itself much more easily 
 than a closer intimacy. With Herder, on the other 
 hand, who in natural endowment was a worthier 
 rival to Goethe than the prolific author of "Oberon," 
 he had many misunderstandings which, finally, after 
 the Vulpius affair, led to a lasting alienation. Her- 
 der was, with all his great qualities, testy and irri- 
 table, and could not conquer a certain envy of Goe- 
 the. He had largely influenced Goethe's intellectual 
 life, and therefore resented his pupil's tendency to 
 grow above his head. That he protested against 
 Goethe's liaison is certainly to his honor ; and Goe- 
 the would have saved himself and his posterity much 
 unhappiness had he heeded Herder's advice. On 
 the whole, it is obvious that Goethe, as he grew to 
 his full intellectual stature, no longer desired rela- 
 tions of personal intimacy. He valued this friend 
 for his proficiency in this branch of knowledge, and 
 that friend for his proficiency in another ; but he 
 took pains, as it were, to confine each man to his 
 own department, in which he was likely to be useful 
 and interesting. Even men with blots upon their 
 reputations he invited to his house, if he had respect 
 for their acquirements. But let them beware, if 
 they desired to continue on an amicable footing, not 
 to stray beyond their respective departments. Even 
 in his relation to the duke, Karl August, Goethe 
 maintained in later years a reserve, which so old 
 and tried a friend might have felt justified in resent- 
 ing. But the duke understood Goethe, and thought
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 53 
 
 his attitude natural. He found him a useful and 
 highly ornamental figure in his small duchy ; and 
 did everything in his power to further the objects 
 for which he lived. Perhaps he even liked the 
 stately reserve of the old poet. " As genuine grands 
 seigneurs" says Grimm, " they walked side by side, 
 and the distance which separated them was exactly 
 to their tastes. . . . From having been friends 
 Goethe and the Duke became allies." 
 
 During the last years of his life it was chiefly the 
 second part of " Faust " and his periodical " For 
 Art and Antiquity " which occupied Goethe. Like 
 the aged Faust, he marched serenely toward the 
 Valley of the Shadow of Death, cheerfully awaiting 
 whatever fate there might be in store for him : 
 
 " Yes, let me dare those gates to fling asunder, 
 Which every man would fain go slinking by ! 
 "Tis time through deeds this word of truth to thunder : 
 That with the height of gods man's dignity may vie ! 
 Nor from that gloomy gulf to shrink affrighted 
 Where Fancy damns herself to self -wrought woes. 
 
 Upon this step with cheerful heart resolving, 
 
 If even into naught the risk were of dissolving." * 
 
 His activity was as many-sided and unwearied as 
 in his most vigorous manhood. Not only the scien- 
 tific, but also the literary currents of thought in all 
 civilized lands he watched with the liveliest interest. 
 So great was the elasticity of his mind, that he was 
 
 * Faust, Part I.
 
 54 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 in his old age capable of appreciating what was good 
 in the Romantic school, in spite of his former dislike 
 and his diametrically opposed intellectual tendency. 
 The reactionary spirit of the Romanticists, and their 
 enthusiasm for the Middle Ages, remained as re- 
 pugnant to Goethe as ever ; and their morbid 
 mysticism and predilection for Catholicism did not 
 commend them to one to whom the cheerful sensu- 
 ousness and innate saueness of the Greek civilization 
 had always strongly appealed. But the efforts of 
 the Romantic authors to revive the feeling for native 
 art seemed to him praiseworthy ; and Sulpiz Bois- 
 seree, who was laboring earnestly for the restoration 
 of the Cologne Cathedral, succeeded in convincing 
 him of the national importance of his undertaking. 
 The drawings and paintings of Albrecht Diirer also 
 began to impress him, and his attitude toward the 
 Middle Ages underwent a gradual change. 
 
 As the years progressed, the effects of Goethe's 
 activity began to be felt also in foreign lands, and 
 he watched with interest and gratification his grow- 
 ing influence in every domain of human knowledge. 
 Particularly in France, a school of rising authors, 
 which also assumed the title of Romantic, strove 
 through its organ, The Globe, to establish his 
 authority beyond the Rhine. Although undoubt- 
 edly with the ulterior object of gaining a mighty 
 ally against their enemies at home the Academi- 
 cians these men, among whom Quinet, Ampere, and 
 Prosper Merimee were the most prominent, paid 
 their homage to the German poet, and, in spite of
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE 55 
 
 their defective comprehension of the spirit of his 
 teachings, contributed not a little toward bringing 
 his writings to the notice of the French public. In 
 England also his writings were published, and com- 
 mented upon with more or less intelligence in 
 newspapers and reviews. Carlyle translated " Wil- 
 helm Meister," Walter Scott "Gotz von Berlich- 
 ingen " (1799), and Byron borrowed his ideas with 
 his usual nonchalance. In Italy, too, he gained 
 many admirers, and entertained a desultory cor- 
 respondence with Manzoni. The ready recognition 
 which he thus found on all hands gradually devel- 
 oped in him the idea of a world literature, which, 
 independently of race and country, should appeal to 
 the highest sense of excellence, which the most cult- 
 ured in all countries have in common. He had 
 himself gathered" the chief intellectual currents of 
 his age, and made them pulsate through his own 
 being. National differences and conflicting inter- 
 ests, which drew the peoples apart, seemed to him 
 of email consequence compared to the great and 
 abiding interests which all mankind has in common. 
 Truth has no nationality, and a great thought is 
 great in whatever language it is uttered. In the 
 upper regions of the intellect men meet merely as 
 men as poets, thinkers, scientists and all acci- 
 dental distinctions of party, rank, and nationality 
 vanish. The ancient Greeks, who were the only 
 people whose culture had been founded upon this 
 universally human basis, would always remain 
 authorities in matters of art. They w,ere not to be
 
 56 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 imitated, however, but the spirit of their work, if 
 properly comprehended, would stimulate the modern 
 poet and artist to noble and independent creation. 
 
 Thus, in brief, was Goethe's poetic creed. His 
 prophecy of the world-literature is, however, yet far 
 from fulfilment. 
 
 During the last years of Goethe's life death reaped 
 a rich harvest among those who were dearest to 
 him. In June, 1828, died his oldest friend, Duke 
 Karl August. Frau von Stein had died a few years 
 before (1825). But the hardest blow of all was the 
 loss of his only son, August von Goethe, who died 
 in Borne in 1830. His daughter-in-law Ottilia re- 
 mained his faithful companion and did the honors 
 of his household. She read aloud to him from 
 Plutarch who was one of his favorite authors. To 
 Eckermann he said as he sealed the package contain- 
 ing the completed MS. of " Faust " : " Henceforth I 
 look upon my life purely as a gift ; it is now really 
 of little consequence what I do." 
 
 A few months later (March 22, 1832), as he was 
 seated in his easy-chair, suffering from a slight cold, 
 he expired quietly and without a struggle. His last 
 words were : " Light ! more light ! " 
 
 " The morning after Goethe's death," says Ecker- 
 mann, " a deep desire seized me to look upon his 
 earthly remains. His faithful servant Frederick 
 opened for me the chamber where he was lying. 
 Stretched upon his back, he reposed as if asleep ; 
 profound peace and firmness reigned in the features 
 of his sublime, noble countenance. The mighty
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF GOETHE $? 
 
 brow seemed yet to harbor thoughts. . . . The 
 body lay naked, only wrapped in a winding-sheet. 
 . . . The servant drew aside the sheet, and I 
 marvelled at the divine magnificence of those limbs. 
 The breast was extraordinarily powerful, broad and 
 arched ; the arms and thighs were full and softly 
 muscular ; the feet shapely and of the purest form ; 
 nowhere on the whole body was there any trace of 
 fat, or leanness, or decay. A perfect man lay in 
 great beauty before me ; and the rapture occasioned 
 by this sight made me forget for a moment that the 
 immortal spirit had left such an abode. I placed 
 my hand on his heart ; there was a deep stillness, 
 and I turned away to give free vent to my sup- 
 pressed tears." 
 
 It is difficult to over-estimate the value of Goe- 
 the's work to humanity. The bequest which he left 
 to the world in his writings, and in the whole intel- 
 lectual result of his life, is not as yet appreciated at 
 its full worth ; because, intellectually, the world has 
 not yet caught up with him. His influence to-day 
 asserts itself in a hundred ways even where no one 
 suspects it. The century has received the impress 
 of his mighty personality. The intellectual currents 
 of the age, swelled and amplified by later tribu- 
 taries, flow to-day in the directions which Goethe 
 indicated.
 
 II. 
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 
 
 German Goethe-worship is usually regarded 
 -L in Great Britain with alien and unsympathetic 
 eyes. It suffices for most English critics that Goethe 
 was not, according to their standard, a good man ; 
 that he was not faithful in his relations with women, 
 and that he was not, in the accepted sense, a patriot 
 during his country's struggle to throw off the French 
 yoke. We might as well concede that these charges 
 contain a modicum of truth. As the defence which 
 the Goethe-worshipper would set up would have no 
 weight with the great public, because it would have 
 to appeal to sentiments which belong only to a small 
 minority, it is far better to admit that in his efforts 
 at intellectual enfranchisement Goethe ignored all 
 laws that seemed to interfere with his supreme aim 
 of self-development. An elaborate apology for him, 
 addressed to the English Philistine, has been pub- 
 lished by the late George H. Lewes, under the title, 
 "The Life of Goethe," which gives us valuable in- 
 formation as to what George H. Lewes would have 
 done, if he had been Goethe, in the various relations 
 of the latter's life. I know but one Englishman who
 
 GOETHE AND CAKLYLE 59 
 
 understood Goethe, and he (to use Hegel's phrase) 
 misunderstood him ; that is, he had vivid glimpses 
 of him, saw him in part very clearly, but in other 
 and very essential respects misapprehended him. 
 That man was Thomas Carlyle. Carlyle, too, com- 
 menced in an apologetic tone, but stated more satis- 
 factorily than Lewes the positive contents of his. 
 hero's life and the lessons which^were to be derived 
 from it. When Bayard Taylor called upon him, a few 
 years before his death, and asked him his opinion of 
 Goethe, he answered with his most rasping Scotch 
 accent : " That man was my salvation." In none of 
 his essays on Goethe has Carlyle so plainly shown 
 what he meant by this strong expression as in the 
 eleventh lecture, on "Periods of European Culture," 
 a most interesting fragment of which is published in 
 Professor Dowden's " Transcripts and Studies." He 
 there gives his conception of the message the in- 
 tellectual gospel which German literature brought 
 him, and which for half a century he tried to explain 
 and to impress upon the British public. But until 
 this day no other prophet has arisen in Great Britain 
 who has thought that gospel worth commenting 
 upon in the same spirit which characterized Carlyle. 
 The Chelsea sage was by nature a hero worship- 
 per, but so ruthless and self-assertive in his inter- 
 course with his idols that he often remodelled them 
 to suit himself before deeming them worthy of his 
 worship. And so, though he was scarcely aware of 
 it, he made a Goethe of his own who, to be sure, had 
 much in common with the original, but was yet es-
 
 60 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 sentially a different being. Rarely was a critical ob- 
 servation wider of the mark than Carlyle's : that Goe- 
 the leaves no more trace of himself in his writings 
 than does Shakespeare. Apart from the fact that 
 Goethe has himself remarked that his writings are 
 one continued confession, there is in every one of 
 his novels and dramas a mass of that sort of material 
 which no imagination invents, however ingenious and 
 fertile. There is on every page inferential evidence 
 that we are dealing with more or less thinly dis- 
 guised autobiography. " Dichtung und Wahrheit " 
 was, to be sure, not published (in its completed form) 
 until after Goethe's death, and Carlyle had probably 
 more excuse for his error than a man would have 
 who should repeat it at the present day. But the 
 fact is incontestable that Carlyle's essays contain as 
 much of Carlyle as of Goethe. He was too gnarled 
 and thorny a personality, too little pliable, too bris- 
 tling with Scotch pugnacity to be a good interpreter 
 of anybody. And from Goethe he was intellectually 
 and spiritually more remote than he dreamed of. 
 How could that modern prophet, full of humility, 
 despair, and fiery denunciation, comprehend the 
 calm and self-poised secularism of the German poet ? 
 How could his gloomy Scotch theology be brought 
 into a sympathetic relation with the sunny and cheer- 
 ful paganism of his hero ? Their recently published 
 correspondence, which was expected to furnish a clew 
 to their relations, deals largely with externalities, ex- 
 changes of gifts and small courtesies, and comments 
 on books and authors.
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 6 1 
 
 Goethe, indeed, is full of friendliness, sends greet- 
 ings and, what is to me delightfully characteristic, 
 asks for a drawing of Carlyle's house at Craigenput- 
 tock, because, he says, he does not like, when he 
 visits his friends in thought, to let his fancy hover 
 in vacuum. He is even particular to know whether 
 the house lies on the right or the left bank of the 
 river Nith. When Carlyle lived in Edinburgh, he 
 writes, he never ventured to imagine his surround- 
 ings ; for how could he hope " to find a quiet friend 
 in that steeply towering city, which, in spite of 
 frequent pictures, continued to perplex him?" Car- 
 lyle, who is visibly touched by this minute interest 
 (which, I fancy, he scarcely attributed to its right 
 source), replies at considerable length and in a freer 
 and more confidential tone than we find in any of 
 his previous letters. Altogether he reveals himself 
 here in a vivid light ; and it is a frank, rugged soul 
 of sterling stuff which he shows to the serene, clear- 
 sighted old Jupiter in Weimar. How fine is this, 
 for instance, and what a ring of sincerity there is in 
 it : "I came hither (to Craigenputtock) purely for 
 this one reason : that I might not have to write for 
 bread, might not be tempted to tell lies for money." 
 
 And still nobler this passage appears to me in con- 
 junction with what precedes and what follows. The 
 temptation must have presented itself to show the 
 extent of his sacrifice in forsaking the brilliant 
 literary society of Edinburgh and burying himself 
 here on a bleak and melancholy moor fifteen miles 
 from a town and "six miles from any individual
 
 62 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 of the formally visiting class." But Carlyle scorns 
 such weakness. He describes Craigenputtock with 
 a desire to show its best side, and he makes the most 
 of such poor attractions as the place affords. How 
 different Craigenputtock appears in the letters of 
 his wife to Miss Stodart, of Edinburgh. There it is 
 described (in the writer's pleasant moods) as being 
 "in the midst of a pretty extensive peat-moor;" 
 and its attractions consist in occasional visits from 
 wild hares and black-cocks ; but in her gloomier 
 moments, though she strives to keep a brave heart, 
 she refers to it as "a desert " belonging to "the 
 class of bog and hill scenery, and has little but 
 heath and winstone and peat-pits to recommend it." 
 The following passage in Mrs. Carlyle's letter to Miss 
 Stodard of October 10, 1832, shows plainly what a 
 price her husband paid for his exemption from the 
 necessity of writing for bread and " the temptation 
 to tell lies for money : " 
 
 " The grim prospect of another winter in this soli- 
 tude is too frightful for my husband, who finds that 
 it is absolutely essential, for carrying on not only 
 his craft, but his existence, to hear from time to 
 time a little human speech." 
 
 Under such circumstances the frequent letters and 
 messages from Goethe must have been doubly grate- 
 ful. In recalling, forty years later, the joy he ex- 
 perienced at the receipt of one of these Olympian 
 missives (of June 25, 1829), he expresses himself in 
 this wise : "Pure white the fine big sheet itself, still 
 purer and nobler the meaning, all hi it as if mutely
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 63 
 
 pointing to eternity ; letter fit to be read in such 
 a place and time." But unless Carlyle was exalted 
 above all human vanities, this very letter must have 
 wounded his literary pride by its omission of any 
 reference to his essay in The Foreign Review, 
 which he had sent to Goethe with many apologies, 
 to be sure, for his defective knowledge, but yet 
 obviously expecting some acknowledgment. But it 
 is significant to note that in every instance Goethe 
 refrains from direct comment upon his friend's 
 writings concerning himself. He makes his con- 
 venient factotum Eckermann acknowledge the re- 
 ceipt of such documents and expatiate upon their 
 excellence without in the least committing his su- 
 perior. Thus it is Eckermann who praises Carlyle's 
 non-committal essay on "Helena," in which he 
 gives a clear and coherent account of the plot of the 
 " Classico - Romantic Phantasmagoria," but care- 
 fully refrains from dropping a hint as to its mean- 
 ing. It is Eckermann, too, who encourages Carlyle 
 to undertake an English translation of "Faust," 
 although it is not likely that he would have made 
 such a proposition on his own responsibility. It is 
 a matter for congratulation that Carlyle knew the 
 limitations of his talent too well to act upon this 
 advice. For though Lord Leveson Gower's trans- 
 lation (of which Eckermann complains) is bad, 
 there is very little ground for believing that Car- 
 lyle's would have been better. His specimen trans- 
 lations of "Helena" have a gnarled Saxon rugged- 
 ness which is as far as possible removed from the
 
 64 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 pure plasticity and sculpturesque clearness of the 
 original. 
 
 More satisfactory than the discourse on "Helena" 
 is the essay on " Goethe " in The Foreign Review, 
 the receipt of which Eckermanu acknowledges with 
 the diplomatic observation that "it has aroused 
 great interest in Germany." Carlyle here intends 
 to explain to the British public the character and 
 significance of Goethe's life and manifold activity. 
 It is obvious in the very first sentences that he is 
 conscious of the magnitude of his task. There is 
 something dreadfully labored and clumsily apolo- 
 getic in these introductory remarks : 
 
 "It is not on this second portion of Goethe's 
 works, which, at any rate, contains nothing new to 
 us, that we mean at present to dwell. In our last 
 number we engaged to make some survey of his 
 writings and character in general, and must now en- 
 deavor, with such insight as we have, to fulfil that 
 promise. We have already said that we reckoned 
 this no unimportant subject, and few of Goethe's 
 readers need to be reminded that it is no easy one. 
 We hope also that our pretensions in regard to it are 
 not exorbitant," etc. 
 
 To begin in this style an essay on the greatest 
 poet of the century, the most splendidly equipped in- 
 tellect of modern times, if not of all times, strikes 
 one to-day as almost comical. But it would be un- 
 just to the essayist to judge him by the light of our 
 present knowledge. He, no doubt, felt the neces- 
 sity of apologizing to his spiritually insulated coun-
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 65 
 
 trymen for occupying their time and attention with 
 the claims of a mere German to be regarded as one 
 of the great luminaries in the realm of thought. 
 How, conceding the fact that Goethe was neither 
 an Englishman nor an ancient Greek, could Caiiyle 
 have the presumption to set forth such claims and 
 eloquently defend them ? He feels in every line the 
 weight, if not the justice, of such a query, and he sets 
 to work bravely to clear away the thorny under- 
 brush of prejudice which obscures his subject from 
 view. We learn incidentally that Goethe's works, 
 in such fragmentary translations as had appeared, 
 had not been a success in England, and that par- 
 ticularly the autobiography had given offence in not 
 being sufficiently " gentlemanly." 
 
 " The chief ground of offence seemed to be that 
 the story was not noble enough ; that it entered on 
 details of too poor and private a nature ; verged here 
 and there toward garrulity ; was not, in one word, 
 written in the style of what we call a gentleman." 
 
 Oh, how well we know it, that stupid, stolid, 
 contemptuous, purblind British superciliousness, 
 which will recognize nothing as good or admirable, 
 unless it be arrayed in British garb, unless it con- 
 form to John Bull's narrow Philistine ideal ! Goe- 
 the not a gentleman the stately Olympian Goethe, 
 against whom the chief grievance of his countrymen 
 was that he was unapproachable, uncommunicative ! 
 But in Germany the idea of a gentleman dispenses 
 with the tall stone wall of reserve, with broken bot- 
 tles on the top. A German gentleman need not
 
 66 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 (unless he be a military man) pretend to despise all 
 creation, and may unbend, nay be positively agree- 
 able, -without loss of dignity. That admirable Brit- 
 ish "you-be-damnedness," of which our transatlantic 
 cousins are so proud, is on the continent of Europe 
 held to be a disqualification for the title of a gentle- 
 man. It is there ignorantly supposed that the fac- 
 ulty to put people at their ease, to make social inter- 
 course smooth and pleasant, is the mark of high 
 breeding ; and that the brutal desire to humiliate, 
 to impress our neighbor with our own grandeur, is, 
 on the whole, a puerile quality unworthy of a civil- 
 ized man. Carlyle, however, had to reckon with the 
 national ideals as he found them. He had no time 
 to change them, even if he had the power ; though, 
 as his subsequent career shows, he did not lack 
 courage for such an Herculean undertaking. 
 
 It is indeed easy to imagine the disgust of Eng- 
 lish upper clubdom at the emotional redundancy 
 and extravagance of Goethe's Werther period ; and 
 it is not surprising that Carlyle should have felt it 
 incumbent upon him to defend his hero. His de- 
 fence, however, does not seem to me to hit the nail 
 on the head. " Goethe," he says, " was not writing 
 to ' persons of quality ' in England, but to persons 
 of heart and head in Europe : a somewhat different 
 problem perhaps and requiring a somewhat different 
 solution." 
 
 More to the point is his query, whether " the 
 style of a man " and that of an English gentleman 
 are necessarily coincident or even compatible, and
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 6? 
 
 what might be their relative worth and prefer- 
 ableness. 
 
 How deeply he is concerned to acquit his hero of 
 the charge of ungentleinanliness is obvious from 
 the fact that he returns to it in dealing with " Wil- 
 helm Meister," which the English reviewers had 
 pronounced " vulgar." 
 
 "No gentleman, we hear in certain circles, could 
 have written it ; few real gentlemen, it is insinuated, 
 can like to read it ; no real lady, unless possessed of 
 considerable courage, should profess having read it 
 at all." 
 
 This is an awful state of affairs, surely. But 
 Carlyle's manner of disposing of it does not seem to 
 us greatly to mend it. Of Goethe's gentility, he says, 
 he will leave people to speak who have the faint- 
 est knowledge of him ; and as for the gentility of his 
 readers, he will only state that the late Queen of 
 Prussia found much consolation in reading the book. 
 And Sir Walter Scott, who was surely a judge of 
 gentility, had given her a certificate of character in 
 his "Life of Napoleon," where anyone who chose 
 might find it. This, it appears to us, would be most 
 excellent fooling, if the writer were not so sadly and 
 comically serious. 
 
 It is a matter of great interest to observe what 
 phases of Goethe's many-sided character and activity 
 Carlyle has most clearly apprehended and elucida- 
 ted, and what phases he has misapprehended or ig- 
 nored. His first vital comment strikes a full chord. 
 He sees very plainly the grandeur of Goethe's aim
 
 68 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 to develop harmoniously his physical, intellectual, 
 and moral powers : 
 
 " He is neither noble nor plebeian, neither liberal 
 nor servile, nor infidel, nor devotee ; but the best 
 excellence of all these joined in pure union a clear, 
 universal man. Goethe's poetry is no separate facul- 
 ty, no mental handicraft ; but the voice of the whole 
 harmonious manhood." 
 
 That this is the fundamental chord of that richly 
 and melodiously varied composition which we call 
 Goethe's life is beyond dispute. But when Carlyle 
 comes to analyze the tones which enter into this 
 full-sounding and beautifully complex chord, he 
 adds a note of his own devising which surely is not 
 found in his theme. In speaking of Goethe's tran- 
 sition from the turbulent sentimental period, of 
 which "The Sorrows of Werther" is the monu- 
 ment, to the period of clarified strength and active 
 manhood, of which " Wilhelm Meister " is the com- 
 pletest expression, he makes the following observa- 
 tions : 
 
 " For Goethe had not only suffered and mourned 
 in bitter agony of spirit under the spiritual perplex- 
 ities of his time, but he has also mastered these ; he 
 is above them, and has shown others how to rise 
 above them. At one time we found him in dark- 
 ness, and now he is in light ; he was once an un- 
 believer, and now he is a believer ; and he believes, 
 moreover, not by denying his unbelief, but by fol- 
 lowing it out ; not by stopping short, still less turn- 
 ing back in his inquiries, but by resolutely prosecut-
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 69 
 
 ing them. . . . How has the belief of a saint 
 been united in this high and true miud with the 
 clearness of a sceptic, the devoutness of a Fenelon 
 made to blend in soft harmony with the gayety, the 
 sarcasm, the shrewdness of a Voltaire ? " 
 
 That this passage is widely astray no student of 
 Goethe will need to be told. To attribute to the 
 serene old pagan in Weimar " the belief of a saint" 
 and " the devoutness of a Fenelon " betrays a radi- 
 cal misapprehension of his character which must 
 detract from the value of all that Carlyle has writ- 
 ten about him. To the young Scot who had breathed 
 the religious atmosphere of Puritanism from his 
 childhood, and with the deep earnestness of his nat- 
 ure pondered and discussed theological questions 
 at the fireside in his father's cottage, the calm tol- 
 erance (not to say indifference) of Goethe concerning 
 heavenly things was simply incomprehensible. He 
 felt a strong need to admire this man, to worship 
 him, and by an unconscious distortion of meanings 
 he found in his writings that which he wished to 
 find. Nay, he did more. He infused much of his 
 own devout spirit into his English translations of 
 Goethe's verses. Take, for instance, this, in his es- 
 say on " Goethe's Works," in The Foreign Quarterly 
 Review, No. 19. The German reads : 
 
 " Wie das Gestirn, 
 Olnie Hast 
 Aber ohne Rast, 
 Drehe sich jeder 
 Um die eigne Last."
 
 70 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 Which Carlyle renders : 
 
 " Like as a star, 
 That maketh not haste, 
 That taketh not rest, 
 Be each one fulfilling 
 His God-given hest." 
 
 Though much may be forgiven a man who trans- 
 lates verse into verse, so flagrant a distortion of 
 meaning is surely reprehensible. There is nothing 
 about " God -given hest " in the original, or anything 
 remotely bordering on it. What Goethe says, re- 
 taining throughout the verse the image of the star, 
 is, literally : 
 
 " Like as a star, without haste, but without rest, 
 let each revolve about his own weight," i.e., the pole 
 or axis of his own personality.* But Carlyle aban- 
 dons the poetic image, unless, indeed, by God-given 
 hest he means the prescribed sphere, to whrch by the 
 law of gravitation the star is confined, and in which 
 it is made to revolve. 
 
 This is a case in point ; and we might recall more, 
 though none quite so striking. The assertion that 
 
 * Professor J. S. Blackie translates and amplifies the verse 
 a trifle in his " Wisdom of Goethe " : 
 " Like the star 
 That shines afar, 
 Without haste 
 And without rest, 
 
 Let each man wheel, with steady sway, 
 Round the task that rules the day, 
 And do his best."
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE Jl 
 
 Goethe became a believer by following out bis un- 
 belief, by resolutely prosecuting his inquiries to 
 their logical conclusions, has, at first blush, a very 
 mystical look ; but must be intended to mean that 
 religion will endure the test of scientific inquiry and 
 that Goethe arrived at belief in supernatural things 
 by logical reasoning and painstaking investigation 
 of natural things. Without pronouncing upon the 
 possibility of such a process, we cannot but marvel 
 at its being predicated of Goethe ; for if there is 
 one thing which Goethe lacks completely it is this 
 very devoutness which Carlyle, with a singular per- 
 sistence, attributes to him. How could a devout 
 believer write, for instance, a passage like this (in 
 the second part of " Faust ") ? 
 
 "The sphere of earth is known enough to me, 
 The view above is burred immutably ; 
 A fool who there Ms blinking eyes directeth. 
 And o'er the clouds of peers a place expectetJi, 
 Firm let him stand and look around him well ! 
 This world means something to the capable; 
 Why needs he through eternity to wend V 
 Here he acquires what he can comprehend. 1 ' * 
 
 * Taylor's translation. The fact that this passage was not 
 published at the time when Carlyle wrote scarcely invali- 
 dates the argument, for after the publication of the complet- 
 ed Faust, when writing his final essay on Goethe's Works, 
 Carlyle repeats substantially his earlier opinion. " In his 
 third or final period " he says, '' Reverence becomes triumph- 
 ant ; a deep, all-pervading faith, with a mild voice, grave or 
 gay, speaks forth to us in a Meister's Wanderjahre, in a 
 West"stliche Divan."
 
 72 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 The sentiment here expressed is not a mere iso- 
 lated utterance, but is deeply characteristic of Goe- 
 the during his third and most mature period. Here 
 are a few quotations from his conversations with 
 Eckermann, which are all in the same vein and 
 which correctly represent his religious views : 
 
 "Religion stands in the same relation to art as 
 any other higher interest of life. It is only to be 
 regarded as material and has exactly the same rights 
 as any other material." 
 
 "They are now shaking up the five books of 
 Moses, and if criticism is injurious anywhere, it is in 
 matters of religion ; for here everything rests upon 
 faith, to which no man can return, if once he has lost it." 
 
 " It is like drinking out the ocean to undertake 
 an historical and critical investigation (of the contra- 
 dictions of the gospels). It is far better, without 
 further ado, to hold fast to that which is really there 
 and to appropriate that which we can use for our 
 moral culture and strengthening." 
 
 " It is natural for man to regard himself as the 
 crown of creation and to view all other creatures 
 only in their relation to himself and in so far as 
 they are adapted to his use and service. He takes 
 possession of the vegetable and animal world, and 
 while he devours other creatures as fit nourishment 
 for himself, he acknowledges his God and praises 
 His goodness in thus providing for him with fatherly 
 care. He deprives the cow of her milk, the bee of 
 its honey, the sheep of its wool, and as he finds all 
 these things useful for his own purposes, he straight-
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 73 
 
 way concludes that they were created for these pur- 
 poses. Nay, he cannot imagine that even the smallest 
 weed exists except for him, and if he has not up to 
 date discovered its use, he takes it for granted that 
 he will in future surely discover it. ... The 
 apostles of utility would fancy that they had lost 
 their God if they were not to adore Him who gave 
 the ox his horns in order that he might defend him- 
 self. I, however, may be permitted to revere Him, 
 who in the abundance of His creation was so great 
 that, after a thousand plants, He made one in which 
 all the others are contained, and after a thousand 
 kinds of animals made one which contains all the 
 rest, viz., man. Let them revere Him who provides 
 the cattle with its fodder and man with food and 
 drink as much as he can enjoy ; but I adore Him 
 who has deposited in the world such a vast produc- 
 tive energy that if only a millionth part of it enters 
 into existence the world swarms with creatures, so 
 that war, pestilence, flood, and fire can make no im- 
 pression upon it. That is my God." 
 
 " Now, a man may well be a great connoisseur in 
 human affairs, as it is perfectly conceivable that he 
 may have made the art and the knowledge of a master 
 completely his own ; but in divine things a being who 
 could do this would have to be the peer of the Supreme 
 Being himself. Nay, if God were to deliver and reveal 
 unto us such mysteries, we should not be able to com- 
 prehend them, and should not know what to do with 
 them ; and we should again resemble that ignoramus 
 in the picture, to whom the master could not, with
 
 74 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 all his explanations, communicate even the premises 
 according to which he judges. In this respect it is, 
 therefore, entirely right that all religions have not 
 been given directly by God himself, but that they, 
 being the work of excellent men, are adapted to the 
 needs and the comprehension of a large number of 
 their like. If they were the work of God himself no 
 one would comprehend them ; but being the work of 
 man they do not express the inexpressible." . . . 
 
 " Christ, conceived of an only God, to whom He at- 
 tributed all the qualities which He felt in himself as 
 perfections. God became the very essence of His 
 own beautiful soul, full of goodness and love like 
 himself, and entirely adapted to have good men con- 
 fidingly give themselves up to Him and cherish this 
 idea as the sweetest bond with heaven." 
 
 Now, whatever this may be, it is surely not Chris- 
 tianity. The " pestilential fever of scepticism " 
 which, as Carlyle says, " had run through its stages in 
 Goethe's life," and was "happily ended," obviously 
 endured to the last, if by scepticism we mean, ac- 
 cording to the definition of " The Century Diction- 
 ary," doubt or disbelief of the fundamental docjtriues 
 of the Christian religion. That Goethe was not an 
 atheist, or in the modern sense, an agnostic, is plain 
 from the above quotations and from many equally 
 pregnant passages in his " Correspondence with 
 Schiller." He did not profess not to know whether 
 there was a God, but he rejected all anthropomor- 
 phic notions of God, asserting that they were useful, 
 but that his conception of God derived from the
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 75 
 
 study of His works was so infinitely greater, and yet 
 as infinitely removed from any completely true and 
 adequate idea, as the earth is from heaven. In this 
 sense he may be said to have had reverence ; not the 
 reverence which impels to blind acceptance and 
 makes one shrink from investigation, but that rev- 
 erence which recognizes with cheerfulness our own 
 place in and relation to the universe and the infi- 
 nitely great and inconceivable Being who must be its 
 author. This mental attitude appears to have been 
 beyond Carlyle's comprehension, or he would surely 
 not have characterized it by such misleading phrases 
 as "the devoutuess of a Fenelon," or "the belief of 
 a saint." A scarcely less radical misconception of 
 Goethe's spirit is implied in the sentence, attributing 
 to him " the gayety and the sarcasm, the shrewdness 
 of a Voltaire." 
 
 Although we may have pursued this inquiry far 
 enough, we cannot refrain from illustrating by a 
 few more instances the kind of forced and violent 
 interpretation to which Carlyle subjects the writings 
 of his hero. We may freely admit that he did not 
 have at his command the material which enables the 
 Goethe critic of to-day to view the great man in all 
 the manifold phases of his activity, and to profit by 
 the labors of a host of predecessors. Eckermann's 
 " Conversations" were not published until 1836, and 
 Kiemer's " Communications " not until 1841. It is 
 a difficult thing to determine how much we may 
 ourselves be indebted to these direct and highly illu- 
 minative utterances of the master for our insight
 
 76 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 into his character and opinions. But even making 
 due allowance for the disadvantages under which he 
 labored, we believe that Carlyle has displayed more 
 of personal good-will than of critical sagacity in his 
 interpretation of the works of Goethe. His disquisi- 
 tion on " Werther " and " Wilhelm Meister," to which 
 allusion has been made, is full of passion and stormy 
 eloquence, and is, independently of its subject, a 
 magnificent piece of writing. A writer who is so 
 overbrimming with urgent and positive opinions 
 will, as a rule, do well to express himself directly, in 
 propria persona, and not through the medium of a 
 criticism of somebody else. It is not because he 
 was too small, but because he was too great a man, 
 that Carlyle proves himself a bad interpreter. He 
 is always interesting, always instructive, but not al- 
 ways right. Thus, when he professes to find con- 
 firmation of his view of Goethe as a reverent believer, 
 in the Second Part of " Wilhelm Meister," he simply 
 substitutes his own opinions for those of Goethe. 
 He quotes, at great length, the passage in which 
 Wilhelm goes with his son Felix to the three myste- 
 rious sages, for the purpose of entrusting to them 
 the boy's education. He finds a profound signifi- 
 cance in the three symbolic gestures which the chil- 
 dren are taught, inculcating reverence for the things 
 above, the things below, and for themselves, the 
 highest of which is the last named. These three 
 kinds of reverence are said to constitute in their 
 union "the true Religion." But that this "true 
 religion " is not Christianity or anything closely akin
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 77 
 
 to it, is demonstrated by the very passages which 
 Carlyle quotes in corroboration of his view : 
 
 " In your historical series," said he [Wilhelm], " I 
 find a chasni. You have destroyed the Temple of 
 Jerusalem, and dispersed the people, yet you have 
 not introduced the Divine Man who taught there 
 shortly before ; to whom, shortly before, they would 
 give no ear." 
 
 " To have done this, as you require it, would have 
 been an error. The life of that divine man, whom 
 you allude to, stands in no connection with the gen- 
 eral history of the world in his time. It was a pri- 
 vate life ; his teaching was a teaching for individ- 
 uals. What has publicly befallen vast masses of 
 people, and the minor parts composing them, belongs 
 to the general history of the world, to the general 
 religion of the world, the Religion we have named 
 the First. What inwardly befalls individuals, be- 
 longs to the Second Eeligion, the Philosophical. 
 Such a religion was it that Christ taught and prac- 
 tised, so long as he went about on earth. For this 
 reason the external here closes, and I now open to 
 you the internal." 
 
 This is only introductory ; but as such essential 
 to the comprehension of what follows. The point 
 we wish to make is emphasized in the subsequent 
 discourse of the Elder, who, as every Goethe scholar 
 will admit, is but the mouthpiece of the author's 
 own conviction : 
 
 " We have entirely disjoined that sublime man's 
 life from its termination. In life he appears as a
 
 78 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 true philosopher let not the expression stagger us 
 as a wise man in the highest sense. . . . And 
 thus to the noble portion of mankind, his walk and 
 conversation are even moi'e instructive and profit- 
 able than his death, for to those trials everyone is 
 called ; to this trial but few." 
 
 " Permit me one question," said Wilhelm. " As 
 you have set up the life of the divine man for a pat- 
 tern and example, have you likewise selected his 
 sufferings, his death, as a model of exalted patience? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly we have," replied the Eldest. " Of 
 this we make no secret, but we draw a veil over 
 those sufferings, even because we reverence them 
 so highly. We hold it a damnable audacity to bring 
 forth that torturing cross, and the Holy One who 
 suffers on it, or to expose them to the light of the 
 sun which hid its face whe a reckless world forced 
 such a sight on it ; to take these mysterious secrets, 
 in which the divine depth of sorrow lies hid, and 
 play with them, fondle them, trick them out, and 
 rest not till the most reverend of all solemnities ap- 
 pears vulgar and paltry." 
 
 Goethe's repugnance to suffering, pain, and sor- 
 row was one of his most marked characteristics. 
 It was a limitation of his nature which he inherited 
 from his cheerful, pleasure-loving mother. He ha- 
 bitually took the most circuitous route to avoid the 
 disagreeable. When sorrows befell him, he resorted 
 to every means in his power to banish the thought 
 of them. He never faced them, grappled with them,
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE J$ 
 
 and experienced the wholesome, though bitter, dis- 
 cipline of pain. But he fled from them. When his 
 son died, no one for a long time dared by any allu- 
 sion to remind him of his loss. In a letter to Zel- 
 ter he spoke of his son's " remaining away " (aus- 
 bleiben), which, he said, had distressed him. In all 
 similar situations, he resorted to similar expedients. 
 His well-known dislike of the crucifixion, and of all 
 pictorial representations of the suffering Christ, was 
 but another symptom of this deep-rooted tempera- 
 mental abhorrence of all that jarred upon (what ap- 
 peared to him) the rich and serene harmony of ex- 
 istence. Because Christianity addresses its message 
 primarily to the suffering humanity and regards 
 suffering, not as mere discord, but as a purifying 
 and ennobling discipline, it could never be the re- 
 ligion of Goethe. It did not appeal to any deep 
 need of his nature ; and therefore could not be val- 
 ued at its supreme worth. 
 
 This is, in our opinion, the one glaring inadequacy 
 in his presentation of life. With the exception of 
 two scenes in " Faust," where he rises to a height 
 which he nowhere else attains, his pictures of pain, 
 sorrow, and contrition are comparatively pale, lack- 
 ing in depth and vigor. As he himself said to Eck- 
 ermann, he had too conciliatory a nature to be a 
 good dramatist ; but his real deficiency as a drama- 
 tist is only hinted at in this confession. It lies 
 rather in his systematic ignoring of the darker and 
 harsher phases of existence his lack of experience 
 and temperamental avoidance of what, to the great
 
 80 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 majority of mankind, must remain the sternest, 
 deepest problem. 
 
 It is because, of his failure to apprehend this limi- 
 tation of Goethe's nature that Carlyle has uncon- 
 sciously distorted his likeness. Carlyle was himself 
 so largely gifted with reverence, and approached his 
 heroes in eo reverential an attitude, that to detect a 
 flaw in them would have appeared to him as a species 
 of disloyalty. As he praised Goethe's " Helena " for 
 its obscurity its " vague, fluctuating, fitful adumbra- 
 tion of many [things] " so he did not scruple to 
 extol his very faults into virtues. Though we may 
 not, in our critical capacity, admire such partisan- 
 ship, we freely admit that there is something fine 
 and sturdy about it which, in its human aspect, is 
 more beautiful than cool, sagacious impartiality. 
 Carlyle refers frequently to Goethe as his teacher, 
 and in one of his letters he styles himself his pupil. 
 His sense of gratitude to his great German master 
 made him unable and unwilling to apply a critical 
 microscope to his possible defects. He was under 
 too great a debt of gratitude to find any zest in that 
 kind of employment. Goethe loomed up on his 
 horizon too grand, too colossal, to be measured by 
 the petty inch-measure which we apply to ordinary 
 men. Such carping, cold-blooded, unsympathetic 
 analysis as we find, for instance, in the essay of M. 
 Edmond Scherer on Goethe, would have filled Car- 
 lyle with wrath. And even the nicely-adjusted and 
 discriminating apothecary's scales of Matthew Ar- 
 nold, so evenly balanced by a hair's weight between
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 8 1 
 
 praise and blame, be would bave felt tempted to 
 smasb witb one blow of bis rugged Scotcb fist. And 
 to account for tins attitude of warm and pugnacious 
 fealty, let me quote from tbe above-named Thirteenth 
 Lecture on "Periods of Culture," where Carlyle 
 states with beautiful frankness the reason of his in- 
 debtedness to Goethe. 
 
 " To explain, I can only think of the revelation, 
 for I can call it no other, that these men (Goethe 
 and Schiller) made to me. It was to me like the 
 rising of a light in the darkness which lay around 
 and threatened to swallow me up. I was then in the 
 very midst of Wertberism, the blackness and dark- 
 ness of death. There was one thing which particu- 
 larly struck me in Goethe. It is in his ' Wilhelm 
 Meister.' He had been describing an association of 
 all sorts of people of talent, formed to receive prop- 
 ositions and give responses to them. ... A 
 number of applications for advice were daily made 
 to the association, which were answered thus and 
 thus ; but . . . "many people wrote in particular 
 for recipes for happiness, all that . . , was laid 
 on the shelf, and not answered at all. Now, this thing 
 gave me great surprise when I read it. ' What ! ' 
 I said, ' is it not a recipe of happiness that I have 
 been seeking all my life, and isn't it precisely be- 
 cause I have failed in finding it that I am now mis- 
 erable and discontented ? ' Had I supposed, as some 
 people do, that Goethe was fond of paradoxes, 
 . . . I had certainly rejected it without further 
 trouble, but I couldn't think it. At length, after
 
 82 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 turning it up for a great while in my own mind, 
 I got to see that it was true what he said that it 
 was the thing that all the world was in error in. No 
 man has a right to ask for a recipe for happiness, 
 there is something better than that. All kinds of 
 men who have done great thiugs priests, prophets, 
 sages have had in them something higher than the 
 love of happiness to guide them, spiritual clearness 
 and perfection a far better thing than happiness. 
 Love of happiness is but a kind of hunger at the 
 best, a craving because I have not enough of sweet 
 provision in this world. If I am asked what that 
 higher thing is, I cannot at once make answer, I am 
 afraid of causing mistake. There is no name I can 
 give it that is not to be questioned. . . . There 
 is no name for it, but pity for that heart which does 
 not feel it. There is no good volition in that heart. 
 Tins higher thing was once named the Cross of 
 Christ not a happy thing that, surely." 
 
 Here we have again the persistent infusion of alien 
 and personal sentiment. That " Wilhelm Meister " 
 should have led anyone to the Cross of Christ is 
 certainly one of the most startling paradoxes of this 
 master of paradox. A hint of Goethe concerning 
 the impossibility of furnishing a recipe for happi- 
 ness, and its futility if furnished, starts a new and, 
 as it appears, profitable train of thought in Carlyle's 
 mind, which becomes the nucleus of his new phi- 
 losophy of life. " Wilhelm Meister," as has been 
 said, started out, like Saul, to find his father's asses, 
 and he found a kingdom. His manifold experiences
 
 GOETHE AND CARLYLE 83 
 
 taught him that happiness is not found by him who 
 goes in search of it, but comes, if it comes at all, 
 through unselfish absorption in labor for the good 
 of mankind. That was a great lesson, surely, and 
 one for which Carlyle had every reason to be grate- 
 ful to Goethe. It is perhaps also, in a sense, the 
 lesson conveyed by the Cross of Christ. But why 
 should Carlyle, who had wrestled with the Lord in 
 prayer and doubt and agony of spirit from his 
 youth up who had been the bosom friend of the 
 fanatical preacher Irving why should he have to 
 go to Goethe for that familiar lesson particularly as 
 Goethe was not aware of having taught it in the 
 sense in which Carlyle interpreted it ? 
 
 This experience, however, is not so strange as we 
 may fancy. This is not the first instance in which 
 an author has taught a lesson which he had not him- 
 self learned. And it is not only here, but in many 
 instances, that his pupil adds, out of the abundance 
 of his own rich nature, decorative touches to his 
 master's likeness, and infuses into it something of 
 his own fervent spirit. 
 
 There is no shrinking, then, from the conclusion 
 that Carlyle's Goethe is not the serene, gravely -plas- 
 tic, vigilantly-observant, self-poised, and essentially 
 pagan sage of Weimar. A very noble and beautiful 
 character he is, and to many, perhaps, more beauti- 
 ful than his original. Of this each man must judge 
 according to his own prejudice and predilection. 
 But it is undeniable that, whether true or not, this 
 modified Goethe has played a great part in English
 
 84 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 literature, and a great debt of gratitude England owes 
 to Carlyle for having introduced him. The widen- 
 ing of her intellectual horizon, which this new out- 
 look into the German realm of thought brought 
 with it, has had many beneficial results. It made a 
 breach in the wall of insular prejudice and opened 
 avenues for the influx of new culture. The saying 
 of Novalis, that every Englishman is an island, is less 
 true to-day than it was seventy years ago. And it 
 is in a measure due to Thomas Carlyle that such is 
 the case.
 
 III. 
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF 
 GOETHE 
 
 German novelist Berthold Auerbach coined 
 the word " Goethe-ripe," by which he designated 
 the degree of intellectual maturity enabling one to 
 comprehend the significance of Goethe's life and 
 works. By this test I should say that the British 
 public is not " Goethe-ripe." The spirit that ani- 
 mates Goethe is very far removed from that which 
 dominates English literature, past and present. Not 
 that I mean this as a reflection upon English litera- 
 ture, but merely as an interesting phenomenon. 
 That unbiassed recognition of all that is good and 
 beautiful, that Olympian serenity of soul and cath- 
 olicity of judgment which characterized Goethe, 
 arouse, as a rule, not admiration, but animosity, in 
 England. At the English universities a Goethe stu- 
 dent is as rare as a white blackbird. And I venture 
 to say that intelligent, sympathetic study of Goethe 
 could scarcely flourish in that atmosphere of semi-ec- 
 clesiastical medisevalism which yet hangs, like an 
 oppressive mist, over Oxford, and, in a lesser degree, 
 over Cambridge. I am well aware that this mist ia
 
 86 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 lifting, and that the English universities to-day 
 are more conscious of the intellectual currents of 
 the age than they were ten or twenty years ago. 
 But to a man who has breathed the atmosphere of 
 Leipsic and Berlin, a visit to the English seats of 
 learning is yet an experience resembling somewhat 
 that of the Counsellor in Hans Christian Andersen's 
 " Goloshes of Fortune," when he was transferred 
 back into the age of King Hans. One begins to 
 understand, after such a visit, all the malignant wit- 
 ticisms which Heine made on the English, and the 
 generally unfriendly tone toward them which per- 
 vades German literature. 
 
 One needs to be, approximately at least, " Goethe- 
 ripe " in order to be in sympathy with modern Ger- 
 many and comprehend its aims ; for Goethe is a 
 colossal factor in the intellectual life of the Father- 
 land. One need not go as far as Hermann Grimm, 
 who virtually says that a politically united Germany 
 was made possible solely by Goethe and Schiller, 
 and, it is to be inferred, would have been impossible 
 without them. Goethe is the Atlas who carries the 
 world of German thought, as we now witness it, 
 upon his shoulders. He compelled his people to 
 pass thi'ough the same stages of intellectual growth, 
 through which he himself had passed, and though 
 they may never reach as far as he, they cannot stray 
 far from the paths of progress which he prescribed. 
 It is surely not an accident, nor is it, as Matthew 
 Arnold fancies, the need of having a literature com- 
 mensurate with the greatness of the political empire,
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE 8/ 
 
 which has impelled a host of critics, biographers, 
 and commentators to study the various phases of 
 Goethe's activity and throw the light of investiga- 
 tion upon every obscure spot in his career. Patri- 
 otism may account for many literary vagaries ; it 
 may disturb the focus and increase the magnifying 
 capacity of many a critical lens ; it may even create 
 a spurious celebrity which may deceive people in- 
 capable of discrimination. But such celebrities, of 
 which Germany has its share, never outlive the gen- 
 eration which made them. If a whole literature 
 springs up about a man, which continues to grow 
 and to enlist public interest half a century after his 
 death, it may be taken for granted that that man 
 has contributed something new and of abiding value 
 to the world's fund of knowledge. 
 
 Many English critics have taken pains to register 
 their more or less complete ignorance concerning 
 Goethe, and only three or four have written any- 
 thing worthy of serious consideration. Besides 
 Lewes and Carlyle, of whose writings on German 
 literature I have spoken in another place, these are 
 Matthew Arnold, Richard Holt Hutton, and Professor 
 John Stuart Blackie. I cannot consent to include 
 the late Abraham Hayward in this number, although 
 I am aware that he translated " Faust" into English 
 prose and wrote a very readable and superficially 
 attractive "Life of Goethe " in " Black wood's For- 
 eign Classics." Mr. Hayward was a professional man 
 of the world, a clever and agreeable raconteur, an ac- 
 complished diner-out, who had gathered a store of
 
 88 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 varied information fit for the entertainment of a 
 dinner party ; but he was neither a scholar nor a 
 thinker, and there is nothing in his book to show 
 that he had any deeper comprehension of his sub- 
 ject. Much of it is written in what appears to me a 
 wrong key, and jars a little upon the ears that are 
 attuned to Goethe's music. 
 
 Matthew Arnold's essay on " A French Critic of 
 Goethe," though vastly subtler and nobler in tone, 
 is also, to our individual feeling, here and there a 
 trifle out of tune. Nevertheless this essay remains 
 the most notable English estimate of Goethe. It is 
 only a matter of regret that Mr. Arnold, instead of 
 rectifying M. Scherer's judgments, and sometimes 
 applauding them when they are manifestly unfair, 
 did not choose Goethe himself for his theme rather 
 than the French Chauvinist, who sees the great poet 
 and all his works through the wrong end of the tele- 
 scope. The judicial attitude which Mr. Arnold 
 justly insists upon in a critic is surely not exhibited 
 in sentences like these of M. Scherer : 
 
 "I say nothing of the substance of the piece 
 ('Gotz von Berlichingen'), of the absence of charac- 
 ters, of the nullity of the hero, of the commonplace 
 of Weiszlingen, the inevitable traitor ; of the melo- 
 dramatic machinery of the secret tribunal. The 
 style is no better. . . . The astonishment is 
 not that Goethe at twenty-five should have been 
 equal to writing this piece ; the astonishment is 
 that after so poor a start he should have subse- 
 quently gone so far."
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE 89 
 
 But it would be a marvel indeed if M. ScLerer, 
 after the avowal of his hate of the Germans, so 
 frankly expressed in the introductory remarks of his 
 essay (which Mr. Arnold ought not to have omitted), 
 had been able to form anything like a just estimate 
 of their chief poet. Under the pseudo-judicial mask 
 we catch a glimpse now and then of a calm maligni- 
 ty which tramples with ill-concealed delight upon 
 the most precious treasures of the national enemy. 
 
 " I will show you what a poor and tawdry individ- 
 ual he is, this idol of yours, whom you reverence so 
 deeply," he appears to say ; and it is with this ani- 
 mus, and not with the well-informed, clear-sighted 
 impartiality with which Mr. Arnold credits him, that 
 he approached the task of presenting Goethe to his 
 countrymen. 
 
 " He is not warped by injustice and ill-will toward 
 Germany," says Mr. Arnold, "although the war has 
 undoubtedly left him with a feeling of soreness. He 
 is candid and cool, perhaps a little cold." 
 
 We venture to question whether this encomium is 
 compatible with M. Scherer's own statement of his 
 sentiments. 
 
 "The Germans have retaliated upon us the right 
 of conquest ; they have defeated us with envious 
 hatred and cowardly insult. They have committed 
 toward us offences which are not to be pardoned. 
 But if it is just to detest Germany, it would be puerile 
 on that account to try to ignore her. That has been 
 done, we know. The charm which formerly attracted 
 us to her is forever broken. We do not expect any
 
 9O GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 more from her elevating ideas or ennobling senti- 
 ments." 
 
 We do not say that the feelings here expressed are 
 not pardonable, and perhaps even natural ; but sure- 
 ly a criticism animated by such feelings must be any- 
 thing but "clear-sighted," "cool, "and "impartial" 
 Even coldness is too weak a term for its characteriza- 
 tion, for detestation implies a considerable degree of 
 heat. It is passionate resentment of a supposed na- 
 tional wrong, openly professed and rarely disguised, 
 that we find in M. Scherer's writings on Goethe. 
 
 But one more quotation to justify this judgment 
 and we shall have done with M. Scherer : 
 
 "He [Goethe] has left no distinct and living 
 figure. His characters lack relief because they lack 
 spontaneity. His ' Weriher ' is silly, his 'Faust' is 
 fantastic, his ' Tasso ' is only redeemed by his 
 madness, the novel ' Wilhelm Meister ' is, according 
 to the expression of Niebuhr, ' a menagerie of tame 
 animals/ and as for the Memoirs of Goethe, they are 
 a heap of lifeless ashes cooled off, over which one 
 only sees some fantastic resemblances capriciously 
 trace themselves." 
 
 If a man otherwise sane and in many respects 
 highly gifted can stultify himself to the extent here 
 indicated, he surely does not deserve to be treated 
 with the suave deference which Mr. Arnold accords 
 to this malignant and disgruntled Frenchman.* 
 
 * M. Edmond Scherer was of Swiss descent, and though 
 born in Paris (1815) occupied for some years the chair of 
 Biblical Exegesis at the Geneva Academy.
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE QI 
 
 As a mere contrast, let us see how Goethe, un- 
 der circumstances vastly more trying, regarded the 
 French ; for Napoleon I. had surely not the justifica- 
 tion for invading German territory that the late Em- 
 peror William had for invading France. The French 
 Emperor was engaged in a war of aggression and 
 conquest, while the Germans in 1870 merely ac- 
 cepted a challenge and avenged an ancient wrong. 
 In a conversation with his friend Soret concerning 
 his attitude during the War of Liberation, Goethe 
 made these significant remarks, which reveal a large- 
 ness and serenity of soul incomprehensible appar- 
 ently to a man of M. Scherer's calibre : 
 
 "How could I write songs of hate without hating? 
 And, between ourselves, I did not hate the French, 
 although I thanked God when we were rid of them. 
 How could I, to whom culture and barbarism are 
 alone of importance, hate a nation which is among 
 the most cultivated of the earth, and to which I owe 
 so large a share of my own culture? Altogether na- 
 tional hate is a peculiar thing. You will always find 
 it strongest and most violent at the lowest stage of 
 culture. But there is a stage where it vanishes al- 
 together, and where one stands, to a certain extent, 
 above the nations, and feels the weal and woe of a 
 neighboring people, as if it had happened to be one'e 
 own. This degree of cultui'e was conformable to my 
 nature, and I had become strengthened in it long 
 before I reached my sixtieth year." 
 
 Mr. Arnold admits that Goethe is greater than M. 
 Scherer's presentation of him would lead us to sup-
 
 92 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 pose. " Tone and perspective are somehow a little 
 wrong," is his guarded and hyper-judicial phrase. 
 His dislike of rhetoric and enthusiastic exaggeration 
 brings him perilously near to the opposite extreme, 
 that of colorless understatement and undervalua- 
 tion. It is possibly a consciousness of this which 
 induces him to sum up his estimate of Goethe in a 
 trenchant and authoritative judgment which is so 
 glaringly at variance with that of M. Scherer that 
 it instantly invalidates all the praise which he has 
 bestowed upon the latter : 
 
 " Goethe is the greatest poet of modern times, not 
 because he is one of the half-dozen human beings 
 who in the history of our race have shown the most 
 signal gift for poetry, but because having a very con- 
 siderable gift for poetry he was at the same time, in 
 the width, depth, and richness of his criticism of life, 
 by far our greatest modern man. . . . Nay, his 
 preciousness and importance as a clear and profound 
 modern spirit, as a master-critic of modern life, must 
 communicate a worth of their own to his poetry, and 
 may well make it seem to have a positive value and 
 perfectness as poetry more than it has." 
 
 One perceives a long vista of thought behind 
 these incisive and memorable words. They are the 
 visible summit resting upon a broad base of study 
 and speculation. When taken in connection with 
 Mr. Arnold's other notable utterance concerning 
 Goethe, that he is " the clearest, the largest, the most 
 helpful thinker of modern times," they leave noth- 
 ing to be desired. Standing alone and without the
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE 93 
 
 qualifications to be inferred from the indorsement 
 of M. Scherer, they would constitute a final and satis- 
 factory judgment. But that insidious way of damn- 
 ing a great man with faint praise, adopted by the 
 censorious Frenchman, ought not to have imposed 
 upon so astute a critic as Mr. Arnold, especially when 
 at the very outset the judicial attitude is disclaimed 
 and a bitter rancor is openly avowed. 
 
 A certain degree of sympathy, without which 
 critical insight is impossible, is needed for the inter- 
 pretation of poetry ; or, as Goethe put it, " a work 
 of art can be comprehended by the head only with 
 the assistance of the heart." This assistance of the 
 heart M. Scherer entirely dispenses with. No 
 effort is made by him to reproduce in himself the 
 spirit in which " Werther " and " Faust " are writ- 
 ten, nor even to put them in connection with the 
 national and social conditions from which they 
 sprang. Instead of that he stands aloof and utters 
 hasty and sweeping condemnations which as expres- 
 sions of national hate are pardonable, but as criti- 
 cism worthless. 
 
 Mr. Richard Holt Button's essay on "Goethe 
 and his Influence " * is such a beautiful piece of 
 work, and so manifestly intended to be just and 
 fair, that it seems almost ungracious to question 
 any of its statements. Mr. Hutton contemplates 
 Goethe from a point of view quite different from 
 that of Mr. Arnold. While the latter admires his 
 
 * Essays, Theological and Literary, vol. ii., London, 1880.
 
 94 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 Olympian serenity his calm and unbiassed atti- 
 tude toward all phenomena the former regards 
 this as a limitation. To the apostle of sweetness 
 and light, Goethe's secularism, not to say his pagan- 
 ism, was highly congenial and in accord with his 
 own philosophy, while to the author of "Essays, 
 Theological and Literary " it is an obnoxious thing, 
 to which he finds it difficult to do justice. 
 
 " The entire superseding of personal trust by self- 
 reliance, the absence of all trace of humility, the 
 calm, superior glance which he cast into the mys- 
 tery around, but never into the holiness above, him, 
 gave often a heathen coloring to his works. . . . 
 This power of assuming at will a cruel moral in- 
 difference to that which he did not choose to have 
 agitating him, is the feeling he has so finely em- 
 bodied in the picture of the gods contained in the 
 song of the Fates in ' Iphigenia.' " 
 
 The judgment here pronounced contains an in- 
 dubitable truth which no one can ignore in making 
 up his final estimate of Goethe. To Mr. Hutton it 
 constitutes his chief gravamen against a character 
 which in many respects attracts him. As a Chris- 
 tian and a theologian he is compelled to condemn 
 the calmly scientific spirit which with perfect awe- 
 lessness pried into all the mysteries of nature, and 
 although respecting all forms of religious belief, 
 viewed them with a mere philosophic interest and 
 espoused none. Mi 1 . Hutton remarks, in a still 
 higher degree, this unabashed curiosity in the pres- 
 ence of the unknowable in Shelley and character-
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE 95 
 
 izes it with a masterly artistic distinctness.* But 
 there is an essential difference between Goethe's 
 attitude toward religion and that of Shelley. A 
 kind of passionate non-conformism a need to pro- 
 test against everything which he disbelieved in was, 
 from his earliest youth, characteristic of the Eng- 
 lish poet ; while the German, regarding all existing 
 institutions (religion not excepted) as manifesta- 
 tions of law and conditions of orderly progress, 
 held them to be worthy of the respect and support 
 of every good citizen. Shelley reminds one of the 
 English traveller in catholic countries who persists 
 in standing bolt upright with his conspicuous hat on, 
 when the holy Host is carried through the streets 
 and all bare their heads and many kneel. Goethe, 
 though he would intellectually have shared Shelley's 
 view of the ceremony, would instinctively have con- 
 formed to the common custom. He cherished no 
 animosity toward any form of belief, and did not, like 
 Shelley, wage war against Christianity. All religions 
 represented to him the human aspiration for truth. 
 They were all more or less imperfect embodiments 
 of man's conceptions of the Infinite, and subject to 
 growth in accordance with humanity's intellectual 
 and spiritual progress. Even superstition, under 
 which term Shelley embraced all that men reverence 
 as sacred, was to Goethe but obscurity of vision, 
 not a malign power which had for its own dark 
 
 * Mr. Hutton's essay, Shelley's Poetical Mysticism, is, to 
 our mind, one of the noblest pieces of literature of its kind 
 in the English language.
 
 96 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 purposes stricken humanity with blindness. Vol- 
 taire's notorious ecrasez I'infdme was in perfect con- 
 formity with the spirit of Shelley, but would have 
 been condemned by Goethe as indicative of a shal- 
 low and utterly unphilosophical brain. 
 
 There is no implication in this comparison that 
 Mr. Hutton would be capable of confounding 
 Goethe's attitude with that of Shelley ; but I have 
 a strong suspicion that the latter's fearless and out- 
 spoken hostility appears to him less obnoxious than 
 the former's philosophic benevolence. Speaking of 
 Goethe's writings in general he says with perfect 
 candor : 
 
 " They invariably repel at first English readers 
 with English views of life and duty. As the char- 
 acteristic atmosphere of the man distils into your 
 life, you find the magnetic force coming strongly 
 over you ; you are as a man mesmerized ; you feel 
 the calm independence of so much on which you 
 helplessly lean, combined with his thorough insight 
 into that desire of yours to lean, drawing you irre- 
 sistibly toward the invisible intellectual centre at 
 which such independent strength and such genial 
 breadth of thought was possible." 
 
 That is an admirable statement of the fascination 
 which Goethe exercises over his disciples. But Mr. 
 Hutton, as his essay shows, feels the repulsion no 
 less strongly than the mesmeric attraction, and he 
 guards his critical independence manfully. I fancy, 
 though I may be wrong, that he came to Goethe 
 too late in life to fall under the sway of his fasci-
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE $? 
 
 nation. And the theological temper would seem 
 to constitute an obscuring mist through which the 
 poet may, indeed, loom up colossal, but with 
 rather a sinister aspect. That a religious man 
 should judge Goethe from a religious point of view 
 is natural enough ; and it is most useful to have his 
 life and work scrutinized from this point of view, and 
 its possible defects and inconsistencies revealed. 
 This would constitute what Mr. Arnold calls the 
 judgment of incompatibility, which in the hands of 
 a man like Mr. Hutton cannot fail to yield profit- 
 able results. And it is with no desire to minimize 
 the excellence and helpfulness of his beautifully dis- 
 criminating essay that I shall venture to point out 
 some instances of what appears to me, the disciple, 
 faulty interpretation. The " judgment of gratitude 
 and sympathy" and that of conscientious incom- 
 patibility are bound to clash in many points, and 
 they may thereby mutually rectify each other and 
 enable the reader to arrive at a right conclusion. 
 
 Unless Mr. Hutton was a bachelor when he wrote 
 the present essay, it is difficult to account for the 
 following passage : 
 
 " He [Goethe] was a reflective, old fashioned, 
 calmly imaginative child, always fascinated by a 
 mystery, but never, properly speaking, awed by it. 
 It kindled his imagination ; it never subdued him. 
 He was full of wonder and quite without veneration. 
 In the ' altar of the Lord ' which the child secretly 
 built on a music-stand of his father's at seven, and 
 on which he burnt incense in the shape of a pastil
 
 98 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 until he found that he was in danger of injuring his 
 altar, lie was innocently playing with a subject which 
 to almost any other child would have been too sacred 
 for imaginative amusement." 
 
 If my recollection of my childhood and my con- 
 stant association with children have taught me any- 
 thing, it is that they very rarely possess this venera- 
 tion for the sanctity of worship, at the age of seven, 
 and never unless it has been carefully implanted in 
 them by teaching and example. The references of 
 children to God and their continual questionings con- 
 cerning Him are, as we all know, apt to be comically 
 disrespectful, often shockingly so. I remember in, 
 my childhood "playing church" with my brothers 
 and sisters, preaching from a chair, baptizing kittens, 
 saying mass * before an improvised altar, etc., with- 
 out the remotest suspicion of its being sacrilegious ; 
 and I have seen my own children and those of my 
 friends indulging in similar games. The imitative 
 instinct is, in nine children out of ten, far stronger 
 than their sense of reverence, and is constantly ex- 
 ercised without thought of harm upon that which to 
 their elders is most sacred. 
 
 But a graver delinquency is, to my mind, Mr. Hut- 
 ton's disparagement of the Second Part of "Faust." 
 He has evidently never taken adequate pains to 
 find out what this gigantic structure of philosophic 
 thought means, or whether it means anything. Evi- 
 dently he inclines to the latter opinion, for otherwise 
 he could not have compared Goethe's "childlike de- 
 * Lutheran clergymen in Norway still use the mass.
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE 99 
 
 light in puzzling his readers," in his boyish fairy- 
 tale, "The New Paris," "with his mystification of 
 Eckermauu, when he asked for the meaning of the 
 passage concerning 'the Mothers.'" 
 
 To suppose that Goethe, from a mere idle desire 
 to mystify, disfigured his chief work with a meaning- 
 less or pseudo-profound allusion, shows a disrespect 
 for his artistic sincerity which is surprising in a man 
 of Mr. Hntton's earnestness and freedom from prej- 
 udice. I know that he is here in general agreement 
 with English opinion, but English opinion concern- 
 ing the Second Part of " Faust," in so far as it exists, 
 is based upon ignorance. Obviously Mr. Button has 
 no more than Matthew Arnold made any determined 
 effort to comprehend the enormous scope and com- 
 plexity of that much-abused, but, on that account 
 no less valuable, work. The mere fact that Goethe 
 wrote it would seem to entitle it to serious considera- 
 tion. It is not easily understood. It does not yield 
 up its meaning to a mere cursory reader. It is not, 
 as poetry, equal to the First Part ; but without it the 
 First Part is nothing but a series of dramatic epi- 
 sodes, and the whole philosophic meaning, which is, 
 after all, what gives " Faust " its high place in litera- 
 ture, would be lost. So far from being a mistake of 
 Goethe's old age " a fantastic piece of senile folly," 
 as I heard an eminent Englishman call it it con- 
 tains the quintessence of its author's philosophy of 
 life, the summary of his worldly wisdom. Though of 
 a somewhat conglomerate character, and suffering 
 from occasional obscurity, it is organically coherent
 
 IOO GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 with the First Part and is as essential a part of the 
 grand design. That Goethe regarded it as such is 
 obvious from his remark to Eckermann (August, 
 1831), when he had finished the last scene of his 
 completed " Faust " : " My life henceforth," he 
 said, " I may view as a pure gift ; and it is now 
 really of small account whether I do anything and 
 what I do." 
 
 Let Mr. Hutton read the interesting discussion 
 concerning " Faust " in Goethe's correspondence with 
 Schiller, and above all let him note the noble ear- 
 nestness and lofty conception of their poetic calling 
 which characterize both writers, and I fancy that 
 he would feel inclined to revise his judgment con- 
 cerning the significance of " the Mothers." There 
 is, indeed, nothing so very mysterious in this allu- 
 sion ; but to explain it would involve a longer ex- 
 cursion into the philosophy of " Faust " than my 
 space here permits. I may, perhaps, be permitted 
 to refer anyone who desires further information to 
 my "Commentary on Faust,"* where the subject is 
 treated at some length. 
 
 With the exception of his rather sweeping con- 
 demnation of " Wilhelm Meister," which also betrays 
 spiritual alienism and lack of sympathy, I have no 
 further quarrel with Mr. Hutton, but much appreci- 
 ation of his critical acumen and his beautiful felicity 
 of language. Before taking leave of him I shall 
 
 * An explanation of the Second Part of Faust will be found 
 in my book, Goethe and Schiller, Their Lives and Works. 
 New York, 1879.
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE IOI 
 
 take the liberty to quote a few of his most vigor- 
 ous characterizations : 
 
 " Goethe never became a selfish man in the coarse 
 sense of the term. He always cultivated benignant, 
 unselfish sympathies as the most graceful elements 
 in this same fancy-pyramid of his existence. He 
 was generous by nature, and would give up from 
 kindly feeling anything that was not of the essence 
 of himself." 
 
 " He wished for love with limited liability ; he did 
 not wish to devote himself to any one but himself. 
 This limited liability did not so well meet the views 
 of the young ladies themselves, who were sometimes, 
 to his infinite embarrassment, willing even to go to 
 America with him, or anything else." 
 
 "It (' Gotz ') is the only great production of Goethe 
 in which a really noble, self-forgetful man stands 
 out in the foreground to give us a moral standard 
 by which to measure the meaner characters." 
 
 "His (Goethe's) other poetry, often exquisitely 
 fine, has the polish of high art upon it ; but his 
 lyrics seem to escape as unconsciously from the 
 essence of the earth as the scent from a violet, or 
 the music from a bird." 
 
 " I grant his was a light and spacious mind. I 
 grant that he was the wisest man of modern days 
 who lacked the wisdom of a child ; the deepest, 
 who never knew what it was to kneel in the dust 
 with bowed head and broken heart." 
 
 I quote this last dictum, not because I agree with 
 it, but in order to emphasize Mr. Button's attitude.
 
 102 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 The "wisdom of a child" seems to me a glaring 
 misnomer. For simplicity, naivete, trustful accept- 
 ance of statements on authority or faith, however 
 admirable, do not argue wisdom ; and they are quali- 
 ties which are necessarily lost, as the child advances 
 to intellectual maturity. If Mr. Hutton had said 
 " the faith of a child," I should have subscribed to 
 his statement. But the faith of a grown-up man 
 who has thought much and questioned the Sphinx 
 of Existence with indomitable perseverance and pa- 
 tience cannot partake of the quality of the child's 
 faith, which is mere blind acceptance without reason, 
 doubt, or research. 
 
 My third representative of British opinion con- 
 cerning Goethe is Professor John Stuart Blackie, of 
 Edinburgh, whose preface and introduction to his 
 book, " The Wisdom of Goethe," contain as adequate 
 and sympathetic a judgment of the poet as is any- 
 where to be found. I know, outside of Germany, 
 no critic who seems to have felt the spirit of Goethe 
 so acutely, and breathed his atmosphere with such a 
 sense of kinship and well being. No evidence can I 
 discover that Professor Blackie had any British prej- 
 udice to overcome, before he surrendered to the 
 attraction of Goethe's personality. There is no ob- 
 scuring fog in his mind ; but a passionless impartial- 
 ity and sincerity which constitute the best possible 
 medium for critical observation. A little touch of 
 partisanship may be manifest here and there, in his 
 determination to combat the common view, which 
 is, to his mind, unjust and ignorant.
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE 1 03 
 
 "Two such opposite types of national character 
 [as the English and the German] as soon as they 
 come near enough to provoke a mutual estimate, 
 naturally produce a clash ; aud in this way the 
 English, who in their days of intellectual isolation 
 days yet fresh in the memory of living men gloried 
 in simply despising the Germans, now that the cur- 
 rent of events has brought with it a general necessity 
 of international recognition, too often make this re- 
 cognition through a thick atmosphere of misconception 
 and a strong tincture of prejudice." * 
 
 As my own conception of Goethe's character coin- 
 cides in all essentials with that of Professor Blackie, 
 I quote him merely for the purpose of reinforcing 
 with his authority opinions which in this country 
 need to be emphasized by repetition : 
 
 " He [Goethe] was at the same time possessed of 
 such singularly original force and rich completeness 
 of character as to have led his people over from a 
 state of feebleness and dependence on foreign influ- 
 ences into a state of firmly rooted native growth, 
 luxuriant blossom, and beneficent fruitage." 
 
 "He could never either think or feel or act in- 
 dependently of his environment, and his course of 
 activity, though radically proceeding, no doubt, from 
 what he was, depended in each individual case upon 
 where he was. His was a nature to learn from every- 
 body, and to be touched by everything ; he had a 
 grand zest of living, and put forth loving arms in all 
 directions freely, in order to live largely." 
 * The italics are my own. H. H. B.
 
 104 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 "He lived and died, not without hard work, in- 
 deed, and hard struggles, much less untouched by 
 the envy which always waits upon merit, especially 
 in the first steps of its ascent, but in the end em- 
 phatically a rich man ; rich in friends, rich in love, 
 rich in insight, and rich in good works." 
 
 "Hutton, in his admirable essay above quoted, 
 talks as if Goethe had small capacity for friendship. 
 But this is true only of a particular kind, of clinging 
 and engrossing friendship, which to some minds is 
 a necessity. That Goethe did not require a friend, 
 as some do, to look up to, was the necessary conse- 
 quence of the Olympian character of his intellect. 
 Jupiter on his throne may have favorites, but no 
 fellows." 
 
 The judgment here quoted, though in one sense 
 just, is, perhaps, misleading. To make it true it 
 stands in need of amplification. Goethe had, par- 
 ticularly in his youth, a great capacity for friend- 
 ship, not merely of the Olympian order but of the 
 clinging, sentimental kind. Such was, for instance, 
 his relation to Fritz Jacobi, and in a lesser degree 
 to Lavater. But he outgrew both these men intel- 
 lectually, and he could not in later years persuade 
 himself to feign fidelity to the ghost of a friendship 
 which had long been dead. A friendship, in order 
 to be real, must be based upon a community of 
 tastes, sentiments, or interests ; and whenever such 
 a community of sentiments has ceased to exist, the 
 friendship is by that very fact dead. Goethe's high 
 sincerity and his fidelity to his best self compelled
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE IO5 
 
 him in many instances to sacrifice relations which, 
 though once helpful and mutually stimulating, had 
 become a burden and a hindrance to his growth. This 
 is hardly selfishness, but a duty which every sin- 
 cere man owes to himself. You can do your friend 
 no good by feigning for him a feeling which no 
 longer possesses you ; and all talk about " fidelity " 
 under such circumstances is but a remnant of the 
 old feudal ideal, which took less note of personal 
 compatibility than of a purely external allegiance 
 which you owed to your friend, as you did to your 
 sovereign. 
 
 Professor Blackie's reference to the long series of 
 Goethe's loves is characterized by the same large- 
 hearted comprehension and liberal spirit : 
 
 " To Goethe the sight of any beautiful object was 
 like delicate music to the ear of the cunning musi- 
 cian ; he was carried away by it, and floated in its 
 element joyously, as a swallow in the summer air, 
 or a sea-mew on the buoyant wave. Hence the 
 rich story of Goethe's loves, with which scandal, of 
 course, and prudery have made their market ; but 
 which, when looked into carefully, were just as much 
 part of his genius as ' Faust ' and ' Iphigenia,' a part 
 without which, indeed, neither 'Faust' nor 'Iphi- 
 genia ' could ever have been written. . . . Let 
 no man therefore take offence when I say roundly 
 that Goethe was always falling in love, and that I 
 consider this a great virtue in his character. Had 
 he not done so, he would not have been half the 
 man, nor the tenth part of the poet that he was."
 
 106 GERMAN 'LITERATURE 
 
 But two more passages I have marked for quota- 
 tion, both of which are essential to the character- 
 ization of Goethe. The fivst expresses a thought 
 which Mr. Hutton has rendered with no less felic- 
 ity: 
 
 " When he [Goethe] writes, he is not doing a 
 thing to make you stare, or to make himself feel as 
 if he were out of the body for a season ; he is merely 
 living out his life he is merely achieving the bil- 
 dung or the culture which nature meant for his life- 
 task, when she drew out his members marvellously 
 in the womb." 
 
 In speaking of the common English view of Goe- 
 the, in his relation to women, Professor Blackie 
 cites with approval an extract from " The Journal of 
 Caroline Fox : " 
 
 "With regard to Goethe's character, the more 
 Stirling * examines the less he believes in his having 
 wilfully trifled with the feelings of women. With 
 regard to his selfishness, he holds that he did but 
 give the fullest, freest scope for the exercise of his 
 gift, and as we are all gainers thereby, we cannot 
 call it selfishness." 
 
 Well, selfishness is a relative term, and depends 
 largely upon your point of view. It must be borne 
 in mind that Goethe was a child of the eighteenth 
 century, which was the age of individualism par ex- 
 cellence. The subordination of the citizen to the 
 state, and his duty to the commonwealth, were doc- 
 trines which would have sounded strange to the 
 * Carlyle's well known friend, John Stirling.
 
 THE ENGLISH ESTIMATE OF GOETHE 1 07 
 
 generation that preceded the French Eevolution. 
 Each man and woman who was conscious of an in- 
 dividuality was then (like Goethe) occupied in rear- 
 ing "the pyramid of his existence" as high as 
 possible ; and it made very little difference to him 
 whether, in so doing, he overshadowed the neigh- 
 boring pyramids or encroached upon their territory. 
 Goethe was thoroughly imbued with the desire to 
 grow to the largest possible stature of manhood, 
 which desire is utterly incompatible with the altruis- 
 tic ideal. Therefore let us concede that he was selfish 
 to the extent necessitated by his ideal of life. Ruth- 
 lessly egoistic he was certainly not, first, because of 
 the innate kindliness of his nature, and secondly, 
 because he would have regarded any unnecessary 
 self-assertion as undignified and a blemish upon the 
 character, which, in accordance with his own con- 
 ception, he wished to make perfect. The degree of 
 altruism compatible with self-preservation has never 
 been definitely settled, nor can it ever be settled. 
 It must vary with the age and with the individual. 
 And the degree of self-sacrifice compatible with a 
 high self-development, ascendency, and intellectual 
 dominance, is a question of still greater complexity. 
 Whether Goethe's conduct is to be termed egoistic 
 or altruistic, depends primarily upon the tribunal 
 before which he is to be arraigned. If that tribu- 
 nal be governed by the code of the century into 
 which he was born, the verdict will be favorable ; if 
 it be governed by that of the nineteenth century, 
 the judgment may incline toward severity. But the
 
 108 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 judgment of posterity will be that he practised the 
 exact degree of altruism or of egoism that was con- 
 sistent with his own ideal of life. Measured by the 
 standard of Pascal or St. Francis of Assisi, he was an 
 egoist ; but by that of Napoleon, he was an altruist.
 
 IV. 
 
 inMERSON revealed in a striking manner the 
 J ^ limitations of his mind, when he declared that 
 he would just as soon swim across the Charles River, 
 instead of taking the bridge, as read a foreign book 
 in the original when he could procure a good trans- 
 lation. Goodness, to be sure, is an elastic term, and 
 may be stretched to include anything. As far as 
 one may judge from the general tenor of Emerson's 
 writings, he would call a translation good which 
 rendered the meaning of the original with a fair de- 
 gree of clearness and accuracy. To charms of style 
 and harmony of sound he was never very sensitive. 
 He commended Carlyle's translation of "Wilhelm 
 Meister," which transforms the fluent, limpid, and 
 well-balanced periods of Goethe into a crabbed and 
 thorny English, bristling with the individuality, not 
 of the author, but of the translator. It is rarely that 
 a man is born less fitted for the work of translating 
 than Carlyle ; and if Emerson had not been his 
 friend, he would probably have discovered that the 
 English " Wilhelm Meister " has little in common
 
 1 1 GERMAN LITER A TURE 
 
 with the German original except the story. But an 
 artist of Goethe's rank is never content with the 
 mere telling of a story. Take, for instance, " The 
 Sorrows of Werther," which as a story amounts to 
 nothing, but which nevertheless exercises a potent 
 charm, and is regarded as one of the most exquisite 
 products of German literature. The British barba- 
 rian who undertook to put this delicate piece of im- 
 aginative writing into English for the Bohn Library 
 committed an offence compared with which that of 
 Carlyle was venial. For Carlyle produced a coher- 
 ent and interesting book with a definite style, al- 
 though it was not that of Goethe ; while the mu- 
 tilator of " Werther " simply bungled along with a 
 heavy hand, unconscious of the beauties which he 
 killed at every stroke of his sacrilegious pen. He 
 produced a book in which scarcely a trace of the 
 charm of the original is discoverable ; and English 
 readers who know the fame of Goethe have been 
 forced to the conclusion that he has been greatly 
 overestimated, and that German literature must be 
 poor and barren, since a work of such trifling merit 
 can have acquired so great a reputation. 
 
 I am inclined to put down as a general maxim 
 that the more replete a book is with the charms of 
 style and imaginative coloring, the harder it is to 
 translate. A fact may be as well expressed in one 
 civilized language as in another. A thought that is 
 sufficiently definite to be capable of expression in 
 English can usually be transposed without difficulty 
 into German, French, and Italian. But a thought
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE III 
 
 may be expressed feebly or strongly, bunglingly or 
 felicitously, and it sometimes seems as if it were 
 capable of a far more striking and felicitous utter- 
 ance in one language than in another. Words have 
 color and flavor, and produce an independent effect, 
 quite apart from the thoughts which they embody. 
 Words absolutely synonymous have different values, 
 different timbre, different harmonic effects. One 
 word has poetic dignity and elevation, while an- 
 other, which means the same, is prosaic and com- 
 monplace. A poet who failed to perceive this would 
 be a lamentable failure, and the more keenly he per- 
 ceives it, the more untranslatable he is sure to be. 
 
 It is an old saying that " it takes a poet to trans- 
 late a poet." It does not follow that it takes a great 
 poet to translate a great poet, and a small one to 
 translate a small one. On the contrary, a small poet, 
 if gifted with this peculiar perception of the individ- 
 uality and harmonic value of words, would be likely 
 to make a better translator than one of greater and 
 more commanding personality. The former would 
 be more likely to respect his original, while the lat- 
 ter could scarcely avoid obtruding himself and giv- 
 ing us more or less than the text warranted. 
 
 Coleridge played at ducks and drakes with the 
 text of Schiller's " Wallenstein," and makes one 
 suspect that his German scholarship was defective ; 
 but he managed to produce an English drama full 
 of poetic beauty, though with a stronger impress of 
 the translator's than of the author's style. There is 
 not the flavor of Schiller, so distinct to those who
 
 I 1 2 GERM A N LITER A TURE 
 
 have breathed it, in Coleridge's " Wallenstein ; " but 
 there is a delightful flavor of Coleridge. Walter 
 Scott, on the other hand, has given a comparatively 
 faithful rendering of Goethe's " Gotz," and with a 
 youthful and tentative hand groped for the Eng- 
 lish equivalents of the bold German phrases. It is 
 distinctly the work of a young man * who does not 
 yet trust his own powers. There is scarcely any of 
 the happy dash and raciness that distinguish the 
 original, in Scott's version ; and if Scott had under- 
 taken this work after a riper literary experience he 
 would probably have recreated " Gotz " in English 
 given us the English equivalent for " Gotz " as 
 Coleridge has given us an English equivalent for 
 "Wallenstein." 
 
 An interesting inquiry is suggested by this debut \ 
 of Walter Scott with a translation of a mediaeval 
 play by Goethe. Is it not possible that the read- 
 ing of " Gotz " may have aroused an enthusiasm for 
 the Middle Ages, and opened his eyes to the lit- 
 erary treasures that there lay unused ? If such was 
 the case and to me it seems highly probable 
 we are indirectly indebted to Goethe for the Waver- 
 ley Novels, and the romantic movement in English 
 literature. 
 
 One of the best specimens of Goethe in English 
 
 * Sir Walter was twenty-eight years old in 1799, when he 
 published the translation of " GOtz." 
 
 f I say debut, though being aware that Sir Walter pub- 
 lished anonymously, in 1796, "The Chase," and " William 
 and Ellen," from the German of Burger.
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE 113 
 
 is Miss Ellen Frothingham's " Hermann and Doro- 
 thea," which preserves the stately German hex- 
 ameters, and does not scruple to improve slip-shod 
 lines which are rather more frequent than they 
 ought to be. It may seem little short of sacrilege 
 to improve upon Goethe, but it must be admitted 
 that " Hermann and Dorothea," which was written 
 with great rapidity, is full of prosodic eccentricities. 
 In the first place, the conjunction und, frequently 
 commencing the line, is made to carry the syllabic 
 accent of the spondee or dactyl, and in a few in- 
 stances it does service for the last unaccented sylla- 
 ble, as, for instance, iv., 194 : 
 
 ' ' Acli ! da kommt mir so einsam vor, wie der Kammer, der 
 Hof und" 
 
 which Miss Frothingham renders : 
 
 "Ah, so lonely they seem to me then, the chamber and 
 court-yard." 
 
 But one of the worst lines, prosodically, to be 
 found in the book, is the second of the following, v., 
 32, 33 : 
 
 " Er ernahret uns alle. Und Heil dem Burger des kleinen 
 Stadtchens, welcher landlich Gewerb mit Biirgererwerb 
 paart." 
 
 The art of verse, technically considered, consists 
 in the happy adaptation of sound to sense, in such- 
 wise that the natural accent, determined by the 
 sense, coincides with the artificial accent of the me-
 
 114 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 tre. The words or syllables weightiest in sound 
 and in meaning should therefore have the ictus, or 
 metrical stress, while expletives and words carrying 
 a lighter burden of thought, should be made to fall, 
 as far as possible, upon the unaccented syllables of 
 the verse. No one knew this better than Goethe, 
 or practised it, as a rule, with happier effect. 
 
 Barely has our poet been subjected to worse mal- 
 treatment than by the translators of his ballads and 
 lyrics. The late Professor Frederick H. Hedge, 
 who, whatever else he was, was no poet, set a bad 
 example when he murdered "Der Erlkonig" in 
 verses of which the following may serve as an ex- 
 ample : 
 
 " ' My son, why hidest thy face so shy ? ' 
 ' Seest thou not, father, the Erl-king nigh ? 
 The Erlen king, with train and crown ? ' 
 ' It is a wreath of mist, my son.' 
 
 " Come, lovely boy, come, go with me, 
 Such merry plays I'll play with thee ; 
 Many a bright flower grows on the strand, 
 And my mother has many a gay garment at hand." 
 
 I cannot detect a suspicion of the beautiful bal- 
 lad strain of the original in this dry and spiritless 
 rendering, nor can I in any of Professor Hedge's 
 translations of Goethe's verse find any indication 
 that he appreciated the magnitude of his task. A 
 certain bland self-assurance which does not dream 
 of the subtler difficulties to be overcome is what 
 strikes me as a characteristic of this excellent man's
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE 
 
 dealings with Goethe. It gives one positively a 
 cold shudder to read such awful perversion as this 
 of "TheKinginThule:" 
 
 " There was a King in Thule, 
 
 Till death a constant soul * (!) ; 
 His queen she loved him truly, 
 And left him a golden bowl ! 
 
 "And now, while his last breath breathing, 
 
 He reckons his towns all up, 
 All to his heir bequeathing, 
 But not that golden cup. 
 
 41 There stood tlic old toper slowly 
 Draining life's last, he stood 
 And the cup he held so holy 
 He hurled into the flood." 
 
 There are many more specimens of earnest good- 
 will, coupled with glaring inability, in that curious 
 volume entitled " Select Minor Poems of Goethe 
 and Schiller : with Notes by John S. D wight," pub- 
 lished by Hilliard, Gray & Co., Boston, 1839. 
 James Freeman Clarke, William H. Changing, 
 George Bancroft, S. M. Fuller, N. L. Frothiugham, 
 Charles T. Brooks, and G. W. Haven are the other 
 contributors. Mr. Clarke and Mr. Frothingham are 
 the only ones of this number who succeed, in a 
 measure, in keeping their translations (though with 
 occasional lapses) in the same key as their originals. 
 
 * The italics are mine. H. H. B.
 
 Il6 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 The former's "rendering of the 'Orphic Say- 
 ings'" and the latter's of the "Song of the Fates," 
 in "Iphigenia," are in every way creditable. They 
 have a solemn organ tone and a sententious eleva- 
 tion of language which no German poet (and in 
 England only Milton) possessed in the same degree 
 as Goethe. 
 
 Mr. Clarke included nearly all his contributions 
 to this collection in a later volume called " Exotics," 
 which bears his own initials and those of his daugh- 
 ter on the title page. A great deal of excellent 
 translation from many authors is contained in this 
 little book, and it would be ungracious, perhaps, to 
 find fault where there is so much to praise. There 
 are, indeed, difficulties in the art of translation 
 which seem to lie in the different tone and color of 
 the language itself, and which can be overcome by 
 nothing short of inspiration. I am very sure I 
 could not render into English that would appear 
 to myself adequate the splendidly sonorous lines 
 in Goethe's epilogue to Schiller's "Song of the 
 Bell : " 
 
 " Und hinter ihm in wesenlosem Scheme 
 Lag was uns alle biindigt, das Gemeine." 
 
 And it is therefore in no carping spirit that I call 
 attention to Mr. Clarke's shortcomings : 
 
 " And far behind, in mists dissolving fast, 
 That which confines us all, the common, passed." 
 
 The female rhyme is here so obviously needed to
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE 1 1/ 
 
 preserve the key, that a male rhyme, with its abrupt 
 stop, positively shocks the ear. 
 
 Altogether the most satisfactory collection of 
 Goethe's lyrics which has appeared in English, 
 though it leaves much to be desired, is " The 
 Poems and Ballads of Goethe," translated by W. 
 Edmonstoune Aytoun and Sir Theodore Martin. 
 This volume has the distinction of containing 
 nothing which is really poor. The "Song of Mig- 
 non," upon which so many infelicitous poetasters 
 have tried their hands, is particularly well done, 
 and even the exquisite "Heidenroslein," which is 
 as light as thistledown and as airily degage in its 
 movement, is far from being a failure. The last ' 
 verse is, however, not so good as the rest, and its 
 third line 
 
 " It turned and stung him, but in vain " 
 
 is too choppy, and metrically defective. A similar 
 criticism applies to the rendering of that noble 
 verse 
 
 " Ueber alien Gipfeln 
 
 1st Huh ; 
 In alien Wipfeln 
 
 Spurest du 
 Kaum einen Hauch ; 
 
 Die Vogelein schweigen im Walde. 
 Warte nur, balde 
 
 Ruhest du auch." 
 
 This is a mere articulate sigh breathed into the
 
 1 1 8 GERMAN LITER A TURE 
 
 evening air, and so elusive as to defy recapture in 
 alien sounds : 
 
 " Peace breathes along the shade 
 
 Of every hill, 
 The tree-tops of the glade 
 
 Are hushed and still ; 
 All woodland murmurs cease, 
 
 The birds to rest within the brake are gone ; 
 Be patient, weary heart, anon 
 
 Thou too shalt be at peace." 
 
 The English verse is here scarcely less poetic 
 than the German. It is in the right mood, but it is 
 not so beautifully spontaneous and free in its move- 
 ment. 
 
 A very interesting attempt to "English" Goethe's 
 " Westostlicher Divan " was made fifteen years ago 
 by the Keverend John Weiss, of Boston. As we all 
 know, the lyrical ease, the wild grace, and the 
 bubbling affluence of phrase which characterize 
 Goethe's early songs deserted him, in a measure, in 
 these Oriental poems, or at least in the greater por- 
 tion of them. There is a certain stately, elderly 
 didacticism, obviously intended, in the " Book of 
 Hafis," the "Book of Parables," and the "Book of 
 Reflections." But in the " Book of Suleika," parts 
 of which were written by Marianne Willemer, there 
 is again the happy audacity of youth, and a glorious 
 fulness of feeling and utterance which recalls the 
 poems to Lilli and the lyrics in "Faust" and 
 "Wilhelm Meister." When we consider these 
 "flashes of song," of which I have cited some of
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE 1 19 
 
 the loveliest examples, Wordsworth's criticism of 
 Goethe's poetry, that " it does not seem inevitable 
 enough," is so wide of the mark as either to appear 
 ignorant or malevolent. Wordsworth himself never 
 wrote anything having this quality of " inevitable- 
 ness " in the same degree as the " Heidenroslein," 
 " Ueber alien Gipfeln," or the " Archangels' Chorus." 
 in "Faust." 
 
 Mr. John Weiss has admirably preserved the tone 
 of the didactic poems in the " Westostlicher Divan," 
 but somehow his deftness of touch deserted him 
 when he attempted the Suleika songs. Where Goe- 
 the flows with richest abundance and ease, his trans- 
 lator is most choppy, tortuous, and unsatisfactory. 
 Professor John Stuart Blackie, who in his ''Wisdom 
 of Goethe " made liberal extracts from the " Divan," 
 cleared this rock by not venturing on anything in 
 a purely lyrical vein. It is Goethe the sage he 
 primarily concerns himself with, not Goethe the 
 poet. His book is a treasure -house of noble, sen- 
 tentious sayings, all rendered with painstaking ac- 
 curacy the garnered wisdom of a rich and noble 
 life. If it were possible to bestow the results of one 
 man's experience upon another, it would be one of 
 the most useful books ever compiled. But wisdom, 
 I am inclined to believe, is never directly communi- 
 cable. It strikes root only in a kindred soul prepared 
 for, if not by, a kindred experience. 
 
 Of the many translations of " Faust " I regard 
 Bayard Taylor's as the best. Its shortcomings 
 have been ably stated both by friendly and un-
 
 1 20 GERM A N LITER A TURE 
 
 friendly critics ; but these are, to my mind, com- 
 pensated for by a poetic afflatus which distin- 
 guishes the book and proves it to be the work of a 
 poet. The Reverend Charles T. Brooks, who pub- 
 lished a very acceptable version, which by some is 
 held to be superior to Taylor's, was far less success- 
 ful in reproducing the musical keys of the original, 
 and he is far poorer in winged words, which seize 
 the spirit of the German as by inspiration. I can- 
 not, for instance, imagine a happier rendering of 
 the line in the dedication, 
 
 " Das streuge Herz es fiihlt sich mild und weich," 
 than Taylor's 
 
 " And the stern heart is tenderly unmanned ; " 
 
 which certainly accords better with the elegiac key 
 of the poem than Brooks' 
 
 " The rigid heart to milder mood gives way ; " 
 or Miss Swanwick's 
 
 " A tender mood my steadfast heart oversways." 
 
 The same observation holds good in regard to the 
 Easter choruses, though the admirers of Taylor are 
 here perhaps obliged to concede a liberal use of his 
 predecessors, and particularly of Brooks. Taylor 
 followed in this respect the example of his master, 
 who declared (apropos of Mephisto's song, "Was 
 machst du mir vor Liebchen's Thtir," which he had
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE 121 
 
 adapted from Shakspere) that he felt at liberty to 
 use all that carae in his way, provided he could im- 
 prove upon it. And who will question that, consid- 
 ered as poetry, Taylor's version is here superior to 
 that of Brooks ? Take, for instance, the " Chorus of 
 the Disciples," which is the most difficult, and so 
 may serve as a test of the comparative merits of the 
 translators. How ecstatic is the swift dactylic move- 
 ment of Taylor's rendering ! 
 
 " Has He, victoriously, 
 Burst from the vaulted 
 Grave, and ail-gloriously 
 Now sits exalted ? 
 Is He in glow of birth 
 Rapture creative near ? 
 Ah ! to the woe of earth 
 Still are we native here ! 
 We, His aspiring 
 Followers, Him we miss ; 
 Weeping, desiring, 
 Master, Thy Bliss ! " 
 
 Excepting the last four lines, which fall a trifle 
 below the key, I regard this as one of the greatest 
 feats of translation in the English language. The 
 alternately rhyming lines, 
 
 " 1st or in Werdelust 
 Schaffender Freude nah ? 
 Ach ! an der Erde Brust 
 Sind wir zum Leide da," 
 
 are rendered with a poetic felicity and vigor which 
 throw Brooks far into the shade. Particularly the
 
 122 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 rendering of the almost untranslatable word Werde- 
 lust by " glow of birth," and the producing of a 
 dactylic rhyme, accurate both as to sense and sound, 
 in " woe of earth," can scarcely fail to challenge the 
 admiration of all who know the difficulties which 
 are here so triumphantly overcome. Here is the 
 version of Brooks, and I beg the unprejudiced 
 reader, with an ear for rhythmical effects, to pro- 
 nounce if it approaches so near to the sublimity of 
 the original : 
 
 " Risen victorious ? 
 
 Sits He, God's Holy One, 
 High throned and glorious ? 
 He, in this blest new birth. 
 Rapture creative knows ; 
 Ah ! on the breast of earth 
 Taste we still nature's woes. 
 Left here to languish, 
 Lone in a world like this, 
 Fills us with anguish, 
 Master, Thy bliss." 
 
 Miss Swanwick's version of this is almost on the 
 level of prose, and makes scarcely the faintest at- 
 tempt to sound the trumpet-note of triumph which 
 rings in the first four lines, and which Taylor has 
 reproduced so finely : 
 
 " He whom we mourned as dead, 
 Living and glorious, 
 From the dark grave hath fled, 
 O'er death victorious. 
 Almost creative bliss
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE 123 
 
 Waits on His growing powers. 
 Ah ! Him on earth we miss ; 
 Sorrow and grief are ours. 
 Yearniug He left His own 
 'Mid sore annoy. 
 Ah ! we must needs bemoan, 
 Master, Thy joy ! " 
 
 I believe I ain acquainted with all translations 
 of "Faust" into English, and I have, after much 
 study, come to the conclusion that Taylor's unites 
 more excellences than any of the others. If I 
 were to state its claim to superiority in one word, 
 I should say that, generally speaking, it is poetry, 
 while all the others are metrical prose, rising 
 now and then into the regions consecrated to 
 the tuneful Nine. It is not by any means a final 
 and fully satisfactory translation, making all others, 
 superfluous ; but it gives everywhere evidence of 
 having been written by a man of finer poetic suscep- 
 tibility and a higher poetic gift than any of his com- 
 petitors. 
 
 Where a dozen translators have grappled earnestly 
 with a poet's text, coincidences of expression are in- 
 evitable. The worst solecisms are frequently due to 
 the effort to escape resemblance to a predecessor. 
 There is but one of Taylor's predecessors who is on 
 nearly as high a level of excellence, and who in single 
 instances perhaps surpasses him ; and this is not 
 Mr. Brooks, but Sir Theodore Martin. Here is the 
 Spinning Song, for instance, the first verse of which 
 is almost identical in both versions.
 
 124 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 Sir Theodore Martin renders it : 
 
 " My peace is gone, 
 My heart is sore, 
 'Tis gone forever 
 And evermore." 
 
 Taylor's translation runs as follows : 
 
 " My peace is gone, 
 My heart is sore, 
 I never shall find it, 
 Ah ! nevermore. 
 
 With the exception of the seventh verse which is 
 identical in both, there are no further resemblances 
 except such aa are unavoidable. The Easter Choruses 
 of Sir Theodore Martin are distinctly inferior to 
 Taylor's. In fact Taylor is always best where he 
 has the greatest difficulties to contend with, and 
 where no competitor can be of use to him. It may 
 be admitted, without detracting from the value of 
 his work, as a whole, that in some instances he falls 
 short of the sublimity of his text, as in the prayer : 
 
 " Oh neige, 
 Du Schmerzensreiche ; " 
 
 to which he has hardly done justice in the lines : 
 
 "Incline, oh maiden, 
 Thou sorrow-laden," etc. ; 
 
 which in passionate intensity does not approach the 
 German.
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE 12$ 
 
 I cannot agree with Mr. Matthew Arnold, who pro- 
 nounces Hayward's translation of " Faust " tlie best 
 because it is "the most straightforward." To the 
 lover of " Faust " who seeks something more than the 
 bald meaning, Hayward's version is exasperating. 
 His laborious and cumbersome prose is not only pro- 
 saic but prosy. It is, linguistically, on a dead level of 
 commonplace. Who, not knowing the original, but 
 having read Hayward's translation, would ever dream 
 that this was one of the great masterpieces of the 
 world's literature ? I am unable to find a single 
 scene in that barren desert of prose which preserves 
 the tone and color of the original. You may say 
 that this cannot be done in prose, which amounts to 
 saying that no prose translation, however good, can 
 compare with a good metrical one quod erat demon- 
 strandum. 
 
 An American translation of " Faust " by Frank 
 Claudy, of Washington, appears to be very little 
 known, It is faithful, frequently felicitous, but 
 follows Taylor too closely, in all the lyrical pas- 
 sages, to claim the merit of independence. " The 
 Spinning Song " of Mr. Claudy differs from Taylor's 
 only in a few unimportant words. His "Easter 
 Choruses" show much less dependence, and are, 
 indeed, remarkably good ; and the same may be 
 said of the " Chant of the Archangels." 
 
 Among the many who tried their hand on the 
 isolated scenes of "Faust," no one has produced 
 metrical effects of more exquisite quality than Percy 
 Bysshe Shelley. His "Chant of the Archangels"
 
 126 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 contains inspired lines such as " the world's un- 
 withered countenance," and is of a sustained lofti- 
 ness which makes one desire that he had given us 
 more. 
 
 BAPHAEL. " The sun makes music as of old 
 
 Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, 
 On its predestined circle rolled 
 With thunder speed : the Angels even 
 Draw strength from gazing on its glance, 
 Though none its meaning fathom may ; 
 The world's unwithered countenance 
 Is bright as at creation's day." 
 
 In the "Walpurgis Night scene Shelley has a line 
 which is simply delicious in its wild, witch-like 
 wantonness : 
 
 " And the rugged crags, ho, ho ! 
 How they snort and how they blow." 
 
 This catches inimitably the spirit of the lines : 
 
 " Und die langen Felsennasen 
 Wie sie schnarchen, wie sie blasen." 
 
 The interjections " ho, ho," are not in the text, 
 but after Shelley supplied them you wish that they 
 had been there. This is an instance of what I 
 have called re-creation. Shelley felt the scene so 
 keenly, and possessed moreover such magnificent 
 resources of language, that inspired, wondrously fe- 
 licitous words sprang into their places and built up 
 the scene in English with all the noble freedom and 
 spontaneity of the original.
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF GOETHE I2/ 
 
 Among the several translations of the second part 
 of " Faust," I set much store by that of John An- 
 ster, LL.D., which is accurate, dignified, and well in 
 tune with the Olympian mood of the old Goethe. In 
 the fifth act, with its swift dactylic measures in the 
 various choruses of angels, Mr. Anster falls behind 
 both Sir Theodore Martin and Bayard Taylor. The 
 English language is so poor in dactylic rhymes, that 
 it would seem quite excusable, as Mr. Anster has 
 done, to abandon all pretence to reproduce the me- 
 tres. Take as a mere instance of the comparative 
 mastery of Anster, Martin, and Taylor, the beautiful 
 Chorus Mysticus with which the second part closes : 
 
 " Alles Vergangliche 
 1st nur em Gleichniss ; 
 Das Unzulangliche 
 Hier wird's Ereigniss ; 
 Das TJnbeschreibliche, 
 Hier 1st es gethan ; 
 Das Ewig-Weibliche 
 Zieht uns liinan." 
 
 Mr. Anster's version is as follows : 
 
 " All we see before us passing 
 Sign and symbol is alone ; 
 Here, what thought can never reach to 
 Is by semblances made known ; 
 What man's word may never utter, 
 Done in act in symbol shown. 
 Love, whose perfect type is Woman, 
 The divine and human blending, 
 Love forever and forever 
 Wins us onward, still ascending."
 
 128 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 This is a paraphrase rather than a translation, 
 neither literal nor particularly felicitous. Sir Theo- 
 dore Martin has wrestled more successfully with the 
 metrical problem. 
 
 " All in earth's fleeting state 
 As symbol is still meant ; 
 Here the inadequate 
 Grows to fulfilment. 
 Here is wrought the inscrutable 
 To silence that awes us ; 
 Love eternal, immutable, 
 On, ever on, draws us." 
 
 ' Das Ewig-Weibliche " is here inadequately ren- 
 dered by " love eternal, immutable," and the apolo- 
 getic foot-note scarcely helps it. Bayard Taylor 
 (whose second part of " Faust " was published before 
 Sir Theodore's) has the splendid lyrical impulse of 
 the original which hurries us on from line to line, 
 and unites the verse into a noble whole : 
 
 " All things transitory 
 But as symbols are sent : 
 Earth's insufficiency 
 Here grows to event. 
 The indescribable, 
 Here it is done : 
 The Woman-Soul draweth us 
 Upward and on !"
 
 V. 
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 
 I. 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF HAPPINESS 
 
 THE futility of faith, the futility of effort, the 
 futility of life itself is being eloquently 
 preached by a certain class of modern philosophers. 
 It is surprising that so much energy should be ex- 
 pended to prove its own uselessness. It reminds 
 one of Voltaire's epigram, a propos of Rousseau's 
 " Discourses," that never had a man expended so 
 much intellect to prove himself a brute. But this 
 gospel of pessimism, which begins and ends in 
 negation, can never affect the large mass of human- 
 ity. There is an indestructible vitality in the race 
 which rejoices in action and shoots off with a rank 
 vigor in manifold aims and activities. It is like the 
 sap that mounts in the tree with a glorious creative 
 ferment, and bursts into leaf and blossom and fruit. 
 Happiness, which to the great herd is but the grati- 
 fication of the immediate desire, seems always with- 
 in reach and is always eagerly pursued. But though 
 a hundred times the Juno of our pursuit turn into a
 
 130 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 clamp and clammy cloud in our embrace, we do not 
 willingly draw the conclusion that she is not worth 
 pursuing. We start once more and have the same 
 experience over again, and the great majority of us 
 go to our graves more or less disillusionized, but 
 yet cherishing a vague notion that, if we had one 
 more trial, we might gain the happiness which has 
 so far eluded us. But the hope is vain ; first, be- 
 cause happiness is no tangible and attainable thing, 
 which can be gained and kept under lock and key ; 
 and secondly, because it is in its very nature to 
 elude him who pursues it. 
 
 The first of these propositions is too self-evident to 
 need explanation. But the second, though it ought 
 to be equally self-evident, contains subtleties enough 
 to furnish a theme for discussion. This postulate 
 that happiness is never caught by pursuit, is the 
 central doctrine of the Second Part of Goethe's 
 " Faust," and, in a scarcely less conspicuous degree, 
 of " Wilhelm Meister." Browning deals with it, or 
 rather fumbles gropingly about it in " Paracelsus ;" 
 and George Eliot illustrates it with great strength 
 and lucidity in " Daniel Deronda," and incidentally 
 in "Romola," " Middlemarch," and "Scenes from 
 Clerical Life." All great thinkers have concerned 
 themselves more or less with it ; but not all have 
 arrived at Goethe's conclusion, which, however, both 
 religion and experience tend to enforce. In one 
 sense it is but an amplification and philosophical 
 variation of Christ's teaching of self-sacrifice and 
 charity, though without reference to any heavenly
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 131 
 
 reward. In another sense it is an anticipation of 
 Herbert Spencer's doctrine of altruism, and a dem- 
 onstration of the futility of the old eudemonistic 
 philosophies. 
 
 Let us consider the pi'oblem in some of its im- 
 portant bearings. "Wilhelm Meister starts out in 
 the world, as every young man is apt to do, as a 
 frank eudemonist ; i.e., as one bent upon achieving 
 his own happiness. He blunders wofully, sacrifices 
 with unthinking selfishness other lives to his own 
 notions of felicity, and reaps the consequences of 
 his acts. Pleasure - seeking, so far from bringing 
 happiness, spins him into a web of manifold diffi- 
 culties. The conviction, enforced by experience, 
 grows upon him that not in seeking the gratification 
 of every lawless impulse, but in self-development, is 
 happiness to be found. He then sets out in quest 
 of culture in the most comprehensive sense, not 
 only cultivation of the mind, by reading and inter- 
 course with intellectual men and women, but also 
 cultivation of manners, and the acquisition of that 
 noble presence which was to be an outward expres- 
 sion of a manly and self-reliant character. This sec- 
 ond quest like the first ends, however, in temporary 
 failure. It is not to be denied that this new eude- 
 monisni (for it is nothing else) is nobler than the 
 old ; but it is far from solving the problem. Wil- 
 helm is apparently not much happier in the pursuit 
 of culture than he was in the pursuit of pleasure. 
 He feels himself at a disadvantage as a bourgeois, 
 among the rich and magnificent aristocrats with
 
 132 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 whem he associates, and his self-esteem frequently 
 suffers. By a slow growth, induced by the culture 
 which he has acquired, his tastes change ; he be- 
 comes interested in his fellow-men and their con- 
 cerns ; and gradually the attainment of happiness 
 for himself becomes subordinated to his work for 
 the welfare of his kind. He studies medicine, and 
 in the practical duties of his profession, helping the 
 weak and alleviating suffering, he attains a degree 
 of contentment and well-being which has hitherto 
 been unknown to him. In other words, when he 
 has abandoned the direct pursuit of happiness, hap- 
 piness comes to him. 
 
 In " Faust " the same doctrine is still more 
 forcibly taught. Faust, having turned his back 
 upon the pursuit of knowledge (because it seems 
 futile and joyless), agrees with Mephistopheles that, 
 when he shall by the Devil's aid have reached the 
 moment of absolute bliss, to which he would say : 
 " Stay, thou art fair," his soul shall, for all eternity, 
 belong to Mephistopheles. The tempter puts all 
 sorts of sensual pleasures in his way, but they fail 
 to satisfy. Sin brings its retribution remorse and 
 misery untold. Then comes, in the beginning of 
 the Second Part, Faust's reawakening to the ac- 
 tivities of life ; his entrance upon the arena of 
 practical life as a statesman and the gradual unfold- 
 ing of his intellectual powers, symbolized by the 
 flight to Greece and his discourse with the phan- 
 toms of Hellenic and Egyptian mythology in the 
 classical Walpurgis night. He passes through the
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 133 
 
 same stages of development as Wilhelm Meister, 
 grows gradually from eudernonism into altruism, 
 and finds happiness when he has entirely abandoned 
 the pursuit of it. The moment to which he would 
 say : " Stay, thou art fair," does not come to him by 
 the agency of Mephistopheles, but through an ex- 
 periment in draining a large tract of land, hither- 
 to sterile, breathing miasma, and preparing it for 
 the habitation of generations yet unborn. Critics, 
 trained in the Romantic traditions, have never wea- 
 ried of ridiculing this device, regarding it as a most 
 trivial and prosaic denouement. But this proves 
 only how far Goethe was in advance of his age. We 
 can scarcely conceive of a nobler kind of happiness 
 than that of Faust, when blind and old, he stands 
 on his tower, seeing in spirit the blessings which 
 his labors will confer upon millions of his fellow- 
 men. This is the moment of absolute delight. 
 And, as soon as he has pronounced the fatal words, 
 " Stay, thou art fair," he falls back dead ; not, 
 however, to be delivered up to Mephistopheles, but 
 to be borne upward in triumph by the heavenly 
 hosts. 
 
 George Eliot's treatment of this problem is very 
 different from Goethe's, but her solution is essen- 
 tially the same. What she primarily concerns her- 
 self with is man's attitude toward the moral law as 
 the determining factor of his fate. The individual 
 is organically coherent with his environment, by 
 which his duties are defined, and whatever happi- 
 ness is to be found on earth results from the fulfil-
 
 134 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 ment of these duties. The attempt to escape to 
 take a short cut to happiness always avenges itself 
 and brings misery. If happiness is not found in sub- 
 mission to duty (and sometimes it may not be) far 
 less is it to be found in rebellion against it. George 
 Eliot's works supply abundant situations illustrat- 
 ing these propositions. Take, for instance, the case 
 of Bomola. She has made a mistake in marrying 
 Tito Melema. Her imperfect knowledge of life 
 had made her an easy prey to the superficial charms 
 of the handsome and slippery Greek. Her love is 
 short-lived ; soon she learns to despise, and at last 
 to hate and loathe, her husband. Her strong and 
 pure nature revolts against the degrading union 
 with this base character, and she flees, not to pleas- 
 ure, but to renunciation ! When in her indignation 
 at Tito's un worthiness, she believes herself justified 
 in breaking the marriage bond, Duty meets her 
 with its categorical demand in the person of Savo- 
 narola. He commands her to return. Tito's un- 
 worthiness has not absolved her from her obligation 
 as his wife. Take up thy cross and bear it ; do not 
 weakly throw it away. In the fulfilment of a bur- 
 densome duty (even though it is painful and difficult) 
 there is blessing. The attempt to escape from the 
 consequences of one's own actions is like trying to 
 run away from one's shadow. 
 
 This is the substance of Savonarola's message, 
 and it is the message that George Eliot is constantly 
 repeating. One would suppose, then, that Komola, 
 after her return to her husband, would realize -this
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 135 
 
 blessedness to its full extent. But here again the 
 author's beautiful fidelity to the facts of existence 
 restrains her. Komola experiences no ecstatic 
 happiness, no keen sense of beatitude. These ex- 
 alted states are rare in our mortal life. But she 
 gains in time a wise and gentle resignation, a half- 
 sorrowful satisfaction in well - doing, and a noble 
 elevation of character which make her a blessing to 
 her kind. 
 
 To Gwendolen, in "Daniel Deronda," the same 
 message is delivered under similar circumstances. 
 She, too, has made an unhappy marriage, though 
 from far less worthy motives. She has married 
 Grandcourt with her eyes open, well knowing what 
 he is. Her womanhood is daily degraded by its 
 bondage to this coarse and brutal character. Duty 
 encounters her in the person of Daniel Deronda. 
 She yearns passionately to escape from the position 
 which her own vulgar ambition and the worldliness 
 of her friends have prepared for her. She does at 
 last "escape by an act which, before the tribunal of a 
 stern conscience, is next door to murder. Now, 
 then, the fairyland of freedom will open its golden 
 portals to receive her ! No ; far from it. Her ex- 
 pectation is disappointed. Daniel Deronda, for 
 whose approval she hungers, pronounces again the 
 inexorable law there is no happiness to be found in 
 escape from duty. The world is so constituted, and 
 we are ourselves so constituted, that we visit retribu- 
 tion upon ourselves for our own sins. Society joins 
 in enforcing the moral law by which it can alone
 
 136 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 exist ; and inflicts its punishment upon us through 
 our most sensitive fibres. Misery a long, dreary 
 life of expiation, is the penalty Gwendolen pays for 
 her attempt to take the law into her own hands. 
 
 Closely akin to the philosophy of George Eliot, as 
 bearing upon this subject, is the spirit which per- 
 vades the poetry of Tennyson. He, too, preaches 
 submission to duty and the futility of rebellion. He 
 declares his faith in the reign of law, and finds the 
 evidence of man's progress in his gradual self-con- 
 quest, and in the subordination of passion to duty. 
 In this way he rises to loftier heights and attains the 
 only happiness attainable on earth, which is indeed 
 not rapture, but a tempered felicity, a grave self- 
 respect and contentment. I have not the space to 
 quote ; but I believe this to be a fairly correct 
 summary of Tennyson's moral teaching. It is not 
 the attitude one would naturally expect of a poet ; 
 for poets are rarely conformists ; they are sup- 
 posed to have a streak of defiance in their blood 
 and a native sympathy with revolt. With the ex- 
 ception of Wordsworth (and in a lesser degree, 
 South ey), I know no English poet orf eminence who 
 has espoused so emphatically the cause of duty 
 against that of passion. The pervading note in 
 Shelley, for instance, is a breathless and utterly 
 lawless aspiration ; a millennial disregard of all the 
 hampering conditions to which human existence is 
 subject ; a Titanic impatience overleaping all bar- 
 riers ; a wild, lyrical yearning for the unattainable. 
 A ravenous hunger for happiness is constantly burn-
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 137 
 
 ing in his soul ; and with uncontrolled individualism 
 he takes what he conceives to be the shortest cut to 
 the goal of his desires. But, in every instance, how 
 wofully the result disappoints him ! No more im- 
 pressive sermon has ever been preached on this text 
 than the recently published "Life and Letters of 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley," by Professor Edward Dow- 
 den. That society has any claim upon the individual 
 and may justly demand a certain degree of respect 
 for its convictions and usages, seems never to have 
 occurred to Shelley ; and that the social code of 
 morals, no matter how oppressive in individual 
 cases, has, and must always have, a certain rational- 
 ity, was an idea which he utterly scouted. Sensi- 
 tive he was, in the extreme. Life played with "a 
 rough bow upon his quivering nerves ; and his 
 suffering was pitiful, but not undeserved. 
 
 Robert Browning, who is constantly approaching 
 this problem, is drawn by his sympathies in the 
 direction of Shelley rather than that of Tennyson. 
 He preaches frankly the rights of passion ; and 
 derides in his heroes all pusillanimous regard for 
 duty. Take, for instance this, in "The Statue and 
 the Bust," where the question is one of surrender 
 to passion or resistance : 
 
 "I hear your reproach : ' But delay was hest ; 
 
 For their end was a crime.' Oh, a crime will do, 
 As well. I reply, to serve for a test 
 
 As virtue golden through and through, 
 Sufficient to vindicate itself 
 And prove its worth at a moment's view."
 
 138 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 In twenty passages at least, which I could quote, 
 if not in a hundred, he^ preaches the same doctrine 
 in a rich and varied vocabulary which, if not con- 
 vincing, is marvellously subtle and alluring to every 
 ardent eudemonist who may be foolish enough to 
 put it into practice. What Browning contends is 
 that passion is the expression of the personality at 
 its flood-tide ; it is the man's or the woman's power 
 at its climax ; it is the rich blossoming of the soul ; 
 and the failure to obey its prompting is a sacrilege, 
 a wasting of golden moments which will never 
 return. It is in these moments that life reaches 
 out for its fulfilment ; and dying without having 
 tasted their sweetness is death, indeed ; is sterility 
 and failure. It is as if the plant should die without 
 having blossomed. The moral objections to this 
 doctrine are known to Browning in all their aspects ; 
 but he chooses never to emphasize them. It is a 
 question whether he would recommend his philoso- 
 phy to anyone as a guide of action. It has its 
 justification in verse, no doubt ; and throws light 
 into recesses of our nature which, but for this poet, 
 might not be so well illuminated. But let anyone 
 who reads Browning with a leaning toward his 
 views of life, read Goethe and George Eliot as an 
 antidote ; for it is in the latter that the deepest in- 
 sight and the highest practical wisdom have found 
 expression. Quite apart from the fact that society 
 must, for its own protection, punish non-conformity 
 in morals, the pursuer of pleasure, for its own sake, 
 or his own sake, will always have the experience of
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 139 
 
 Ixion be will embrace a cloud. Even from a 
 purely philosophical point of view the words of 
 Christ are true : " He that seeketh his life shall lose 
 it ; and he that loseth his life, for my sake, shall 
 find it." 
 
 There is no direct evidence that George Eliot was 
 indebted to Goethe for the moral which she teaches 
 in her novels. The paper in her volume of essays 
 called " Three Months in Weimar " does not indi- 
 cate any extensive familiarity with German litera- 
 ture. In her " Life " by Cross I am able to find 
 but two references to Goethe, one quoting an opin- 
 ion concerning Spinoza, and the other recording the 
 reading of the First Part of "Faust " in the original : 
 neither of these passages gives any hint that she 
 had penetrated beneath the surface. Whether Mr. 
 Lewes, who wrote the well-known "Life of Goe- 
 the," may have called her attention to the German 
 poet's doctrine of happiness is a question which is 
 difficult to decide. It lies, perhaps, nearer to sup- 
 pose that she may have been stimulated by Herbert 
 Spencer's doctrine of altruism, which is but a modi- 
 fication of the lesson taught in " Faust " and " Wil- 
 helm Meister." 
 
 I know that to English readers this may appear 
 a surprising statement ; for a man who was bent 
 above all things upon self-culture who regarded all 
 relations of life as tributary to his own development 
 could scarcely be, in the ordinary acceptation of 
 the term, an altruist. But Goethe is not the only 
 man who has taught a philosophy which he was not
 
 140 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 able to practise. It is quite possible for a man to 
 be intellectually in advance of his moral develop- 
 ment to see with his intellect what he may not 
 have the power to illustrate in his conduct. In 
 other words, Goethe had reached the moral stage of 
 Faust in the Third, or possibly the Fourth Act of 
 the Second Part of the drama ; but he had not yet 
 entered upon the Fifth and final Act. 
 
 n. 
 
 THE VICTIMS OF PROGRESS. 
 
 THERE is a scene in the Second Part of Goethe's 
 "Faust "which furnishes me with a text for what 
 may prove a tale or a sermon or a social essay. I 
 have known so many of the victims of progress, and 
 I have, on the whole, such a kindly feeling for the 
 majority of them, that I cannot find it in my heart 
 to tell them, in propria persona, of how small ac- 
 count they are in the cosmic economy. By shield- 
 ing myself behind the mighty back of Goethe I 
 shall manage to make him say what I wish to say, 
 and yet avoid the brutal frankness of a personal 
 critic. 
 
 On the top of a hill in Faust's domain lived an 
 aged and highly respectable couple, named Phile- 
 mon and Baucis. It happened that the site upon 
 which their cottage and the adjoining chapel were 
 situated was the only eminence in the kingdom 
 fit for an astronomical observatory ; and Faust,
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 141 
 
 being anxious to found such an institution, offered 
 to buy the old people's property for more than it 
 was worth. They, however, refused to part with it, 
 and attributed to Faust all sorts of sinister motives 
 for wishing to deprive them of what was rightfully 
 theirs. The latter, fired with zeal for the welfare of 
 society at large, sent out " three strong men " (one 
 of whom proved to be Mephistopheles in disguise) 
 to eject Philemon and Baucis from their cottage, 
 and to move them, if need be, by force, to a new 
 and more attractive home which he had prepared 
 for them. The three strong men exceeded their in- 
 structions, burned the cottage and the chapel, and 
 the old people died of fright. 
 
 This is the story : and it is needless to say that it 
 has puzzled the commentators exceedingly. It 
 would be comparatively plain sailing, if it were not 
 for the fact that it is distinctly said that Faust was 
 justified in acting as he did. When, in the next 
 scene, the Gray Sisters Care, Want, Necessity, and 
 Guilt knock at his door, Guilt is excluded. The 
 very cheap explanation that Goethe meant to teach, 
 man's liability to error, however wise he became, 
 accordingly does not apply ; for if Faust's act was 
 an error, he would surely not be free from guilt. 
 No ; there is no escape from the conclusion that the 
 author meant to declare that the man who, in his 
 efforts to benefit the race, unavoidably injures indi- 
 viduals, is not to be blamed. The offence of Phile- 
 mon and Baucis was that, without any fault of their 
 own, they were unable to keep pace with the evolu-
 
 142 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 tion of humanity. They claimed the right to live 
 and think in their own old-fashioned way, and to 
 remain unaffected by the progress of the age. They 
 were so eminently respectable, religious, and con- 
 servative that it followed, as a matter of course, that 
 any one who did not agree with them must be a 
 dangerous innovator an enemy of society. Baucis 
 intimated that Faust was a wizard, and that he " of- 
 fered up human sacrifices in the night to strange 
 gods ; " she held up her hands in holy horror at the 
 unheard-of sacrilege of his reputed speech and ac- 
 tion. He became a bugbear to her, and nothing 
 could be too monstrous to be credited, if it related 
 to him. And yet, as the reader knows, Faust's 
 sleepless desire and dominating passion, at this 
 final stage of his career, were to benefit humanity. 
 He was the altruistic type, as Goethe conceived it, 
 in its perfection. 
 
 I dare say we have all known Philemon and Bau- 
 cis, and recognize their features, as here represent- 
 ed, to be true. The hostile attitude toward "the 
 spirit of the age " which is here punished, and held 
 to be worthy of punishment, is characteristic of the 
 larger portion of what is called respectable society. 
 There has probably never been an age when old 
 people did not mourn the degeneracy of the times, 
 and sigh for the good old days, when they were 
 young. If this regret were justified, the inference 
 would be inevitable that humanity had been going 
 steadily down hill, and was worse off to-day than it 
 had ever been in the past. We know, however, that
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 143 
 
 the tendency of history has been toward higher so- 
 cial conditions and a gradual improvement in the 
 condition of the average man ; for it is by the status, 
 not of the favored few, but of the vast mass, that a 
 century must be judged. The farther back we go 
 the greater we find, generally speaking, the con- 
 trast to be between the lives of the ruling classes and 
 those of the dumb and toiling masses. The prog- 
 ress of civilization is properly gauged by its grad- 
 ual elevation of the average of happiness ; and this 
 is effected, not so much by the increased splendor 
 of the rich, as by the increased comfort of the 
 poor. A gradual rearrangement of economic forces 
 is taking place, tending in this direction. 
 
 If, then, the watchword of advancing civilization is 
 " the greatest good of the greatest number," it follows 
 that there will always be a minority whose interests 
 are likely to be sacrificed. The path of progress is 
 'strewn with victims whose only fault was that they 
 were superfluous that the life-blood of the age did 
 not pulsate in their veins. They are waste tissue in 
 the body social, and would, as such (unless they are 
 carried off), impede the vital circulation. Philemon 
 and Baucis are perpetually being sacrificed ; and 
 perpetually reappear to be sacrificed anew. They 
 are such worthy and admirable people that it is dif- 
 ficult to understand how they have deserved such a 
 cruel fate. Not necessarily in the summary manner 
 in which "Faust" disposes of them are they being 
 eliminated (for that action is, of course, symbolical), 
 but in a hundred ways they are pushed aside, tram-
 
 144 GERMAN LITERAl^URE 
 
 pled upon immolated to the relentless spirit of the 
 age. The current of time speeds away from them, 
 and leaves them, high and dry, like useless dross 
 upon its banks. They do not, indeed, suspect how 
 dead they are ; but keep up a semblance of life by 
 railing against that which they do not understand ; 
 which, perhaps, they have made no effort to under- 
 stand, finding denunciation easier than investigation. 
 They fight facts with sentiments, and pride them- 
 selves on having made out an impregnable argu- 
 ment. Forgetting that beaut}' is a purely relative 
 term a purely personal impression they imagine 
 that they have proved a thing to be wrong if they 
 find it revolting to their own sense of beauty. Medi- 
 aeval feudalism presents a very picturesque spec- 
 tacle, and its gradual departure has been lamented 
 by the Philemons of each succeeding generation, 
 who saw only the loss of ancient romance, with- 
 out observing the corresponding gain in general 
 comfort and welfare, which follows in the footsteps 
 of advancing industi'ialism. And Baucis, who is at 
 heart a bitter aristocrat, observes in her kitchen the 
 unpleasant phases of democracy and sighs for the 
 good old times when masters could command and 
 servants obey. 
 
 "Talk of the pursuit of happiness," said a house- 
 keeping member of Baucis's sex to me recently ; 
 "and you say the Constitution guarantees it to 
 women. Well, nothing would conduce more to my 
 happiness than twelve hours of absolutism in which 
 to avenge all the wrongs I have suffered in twelve
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 145 
 
 years from my servants. But no law, as far as I can 
 discover, takes any account of my happiness, while 
 there are at least a dozen that concern themselves 
 with that of the servant-girl. If she chooses to sue 
 me for any sort of fancied injury, or merely to ex- 
 tort money, she is likely, by virtue of her inferior 
 position, to have both judge and jury on her side, 
 as I have found to my cost on two occasions ; while 
 if she steals from me or otherwise injures me, I have 
 to pocket my loss, knowing that the chances are 
 against me in an American court, and that I ought 
 to be happy if I escape a prosecution for libel." 
 
 It was useless to argue with her, of course, for 
 Baucis's sex has not its forte in argument ; but she 
 declared, with unconscious humor, that democracy 
 was a detestable thing, and that if it were not for 
 her husband's business she would emigrate to Rus- 
 sia. The greatest good of the majority, she insisted, 
 involved the greatest misery of the minority to 
 which she and I had the misfortune to belong. It 
 was a paradoxical statement and considerably over- 
 shot the mark ; but it had a modicum of truth in it, 
 and I cannot withhold my sympathy from Baucis, 
 even though I do not agree with her. 
 
 There is a particular reason why I feel sorry for 
 Baucis, and am scrupulous to do her full justice, and 
 that is because, if I live long enough, I may myself 
 become a Philemon. The vanguard of one age is 
 apt to become the rear-guard of the next ; and at the 
 rate at which the century is moving there is a possi- 
 bility that I may not manage to keep up with it 
 10
 
 1 46 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 Comparatively rare are the men and women in whom 
 the progressive spirit keeps pace with the world 
 about them, and who at seventy judge as justly 
 concerning the tendencies of the times as they did 
 at forty. We are apt to ossify with age ; our sym- 
 pathies are more on their guard, and we cling with 
 a natural predilection to that which was contempo- 
 rary with our prime. Goethe is the most radiant ex- 
 ception to this rule that I can recall, although Glad- 
 stone and Darwin follow close behind him. I do 
 not mean to imply, of course, that all change is 
 progress and that all tendencies which are wide- 
 spread and general are therefore worthy of approval ; 
 but, broadly speaking, humanity moves forward 
 (though with many distracting whirlpools and eddies 
 which tend backward or nowhere) ; and it is the 
 test of a vigorous intellect and a vital personality to 
 be able to discover in which of these tendencies its 
 real progress is manifested. Every quack and 
 pseudo-reformer who hawks his panacea for social 
 ills on the platform or through the press claims to 
 be the champion of progress, and dubs every one who 
 opposes him an old fogy and an obscurantist. But 
 no one need be troubled by such names, as long as 
 he stands in the thick of the fight, and has a strong 
 conviction of his usefulness. We must work while 
 it is day ; for the night cometh, when no man can 
 work. 
 
 It is only when we hold aloof, because we feel 
 that the age has outstripped us, or because we are 
 dissatisfied with the spirit which prevails about us,
 
 SERMONS FROM GOETHE 147 
 
 or because we feel beforehand the futility of all en- 
 deavors on our part to oppose that of which we 
 disapprove ; it is then that we become Philemon s. 
 When we have reached that stage it does not matter 
 much, as far as the world is concerned, if we order 
 our shrouds, or perish, as the original Philemon 
 did, of stupid fright. Faust in his typical quality, 
 as the representative of society, has then a perfect 
 right to oust us from our inheritance, and we have 
 no right to complain if the "three strong men" of 
 action take possession of the soil which was ours, 
 but which we have lost through our inability to use 
 it for our own benefit and that of our fellow-men : 
 
 " For only he earns life and liberty 
 Who daily conquers them anew."
 
 VI. 
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN. 
 
 ~T~T7"HEN an author, even after his death, con- 
 V V tinues to live, and his influence goes on 
 growing from generation to generation, it is safe to 
 assume that such survival is not accidental. No 
 amount of artificial enthusiasm on the part of a co- 
 terie of worshippers will be able to keep a poet alive 
 whose message, addressed to his own time, has no 
 significance to posterity. What primarily secures 
 survival is being in the current of the world's intel- 
 lectual development ; being a link, and perhaps an 
 indispensable one, in the intellectual evolution of hu- 
 manity. It is in this capacity that Goethe demands 
 the world's attention. There have been greater poets 
 than he, greater statesmen, and greater scientists, 
 but there never has been a man in modern times of 
 so many-sided endowments and varied intellectual 
 equipment. Taking him all in all, he is the most 
 complete man in modern history. In fact he as- 
 pired consciously for this completeness. He de- 
 veloped himself consciously on all sides of his nat- 
 ure. His ideal, which he embodied in the Greek 
 word KoAoKdya^ta, was self-culture, an harmoni-
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN 149 
 
 ous development of body and mind, of his physical 
 and intellectual being. He applied a sagacity and 
 a largeness of vision to the interpretation of life 
 which, I fancy, has never been equalled. A more 
 calmly impartial and fearless CEdipus never ap- 
 proached the Sphinx offering to solve her riddle. 
 
 " The desire to raise the pyramid of my existence, 
 the base of which is already laid, as high as pos- 
 sible into the air, absorbs every other desire, and 
 scarcely ever leaves me," he wrote to his friend 
 Lavater in his youth, and throughout his long life 
 he never wavered in this purpose. This declaration 
 meant something more than the mere determination 
 to rise in the world as far as his talents would per- 
 mit. It meant that he had fashioned for himself an 
 ideal of high and fi'ee humanity which he meant 
 gradually to realize in his own inward and outward 
 self. He meant to allow no person, relation, or cir- 
 cumstance to interfere with this purpose and to 
 subordinate all ambitions, passions, and desires to its 
 realization. 
 
 This is the key-note of Goethe's life ; it is the 
 theme so richly varied through the vivid and enter- 
 taining chapters of his autobiography. Let us 
 just as well admit that it was not a Christian ideal. 
 In its essence it was Greek and intrinsically pagan. 
 The Hellenic ideal of culture ignored (as did 
 Goethe's) the educational value of suffering. The 
 whole range of sentiments and emotions which took 
 possession of the world with the introduction of 
 Christianity was, generally speaking, a sealed book
 
 I$O GERM A N LITER A TURE 
 
 to the pagan philosopher. Not that acts of heroic 
 self-sacrifice are unknown to Greek literature ; but, 
 taking the whole tendency of Hellenic civilization, 
 you find that it strove to develop the individual to 
 the highest perfection and recognized his right to 
 subjugate the world to his uses, as far as his powers 
 permitted make it tributary to his own existence. 
 Though we exercise this right (with slight legal 
 restraints) at the present day, and abjectly admire 
 the man who does it most successfully, we hypo- 
 critically profess a philosophy which teaches the 
 beauty of self-abnegation and altruistic devotion to 
 the cause of humanity. 
 
 Quite apart, then, from moral considerations, let us 
 see how Goethe applied this pagan principle of life 
 and what he achieved by its guidance. This is in- 
 deed a most interesting inquiry, for Goethe is, as 
 far as I am aware, the only conspicuous modern man 
 who has professed an egoism so complete and con- 
 sistently practised it. That both in " Faust " and 
 "Wilhelm Meister " he points to altruism as the 
 higher philosophy, and makes both his heroes ulti- 
 mately find happiness in devotion to the happiness of 
 their fellow-men, is irrelevant. It shows that Goethe 
 was capable of conceiving a type morally above him- 
 self, and that he did not suppose that the stage of 
 development which he had himself reached was by 
 any means final. For though he was by nature 
 kindly and spent one-sixth of his income in charity, 
 he certainly never rose to the moral height of Faust 
 in the last act of the Second Part. He loved his
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN !$! 
 
 friends so long as they Lad something to contribute 
 to his life, and he dropped them or shook them off 
 when he had exhausted their educational value. 
 That may appear a harsh statement, but it is un- 
 questionably true. It was especially in his relations 
 to women that he exhibited this side of his nature. 
 
 Take, for instance, the episode with Frederica 
 Brion, the daughter of the pastor at Sesenheim. 
 He professes to have loved Frederica. She was a 
 new phenomenon to him, and in a half-literary way 
 he delighted in her rural simplicity, kindness of 
 heart, and artless prattle. From the very first she 
 appeared to him as the heroine of a book ; and the 
 whole household struck him by its resemblance to 
 Parson Primrose's household in Goldsmith's " Vicar 
 of Wakefield." So vivid became this fancy that he 
 seems to have lived, during his visits to the parson- 
 age, more in the book than in the reality, and to 
 have assigned to himself, half involuntarily, the part 
 of the villain, Mr. Burchell. This role did not 
 satisfy him, however, and he soon began to play 
 the part of the honest lover in so far as his literary 
 character (which he never quite could get rid of) 
 would permit him. That, after much masquerading, 
 he ended by falling seriously in love, admits of 
 no doubt ; but as soon as he had assured himself 
 that his affection was returned, the delight of pursuit 
 was naturally at an end ; and the delight of posses- 
 sion, which to most lovers would have been an ample 
 compensation, caused him more disquietude than 
 pleasure. He had to ask himself now what obliga-
 
 152 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 tion he had incurred in return for that which he had 
 accepted. He had to readjust his life with refer- 
 ence to this new element which he had introduced 
 into it. And this he could not make up his mind to 
 do. Frederica had awakened in his soul all the 
 emotions she was capable of awakening, and when 
 he came to contemplate her as a disturbing factor in 
 his scheme of existence, she lost much of her fas- 
 cination. Instead of furthering his serene self-de- 
 velopment, she threatened to interfere with it by 
 the claim which the mere fact of her love seemed 
 to make upon his interest and attention. In order 
 to escape the responsibility and the pain of a definite 
 rupture, he betook himself away, and by cruel 
 neglect allowed the relation to dwindle away into 
 nothing. He was too young at that time, and withal 
 too emotional, not to suffer himself a large share of 
 the pain which he inflicted. The image of Frede- 
 rica, reaching him tearfully her hand at their part- 
 ing, pursued him and caused him much misery. 
 Though he strove in nowise to embellish his conduct, 
 and for a while was a prey to remorse, he could not 
 persuade himself to return and manfully assume the 
 responsibility for his actions. Instead of that he 
 sought consolation in literary composition. He re- 
 produced his own relation to Frederica in that of 
 Weisslingen to Maria in his drama, " Gotz von 
 Beiiichiugen," and imposed a vicarious penance upon 
 the faithless lover by making him fall into the toils 
 of a remorselessly cruel and ambitious woman, who 
 used him for her own evil purposes.
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN 153 
 
 This whole proceeding is characteristic from be- 
 ginning to end, and is repeated, with variations, in 
 all Goethe's love affairs. Love, as the world is now 
 arranged, is supposed to lead to marriage. But 
 marriage contains so large an element of the unfore- 
 seen, and imposes so many complex duties and obli- 
 gations, that a man who has a definite scheme of 
 self-development upon which his heart is set, may 
 well shrink from embarking upon so venturesome an 
 enterprise. But in that case, you will say, he 1ms 
 no right to fall in love. No honorable man will 
 court the favor of a woman and win her affection 
 unless he has counted the cost and means to defray 
 it. There is, however, also something to be said on 
 the other side of the question. Nature has treated 
 the male creature rather unfairly in this matter, 
 having implanted in him a strong passion which 
 draws him, in spite of his better judgment, toward 
 the other sex. This passion befuddles his reason 
 and disables him from seeing and thinking clearly. 
 The common callow youth, who is but a mediocre 
 specimen of his kind (and who, to show his quality, 
 ought to be numbered, not named), rushes blindly 
 into the first net that the female enchanter has 
 spread for him, and in his maudlin felicity feels not 
 the meshes of fate in which he is entangled. He 
 marries, reproduces his imbecility in half a dozen 
 specimens of his own kind, and struggles patiently 
 with the troubles incident upon his blessed estate. 
 
 Now, it may be that this man is wise. He could 
 probably not fulfil any higher destiny. But the
 
 I 5 4 GERM A N LITER A TURE 
 
 rare, the exceptional man, richly endowed, who sees 
 the benevolent imposition which Nature practises 
 upon him and refuses to play into her hands, is he, 
 after all, to be so ruthlessly condemned ? Marriage 
 is a social institution, admirably devised to preserve 
 the social order and an even progressive develop- 
 ment. It does not primarily concern itself with the 
 happiness of the two contracting parties, but with 
 that of the society to which they belong. But, of 
 course, the two callow simpletons have no suspi- 
 cion of this surreptitious design on Nature's part ; 
 but innocently believe that the institution was de- 
 signed to secure their own individual felicity, which 
 undoubtedly in many cases it does. But even so 
 wise a man as Emerson was of opinion that the poet, 
 the scholar, the man who was bent upon accomplish- 
 ing some high purpose, had better not give hostages 
 to fortune. In nine cases out of ten his purpose 
 will, without anyone's fault, be thwarted, and by 
 numerous unforeseen and unforeseeable circum- 
 stances be diverted from its original aim. He may, 
 indeed, yet accomplish much ; but he will fall short 
 of the highest achievement attainable by a man of 
 his gifts. 
 
 It is as a special advocate for Goethe that I have 
 advanced this argument. I am convinced that it 
 was the way the problem presented itself to him. 
 He has nowhere expressed himself on this subject, 
 but his conduct is everywhere governed by the same 
 principle. He was always very susceptible to the 
 charms of women, and the long series of his affaires
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN 155 
 
 de cceur, beginning with his sixteenth and ending in 
 the neighborhood of his eightieth year, exhibits, 
 mutatis mutandis, the same general characteristics as 
 the one of which the Alsatian parson's daughter was 
 the heroine. 
 
 Omitting the Wetzlar episode, in which Charlotte 
 Buff figured, the chapter which chronologically 
 comes next has for a heading the name of Lili 
 Schouemann, the daughter of a rich Frankfurt 
 banker. Lili was, as her portraits show, a beauty, 
 and altogether a statelier and more accomplished 
 lady than Frederica. When Goethe made her ac- 
 quaintance she was scarcely more than a Backfisch, 
 which is the German term for that intermediate 
 stage when a girl is neither a child nor yet a grown 
 woman. She was a trifle pert, and practised the arts 
 of young ladyhood with all the empressement of a 
 novice. She was a coquette, full of moods And ca- 
 prices, but at heart (as her later history shows) a fine 
 and sterling character, or, at all events, she developed 
 in the course of time into a sterling character 
 through the experience of wifehood and mother- 
 hood. The house of her mother (her father had died 
 when she was but five years old) was the rendezvous 
 of all who made pretension to elegance in the social 
 world of Frankfurt, and a certain consciousness of 
 her social importance gave to the young girl an air 
 of high breeding, security of bearing, and charm of 
 manner. To Goethe, who had not before associated 
 with women of that type, she was a revelation. 
 When he stood leaning over the piano and watched
 
 I $6 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 her nimble fingers travelling with amazing skill over 
 the keys, admiring the natural grace of her move- 
 ments, her image sank into his soul and took com- 
 plete possession of him. It was the newness of the 
 type which she presented that primarily fascinated 
 him ; and though the thought of her literary value 
 was then far from his mind, the feelings which she 
 awakened in him demanded immediate expression 
 and inspired that most exquisite group of lyrics 
 which has ever since been associated with her name. 
 In all his former affairs his conquests had been too 
 easy. He had been too conscious of his masculine 
 superiority, too self-reliant in his love to 
 
 "Taste the raptured sweetness 
 Of her divine completeness." 
 
 The tarment, the fever, and the fret of love's sus- 
 pense, doubt, and burning humility he had never 
 known. Frederica had fallen, like a ripe peach, into 
 his lap, as soon as he gently shook the tree, and in 
 the case of Charlotte Buff there is every evidence to 
 show that he refrained from shaking the tree, because 
 he felt equally certain that the fruit would drop. As 
 in that contingency the question of ownership would 
 arise, with many unpleasant complications, he pre- 
 ferred to run away before the temptation to pluck 
 the forbidden fruit became irresistible. But now, 
 in the presence of this imperious and capricious 
 Lili, he learned for the first time in his life the role 
 of a petitioner. She was a woman of the world, or
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN 157 
 
 thought herself one, and though she was strongly 
 drawn to the handsome young poet (and in an un- 
 guarded moment told him so), she did not intend 
 to be won easily. Her dignity demanded that he 
 should suffer and make sacrifices for her sake, and 
 if he passed creditably through the purgatory which 
 she deliberately prepared for him, she meant to re- 
 ward him with her own sweet and distinguished 
 self. If in a moment of confidence she was betrayed 
 into forgetting her dignity, this neglected attribute 
 was apt, to demand reparation by asserting itself the 
 more at their next meeting. She also professed 
 what appeared to Goethe a monstrous sentiment, 
 viz., a desire to attract all men indiscriminately, to 
 please and entertain them, and to feel herself the cen- 
 tre of an admiring throng. He, too, had his dignity 
 to maintain ; and petted and spoiled as he had been 
 by doting women, he could not consent to be one of 
 a number who rejoiced in her favor. If he could not 
 be lord supreme and sole usurper, he wished to be 
 told so once for all, so that he might tear himself 
 away and quit forever the frivolous and unprofitable 
 life into which he had been led by her. But such a 
 decisive declaration Lili would not make, or if she 
 made it, it had no perceptible effect on her conduct. 
 Accordingly they quarrelled, made up and quar- 
 relled again. German as he was, and by nature se- 
 rious, he was utterly at a loss to comprehend her 
 " flirtatious " temperament. Possibly he regarded 
 it as an indication of moral obliquity. But so great 
 was Lili's power over him, that the fascination she
 
 158 GERM A AT LITER A TURE 
 
 exerted rose superior to moral considerations. For 
 the very reason that he never felt quite sure of her, 
 he returned after each estrangement, and finally, 
 through the machinations of a benevolent friend, 
 bound himself to her by a formal engagement. 
 But what Grimm calls the demoniac element in Goe- 
 the's nature made him chafe under every obligation, 
 however shadowy, and yearn to throw off a yoke, 
 however lightly it pressed. He always cooled, at 
 least temporarily, after having achieved a conquest ; 
 and the plain, prosaic scenes which in Love's com- 
 edy are apt to follow the poetic prologue, he always 
 shrank from playing a part in.* Under these cir- 
 cumstances he resorted to his usual remedy : he 
 ran away, this time to Switzerland. On his return it 
 was probably his intention to break off the engage- 
 ment, in spite of his love for Lili, which he had not 
 succeeded in eradicating. But instead of that, he 
 fell under her charm more completely than ever. 
 He disapproved of her, and yet adored her ; he 
 acted as her cavalier at balls and parties, because 
 his jealousy would not permit him to stay away ; he 
 rebelled against his thraldom in prose and verse ; 
 and finally, seeing that he was being alienated from 
 the life work to which his genius called him, and 
 
 * This reluctance to transpose the poetry of love into the 
 prose of matrimony is the subject of Henrik Ibsen's play, 
 Love's Comedy. The heroine, Svanhild, marries the man 
 whom she does not love and separates from him whom she 
 does love, lest the harmony of life's highest bliss might be 
 jarred into a matrimonial discord.
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN 159 
 
 drawn into a whirlpool of inane social festivities 
 (which were the very atmosphere of her being), he 
 took advantage of one of their frequent lovers' quar- 
 rels and allowed the engagement to lapse. 
 
 His motive is here distinctly the same as before. 
 He loved Lili, and suffered keenly by their separa- 
 tion ; but as she would not fit into his scheme of 
 existence, but rather strove to fit him into her own, 
 he had no choice but to break with her, unless he 
 chose to modify his plan of life or subordinate it to 
 his relation to her. It is true that Lili, on one occa- 
 sion, when the parents on both sides raised objec- 
 tions to their union, proposed to flee with him to 
 America ; and it is even possible that she would 
 have had the strength of character to make this 
 sacrifice, if he had been willing to accept it. But 
 that kind of heroism, in the great crises of life, is a 
 very different thing from the heroism of daily renun- 
 ciation of cherished habits and ambitions. The 
 same Lili who would cheerfully have embarked for 
 the wilds of an unknown world for the sake of the 
 man she loved, would probably not, for his sake, 
 have gone to a ball in a high-necked dress, or re- 
 sisted the temptation to flirt, though she knew it 
 made him miserable. 
 
 Though of all the women who figure in Goethe's 
 autobiography, Lili was, as it appears to me, best 
 qualified to make him happy, I believe he acted 
 wisely in refusing to become enslaved to a life that 
 was uncongenial to him. She was too definite and 
 too considerable a personality (which Frederica was
 
 I6O GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 not) to avoid exerting a strong influence upon him, 
 and, in short, playing havoc with his scheme of life. 
 What this influence would have been we are only 
 left to conjecture ; but I fancy that, though in one 
 respect it would have been wholesome, in this it 
 would have been injurious. She would, of course, 
 have saved him from the irregular domestic relation 
 with Cbristiane Vulpius, which directly and indirectly 
 caused him much suffering and some moral deterio- 
 ration. She would, when the mere foam and froth 
 of youthful exuberance had blown away, have stood 
 at his side as an affectionate and dignified wife who 
 would have kept his regard and surrounded him 
 with an atmosphere of order, comfort, and sympathy. 
 For into such a wife Lili developed in her marriage 
 with a much lesser man, the Alsatian nobleman, 
 Baron von Turkheim. And in later years, so far 
 from cherishing a petty resentment, she declared 
 that she owed to Goethe her moral and intellectual 
 existence. But though we may concede that his life 
 would have run more smoothly with such a help- 
 mate, there is to my mind very little doubt that we 
 should have lost the only exemplar which the world 
 possesses of a career devoted exclusively to self- 
 development. We should have had another Goethe 
 and a different one, and, taking him all in all, prob- 
 ably a lesser one. I know all that can be said 
 against this view ; but it does not seem to me to be 
 of sufficient weight to reverse my judgment. That 
 Olympian isolation of Goethe which makes him loom 
 up above his contemporaries in solitary grandeur
 
 GOETHE' } S RELATIONS TO WOMEN l6l 
 
 has always appeared to me highly impressive. I do 
 not doubt that with a wife like Lili he would have 
 found the problems that beset him much simplified. 
 But, as he has himself emphasized, happiness is not 
 the highest aim of existence. The domestic type of 
 man who lives to propagate and to extract a fail- 
 amount of comfort out of life is so frequent that we 
 need waste no regrets because Goethe did not add 
 one to their number. He started out, as so very 
 few men do, with a clear and definite scheme of 
 life, and though tossed hither and thither by youth- 
 ful passion and unforeseen circumstances, he yet 
 possessed the strength to adhere to it, and to test 
 its utmost virtue. The compass which guided his 
 course was not free from occasional aberrations when 
 disturbing magnets were brought into its vicinity, 
 but it quickly recovered its true bearings after each 
 aberration. It is, however, no imputation against its 
 excellence to believe that, with a magnet of Lili's 
 attractive and disturbing force in its immediate near- 
 ness, it might have recorded the deviations and varia- 
 tions common to compasses thus situated. And the 
 world would, in that case, have been the loser. 
 
 Furthermore, to abandon metaphor, I do not be- 
 lieve that Goethe would have found time to record 
 his inner and outer life so minutely if he had been 
 wedded to Lili. As it is, his is the most completely 
 recorded life which history or literature has to show. 
 The eighteenth century was the age of individualism 
 par excellence, and it was the fashion to be elaborately 
 autobiographical. 
 11
 
 1 62 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 This self-centred and minutely descriptive ten- 
 dency of Goethe was undoubtedly in the air. The 
 cultivated citizen of that day had but vague and 
 shadowy notions of the state and did not primarily 
 regard himself as a member of a body social His 
 first obligation was to himself and his own interests, 
 and his most absorbing business was to study and 
 develop himself. Goethe was in nowise exceptional 
 in forming this beautiful scheme of using the world 
 as an educative agency for his own development, 
 but he was exceptional in adhering to his scheme 
 and carrying it out, in making every life that came 
 in contact with his own tributai'y to his, and trans- 
 forming what was individual and accidental in it 
 into high literary symbols and enduring human 
 types. What an exquisite result has, for instance, 
 the Sesenheim episode yielded ! A sweet, common- 
 place young girl, with a nez retrousse and some poor 
 rural accomplishments, becomes, by the magic of 
 his art, a permanent character in literature, an im- 
 mortal type of all that is most touching and beauti- 
 ful in womanhood. I do not say that this was to 
 Frederica personally a compensation. But just as 
 Faust (in the Second Part) by deeds of repentance 
 does penance to humanity for his sin against the 
 individual Gretchen, so Goethe in "G5tz von Ber- 
 lichingen " and " Clavigo " made amends to the 
 world for the wrong he had done Frederica. Nor 
 can I believe, as so many critics do, that such pen- 
 ance is worthless. No wrong can ever be undone, 
 and a mere emotional repentance, however much it
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN 163 
 
 may benefit the penitent, is of no value to him 
 against whom he has sinned. 
 
 "Nichts taugt Ungeduld, 
 Noch weniger Rene ; 
 Jene vermehrt die Schuld, 
 Diese schafft ueue," 
 
 says Goethe. He believed that a gradual recovery 
 from all moral injury was possible as long as aspira- 
 tion survived, which was to him a proof that the 
 divine spark in the man was not yet extinct : 
 
 "Whoever aspires unweariedly 
 Is ne'er beyond redeeming." 
 
 Of all Goethe's love affairs, the one which has 
 been the subject of most serious controversy is 
 his relation to Frau von Stein. We all know that 
 the seventh commandment was laxly interpreted by 
 the eighteenth century, and the society of Weimar 
 was no less "imperfectly monogamous" than that 
 of other cities which were the seats of courts. 
 Goethe's fondness for Frau von Stein certainly be- 
 gan as an intellectual friendship, and both Grimm 
 and Blackie believe that, though they loved each 
 other, their relation was free from reproach. 
 Schiller, who a short time after his arrival in Wei- 
 mar writes the gossip of the place to his friend Kor- 
 ner, also confirms this opinion. " They say the re- 
 lation is perfectly pure and blameless," are his 
 words. And although Weimar, like every small
 
 1 64 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 town, was a hornets' nest of scandalous gossip, the 
 general contemporary judgment appears to have 
 been that Frau von Stein was and remained an 
 honorable woman. The published volumes of Goe- 
 the's letters to her, which, like all love-letters not 
 addressed to one's self, are dull reading, do not mili- 
 tate against this theory, though many of the billets 
 doux are sufficiently passionate to give color to the 
 opposite view. 
 
 Bat to begin with the beginning, Frau von Stein 
 was not a beauty. A woman's looks are always the 
 beginning in affairs of this sort. She had a highly- 
 refiued, sensitive, and delicate face. She was thirty- 
 three years old and the mother of seven children. The 
 cares and the physical drain of maternity (against 
 which she bitterly rebelled) upon her strength had 
 left their marks upon her features, which had a 
 weary and faded look. Her portrait shows, how- 
 ever, that she must have had a fine gift of observa- 
 tion and probably wit. Her tastes drew her toward 
 reading, and the books which interested her became 
 events in her life. But domestic duties drew her 
 toward practical things which were distasteful; 
 hence her discontent. She had apparently not the 
 art (which belongs to perfect health) of bearing her 
 cross cheerfully. Being high-strung and of frail 
 physique, hungering for the beautiful experiences 
 which fate thus far had denied her, she furnished a 
 piquant contrast to the artless young girls upon 
 whom Goethe had hitherto expended his sentiment. 
 Lafemme de trente cms, if she cares for the role of an
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN' 165 
 
 enchantress, is a far more dangerous person than 
 lafemme de vingt cms. The latter is but a more or 
 less attractive specimen of the feminine gender, and 
 the charm which she exerts is of that primitive sort 
 that pervades all nature and lies at the base of crea- 
 tion. It is heightened, no doubt, by attractions 
 which may be more or less personal ; but as a rule 
 it is safe to say that personality at twenty is em- 
 bryonic ; it is a potential thing, a promise of some- 
 thing which may or may not be realized. But a 
 woman of thirty has assumed her permanent colors. 
 She is the bud no longer, but the flower in its per- 
 fect bloom. The fragrance which emanates from 
 her is perilously subtle, appealing even to the jaded 
 sense which is proof against the perfume of the bud. 
 
 Frau von Stein possessed in a rare degree this 
 subtle charm of intellectual maturity and a distinct, 
 highly-developed personality. She had seen much 
 of life and had survived many illusions ; but the 
 experience which had enriched her mind and sharp- 
 ened her criticism had not soured or embittered 
 her. She could talk brilliantly and with an anima- 
 tion which fascinated all who were privileged to 
 enjoy her company. But unlike most brilliant 
 talkers she was also a good listener. She entered 
 with warm sympathy into Goethe's literary plans, 
 and when his thought was in the stage of ferment 
 and vague obscurity, she gave it back to him de- 
 nned and clarified. 
 
 Every man of letters who has ever enjoyed the 
 friendship of a good woman knows the value of this
 
 1 66 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 stimulating sympathy. The mere opportunity to 
 express and explain compels him to objectify his 
 thought to put it outside of himself and contemplate 
 it impartially. In the warm air of admiring regard 
 the dormant or semi-conscious thought-germ sprouts 
 forth rapidly and assumes a beauty which often sur- 
 prises its parent From the obvious references to 
 her in "Iphigenia in Tauris," it is plain that Frau 
 von Stein performed to Goethe this friendly func- 
 tion of giving him back his own ideas clarified and 
 often ennobled, and by her quick responsiveness 
 stimulating his intellectual life and enlarging his 
 sympathies. It is significant in this connection to 
 note that she was by seven years Goethe's senior, 
 though I doubt if she would have liked to be re- 
 minded of it. Schiller speaks of " the gentle earnest- 
 ness " of her expression and " a quite peculiar 
 openness." This openness was, however, more ap- 
 parent than real. It was, as I fancy, one of her " sub- 
 tleties." You imagined you understood her so per- 
 fectly ; but at your next meeting you discovered, 
 perhaps, that you were wrong in all your premises 
 that you had not commenced to fathom her. She 
 was frivolous to-day, deep to-morrow, revealing 
 complexities of character which always incited to 
 new investigation. Adorably truthful and candid 
 as a child, she might approach you in the morning, 
 and in the afternoon she might be the woman of the 
 world, the lady of the court, dignified, satirical, in- 
 comprehensible. But it was this very intricate fem- 
 ininity of Charlotte von Stein which kept Goethe for
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN l6j 
 
 ten full years at her feet. Had she been less gifted 
 he would have wearied of her enigmatical conduct. 
 But had she been less darkly feminine had she, 
 with all her intellect and power of sympathy, been 
 frank as a boy and as easily fathomable, she would 
 have received his worship for a year perhaps, but 
 surely not for ten. 
 
 "I cannot send you rhymes," he writes to her, 
 " for my prosaic life swallows up these brooklets 
 like a wide sand-waste ; but the poetry of loving 
 you, my dearest, cannot be taken away from me." 
 
 " I have no coherent thoughts, but all my thoughts 
 cohere through you." 
 
 " I pray the Graces that they may grant my pas- 
 sion, and preserve in me that goodness of soul from 
 which alone all beauty springs." 
 
 " I wish there were a vow or a sacrament which 
 visibly and lawfully could make thee mine own. 
 My noviciate surely was long enough to enable me 
 to reconsider. I can no more write you, as I could 
 for a long time not say thou ! The Jews had cords 
 with which they tied their arms during prayer ; 
 thus I wind thy sweet bonds around my arm when 
 I address my prayer to thee and wish thee to 
 make me share thy goodness, moderation, and pa- 
 tience." 
 
 " Thy love makes a beautiful climate about me, 
 and through it I am in the way of curing myself of 
 many a remnant of sins and defects. Thou hast 
 restored to me my pleasure in doing good, which 
 I had entirely lost. I did it from instinct, and I did
 
 1 68 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 not feel happy in it. I beg thee, on my knees, 
 complete thy work and make me wholly good." 
 
 This is surely not the tone of a guilty lover. Nor 
 does it seem possible, knowing, as we do, how in- 
 timately autobiographical all Goethe's writings are, 
 that he would have made Iphigenia, of whom Frau 
 von Stein was the prototype, a civilizing agency 
 and a morally elevating influence in the barbarous 
 land of Tauris, if he had not himself experienced 
 this very influence in his own heart. King Thoas 
 loves in Iphigenia a being of a higher kind, whose 
 goodness and gentleness tame his own wild nature, 
 and who in her capacity as a priestess of Diana re- 
 pels his passionate approaches, but retains her 
 moral hold upon him, in order that she may benefit 
 him and through him his people. This describes, 
 mutatis mutandis, the character of the poet's relation 
 to Frau von Stein, or it furnishes at least the key 
 for its interpretation. He even violated his histori- 
 cal judgment in order to introduce this purely Ger- 
 manic conception of womanhood in his " Iphigenia," 
 for he surely knew as well as anyone that it was 
 alien to Greek antiquity. 
 
 It was perfectly in keeping with this view of their 
 relation that Frau von Stein should have taken offence 
 at Goethe's liaison with Christine Vulpius. During 
 his sojourn in Italy (1786-1787) his ideas of morality 
 underwent a change nay, his whole philosophy of 
 life became modified. A certain pagan delight in 
 nudity becomes visible in his poems and a deter- 
 mination to live in the senses as well as in the in-
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN 169 
 
 tellect. He flung away with impatience the Ger- 
 manic ideas in which he had been brought up, as 
 remnants of a gloomy asceticism with which he had 
 now no sympathy. Illicit relations existed round 
 about him in the bright and laughing South, and 
 gave offence to no one. The contemplation of the 
 Greek statues and all" the sensuous gayety and splen- 
 dor of the Italian Renaissance awakened in him a 
 kind of artistic paganism, which presently reacted 
 upon his moral nature and made him adopt a code 
 of ethics, in this particular chapter, which was not 
 that of Christianity. He had the bad taste to make 
 Frau von Stein bis confidante in the liaison which 
 he contracted while in Italy, and it is scarcely to 
 be wondered at that she resented it. He evidently 
 credited her with a " freedom from prejudice," as 
 he would have styled it, which took no account of 
 her womanhood. And when he took the ill-edu- 
 cated Christine Vulpius into his house, without 
 benefit of clergy, she wrote him a letter which put 
 an end to their friendship. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to attribute her action to 
 jealousy, although a grain of this sentiment may 
 have entered into her very complex state of mind. 
 Jealousy is, after all, but the shadow thrown by the 
 light of love, and the stronger the light is, the 
 blacker the shadow. I have no sympathy with 
 the sneering comment that, if her relation to Goethe 
 was perfectly platonic, a liaison which did not in 
 the least encroach upon her territory ought not to 
 have angered her. The man who with shallow
 
 170 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 cynicism reasons in this way only reveals his own 
 stupidity. She had a perfect right to be jealous, 
 aud she would have been either more or less than 
 woman if she had serenely accepted the terms 
 which Goethe offered her. Uu fortunately, she took 
 the precaution to demand her letters back and de- 
 stroy them, while his were preserved and have been 
 published in three stout volumes. And in the ab- 
 sence of her side of the correspondence it is diffi- 
 cult to judge what was the exact nature of feeling 
 which governed her conduct. I should like to be- 
 lieve that it was not so much a sense of personal 
 outrage as a bitter disappointment and sorrow at 
 his having fallen short of her ideal of him. But in 
 each of us, whether man or woman, there is a 
 higher and a baser self which may alternately govern 
 our words and actions. Frau von Stein at her 
 best, and Frau von Stein at her worst, were as 
 widely different persons as was Goethe at the two 
 poles of his being. It was surely not in his Olym- 
 pian capacity that he wrote her the celebrated " cof- 
 fee letter," of which this is an extract : 
 
 " How much I love you I have shown by my re- 
 turn from Italy. What I left behind me there I 
 will not repeat, as you received my confidence on 
 that point in a sufficiently unfriendly manner. Un- 
 happily, you were in a singular state of mind when 
 I returned, and I confess candidly that the manner 
 in which you received me caused me pain. . . . 
 And all that before the relation existed which 
 seems to offend you so much. And what kind of
 
 GOETHE'S RELATION'S TO WOMEN I/I 
 
 relation is it ? Who is defrauded by it ? Who lays 
 claim to the sentiments which I give the poor creat- 
 ure and who to the hours I spend with her ? . . . 
 I should like to add much more if I did not fear 
 rather to offend than to conciliate you in your 
 present state of mind. Unhappily, you have for a 
 long while disregarded my advice in regard to 
 coffee. It is not enough that it is often difficult 
 morally to overcome certain impressions ; you in- 
 tensify by a physical means the tormenting power of 
 sad thoughts. I cannot quite give up the hope that 
 you will again know me as I am." 
 
 It is distinctly Goethe's pagan self, that had 
 breathed for a year the air of the Italian Renais- 
 sance, which speaks in this letter. He professes 
 not to be able to comprehend why the woman whom 
 he loved, especially as she was another man's wife, 
 should object to his liaison with " a poor creature " 
 who appealed to an entirely different part of his 
 nature. And the idea that he wronged in any way 
 " the poor creature," by placing her in a humiliating 
 position before the world, does not seem to have oc- 
 curred to him. 
 
 This new relation of Goethe, which resulted in the 
 birth of two children, one of whom reached man- 
 hood, had in many ways an unfortunate effect upon 
 him. It alienated him from some of his friends, 
 and it did not secure him that freedom from obliga- 
 tion and immunity from care which he regarded as 
 essential to his self-development. The first period 
 of cheerful companionship, after the manner of a
 
 1/2 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 Greek poet with his hetsera, Goethe celebrated in a 
 collection of poems, classic in form and feeling, en- 
 titled " Roman Elegies." But, unhappily, Chris- 
 tine, who had inherited a taste for strong drink, 
 developed in the course of years habits of intem- 
 perance which caused him much annoyance and 
 mortification. And what was worse, Goethe's hand- 
 some and promising son, August, inherited the 
 curse, and died prematurely in Borne in consequence 
 of a debauch. The latter's two sons, who have died 
 within the last decade, had apparently more of the 
 Vulpius than the Goethe strain in their composition. 
 They remained unmarried, and no descendent of 
 Germany's greatest poet is now surviving. 
 
 Be it said, however, to Goethe's credit, that he 
 bore silently and patiently his domestic cross, and 
 was the more faithful for the reason that she needed 
 his forbearance, and because no legal tie bound him 
 to her. In 1806, after the battle of Jena, he led her 
 to the altar, although, fearing that such a mesalli- 
 ance might prove socially detrimental to him, she 
 hesitated to accept his sacrifice. When she died, in 
 1816, he was deeply affected, nay, gave vent to his 
 grief with a vehemence which he scarcely exhibited 
 on any other occasion. Though she had never been 
 a helpmeet to him, in the sense that a wife of higher 
 attainments might have been, she had, on the other 
 hand, scarcely interfered with his development. 
 The very fact that she was of a lower social station 
 than he, made her unobtrusive, and she never dis- 
 played any vulgar desire to assert herself. In judg-
 
 GOETHE'S RELATIONS TO WOMEN 1/3 
 
 ing of the relation we must take into account the 
 laxity of the age ; for no man can be judged apart 
 from his environment. We may find much to re- 
 gret, some things, perhaps, to censure, but \ve shall 
 find nothing which we may not understand.
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF 
 SCHILLER.
 
 VII. 
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF 
 SCHILLER. 
 
 T TEINE, speaking of Lessing's critics and antag- 
 J L onists, compares them to tiny insects which 
 were caught in amber while it was yet viscid on the 
 tree, and thus were accidentally immortalized. 
 They would have shared the fate of all insect exist- 
 ences which perish, leaving no trace behind them, if 
 a kindly accident (a breath of air, perhaps, or mere 
 idle curiosity) had not induced them to alight upon 
 an imperishable substance. This comparison ap- 
 plies, in a measure, to all whom chance, kinship, or 
 common interests have brought into intimate con- 
 tact with the life of a great man. They reap an 
 unsought and involuntary immortality. They be- 
 come interesting to posterity, not for any excellence 
 of intellect or character they may have possessed, 
 but for the influence they have exerted upon the 
 great man and the relation they have sustained to 
 him. As accessories to him, their personalities have 
 an historic value. The life of a great man is thus 
 necessaiily a gallery of more or less significant por- 
 traits, all of which become conspicuous only by the 
 13
 
 1/8 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 lustre which emanates from the central figure of the 
 hero. If the literary historians of Germany are to 
 be believed, the number of commonplace men and 
 women who have deserved to become embalmed in 
 the memory of Schiller is very great ; but a little 
 critical insight will soon enable one to discriminate 
 between those whose lives deeply intersected that 
 of the poet, and those who merely touched it at the 
 circumference. 
 
 At the threshold of Schiller's career we naturally 
 encounter the faces of his father and mother. The 
 former had commenced life as a barber, then, as 
 was not unusual in those days, advanced to the rank 
 of an army surgeon, and finally, after faithful service 
 in the War of the Austrian Succession, was bre- 
 vetted a captain. He was a strictly honorable and 
 upright man, ordinarily, but by no means remark- 
 ably endowed, and deeply impregnated with that 
 horror of the fantastic and irregular which is charac- 
 teristic of most commonplace men. All his energies 
 were engrossed in the struggle for daily bread, and 
 he had very little patience with anyone who took 
 a loftier view of existence and refused to subordi- 
 nate its higher interests to the one all-absorbing 
 question of gaining a livelihood. At the close of 
 his military service this worthy man, who, in his 
 limitations as well as his excellences, was typically 
 German, became superintendent of the gardens and 
 nurseries at the Duke of Wtirtemberg's villas, Soli- 
 tude and Ludwigsburg. It was during a tempo- 
 rary residence of his parents at Marbach that the
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 179 
 
 poet was born, November 10, 1759. He was given 
 the names of Jobann Christopb Friedrich, whicb 
 were a combination derived from tbe maternal as 
 well as the paternal side of the family. He was a 
 feeble and not very precocious child, although of 
 course there are tales from his childhood which, 
 in the light of later events, may be interpreted as 
 foreshadowing future greatness. 
 
 His mother, of course, built castles in the air for 
 him while he yet lay in the cradle, and as she knew 
 no more exalted position than that of a clergyman, 
 she aspired, like the Scotch matron, to see her son 
 some day " wag his paw in a pu'pit." Thus the boy 
 from an early age became familiar with the idea that 
 he was destined for the church, for which his 
 dreamy and meditative temperament seemed pe- 
 culiarly to fit him. His first teacher was the worthy 
 Protestant minister Moser, who prepared him for the 
 Latin School, which was the preliminary step for en- 
 tering a university. Schiller proved an apt pupil 
 and as such had the misfortune to attract the at- 
 tention of the Duke Karl Eugen, who was seeking 
 recruits for a military academy which he had re- 
 cently founded. In his usual despotic manner he 
 frightened Schiller's father into accepting his bounty, 
 ignoring his respectful remonstrance, and pledging 
 the boy, to boot, to devote his life to the service of 
 the Ducal House of Wtirtemberg. Captain Schiller 
 had by this time a large family, and, being depend- 
 ent upon the duke for his livelihood, lacked cour- 
 age to persist in his opposition. The boy was thus
 
 180 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 forced to give up his clerical ambition, and to confine 
 liis aspirations to the professions for which provis- 
 ion was made in the curriculum of the Ducal Acad- 
 emy. Schiller selected jurisprudence, but found 
 this study so little to his taste that, after a brief 
 trial, he asked and obtained permission to change 
 his course to medicine. 
 
 When Schiller was sixteen years old the acad- 
 emy was removed to Stuttgart, which at that time 
 again became the capital of the duchy and the resi- 
 dence of the duke. His Highness had some years 
 before quarrelled with his chief city, which had 
 openly expressed its disapproval of his dissolute 
 life, and his unscrupulous methods of getting money 
 by selling his subjects to fight as mercenaries 
 against liberty in the New World. Now it suited 
 His Highness to forgive this monstrous ingratitude, 
 and he accordingly returned, with his beautiful 
 mistress, Franziska von Hoheuheim, and his military 
 academy, to Stuttgart. To the great detriment of 
 the school, he chose to devote much of his time to 
 its supervision. He enforced the most rigid military 
 discipline, gave the most absurd subjects for themes 
 and dissertations, and in a hundred petty ways in- 
 terfered with the influence and authority of the pro- 
 fessors. Schiller, to whom this machine-like exist- 
 ence was utterly repugnant, sought consolation in the 
 study of Rousseau, whose revolutionary daring ap- 
 pealed strongly to his nature. Goethe's " Sorrows 
 of Werther " also fell into his hands, and Wieland's 
 translation of Shakespeare inspired him with an ad-
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER l8l 
 
 miration for the great English poet which he never 
 outlived. The discipline of the academy compelled 
 him to pursue these studies in secret, and as the 
 hospital ward was the only part of the school-house 
 where a candle was allowed after nine o'clock, 
 Schiller had himself put on the sick-list, as often as 
 he dared, in order to be able to enjoy in peace the 
 company of his poetical favorites. The grand 
 thoughts of the poets began to resound through his 
 mind and to fill him with indignant defiance against 
 the power which, without consulting his own Avish, 
 forced him into this strait-jacket of military disci- 
 pline. He yearned to break his fetters, and his yearn- 
 ing found vent in a drama entitled " The Robbers," 
 which he composed in secret and secretly declaimed 
 in remote corners of the large building to delight- 
 ed audiences of admiring fellow-students. In the 
 meanwhile the duke, who had discovered the youth's 
 poetic ability, sought to enlist it for his own glorifi- 
 cation and that of his mistress, and Schiller, who 
 knew that his father's livelihood depended upon the 
 good-will of the duke, felt in duty bound to meet 
 the constant requisitions made upon his reluctant 
 muse. He sang the pi'aises of Karl Eugen and 
 Franziska on ducal birthdays, school festivals, and 
 other public occasions, and extolled their virtues 
 with an ai'dor which apparently took no account of 
 the ironical effect upon the audience. 
 
 In 1780, when Schiller was twenty-one years old, 
 he was graduated from the Academy and received 
 an appointment as military surgeon in the army of
 
 1 82 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 Wurtemberg, with a monthly salary of eighteen 
 florins, or between seven and eight dollars in Ameri- 
 can money. His parents, who had expected that the 
 duke would reward magnificently their son's obedi- 
 ence and his ardent official eulogies, could hardly 
 conceal their disappointment. And Schiller him- 
 self, who was all this time meditating revolt, could 
 not have had much scruple in preparing for the press 
 his veiled indictment of the duke's paternal despot- 
 ism, knowing, as he did, that the duke had chosen 
 to forget his promise to provide a lucrative position ; 
 for even according to the notions of those days, 
 eighteen florins a month barely sufficed to support a 
 hand-to-hand struggle with existence. 
 
 Schiller's first tragedy, " The Robbers," expresses 
 the revolt of a powerful nature against the con- 
 ventional reality which places its narrow barriers, 
 called law and custom, in his way on all sides. " 1 
 loathe this ink-wasting century," he cries, " when I 
 read in my Plutarch of great men." A great man, 
 according to this youthful disciple of Rousseau, 
 should be a law unto himself. Society is arranged 
 for the convenience and comfort of fools, not of wise 
 men ; of pygmies, not of giants. A giant would be 
 justified in trampling upon the laws made for the 
 guidance of pygmy lives. But the pygmies, being 
 so much more numerous than the giants, are, after 
 all, collectively the stronger, and by their petty 
 needle-pricks are apt to harass the solitary Titan, 
 until he rises in wrath, kicks down their legal hedges 
 and barriers, and wages war with them single-
 
 THE LIFP: AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 183 
 
 handed. In other words, he becomes, according to 
 the world's ideas, a malefactor, a criminal. But, 
 according to Schiller, it is society that is chiefly to 
 blame, not the Titan, who could not help his having 
 been made on a larger scale than the rest. This is 
 plainly the philosophy of Rousseau adapted to 
 Schiller's own individual case. He chafed under 
 the rigid discipline in the school which imposed 
 the same machine-like routine upon several hun- 
 dred differently constituted young men, taking no 
 account of their individual tastes, talents, or tem- 
 peraments. Amusing as the parallel is, when we 
 consider that the young poet declared war against 
 civilization because the school discipline disagreed 
 with him, there can be no question that Karl Moor 
 becomes a heroic robber, murderer, and malefactor, 
 because Schiller himself, bound by considerations 
 for his family, dared not break with the authorities 
 which oppressed him. Most diverse judgments have 
 been pronounced upon this youthful play by literary 
 authorities. Matthew Arnold is of opinion that it is 
 "violent and tiresome," forming thereby a contrast 
 to Goethe's " Gotz von Berlichingen," which is 
 " violent, but not tiresome." Wilhelm Scherer de- 
 clares that the young poet shows " dramatic talent 
 of the first order," but makes the following im- 
 portant strictures on " The Bobbers : " " It is true 
 that he lays on the colors too thick, that he fills the 
 dialogue with bombastic exaggerations, that in try- 
 ing to be forcible he occasionally lapses into coarse- 
 ness, that he fails to make the connection between
 
 1 84 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 action and character sufficiently apparent." This is 
 all perfectly true ; but the fact still remains that 
 " The Robbers " manifests power, and as the pro- 
 duction of a mere youth who had not reached man- 
 hood was a notable performance. It contains the 
 embryonic promise of a great poet. 
 
 January 13, 1782, "The Robbers" was performed 
 for the first time on the stage at Mannheim, and 
 proved a great success. The author, who could not 
 resist the temptation to witness the representation, 
 and doubted his ability to obtain a furlough, made 
 the journey secretly and returned home the next 
 day, intoxicated with delight. A second time he 
 repeated the experiment, but the breach of discipline 
 was then, owing to the indiscretion of some female 
 friends, brought to the notice of the duke, who 
 punished him with a fortnight's arrest. An allusion 
 in the drama, of an uncomplimentary character, to 
 the Grisons of Switzei-land, induced some foolishly 
 zealous patriot to make a complaint to Karl Eugen, 
 who thereupon forbade Schiller to write anything 
 but medical treatises. Schiller promptly responded 
 by handing in his resignation, or, in the respectful 
 language then in vogue, by humbly begging to be 
 released from the ducal service. The petty despot, 
 however, looked upon him as a piece of personal 
 property and refused to listen to his repeated prayers 
 for release, until the sorely harassed poet was forced 
 to take the law into his own hands and seek freedom 
 in flight. September 17, 1782, he fled to Mannheim 
 with his devoted friend, the musician Streicher.
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 185 
 
 Previous to his flight, Schiller had written a con- 
 siderable number of lyrical poems which he collected 
 in a volume entitled " The Anthology for the Year 
 1782," but outside of the narrow circle of the author's 
 friends the book failed to call forth any enthusiasm. 
 The magnificent daring displayed in language and 
 imagery, the Titanic defiance, the heaven-scaling 
 idealism, mixed in a curious alloy with coarse volup- 
 tuousness, were qualities which puzzled the com- 
 monplace and unenlightened public of those days, 
 but failed to arouse any lasting interest in the poet. 
 As a financial experiment the book was a failure and 
 Schiller, who had also been obliged to bear the ex- 
 pense of the publication of " The Robbers," had 
 gradually become involved in a net of pecuniary 
 obligations from which he could not extricate him- 
 self. His father, who had been surety for the pay- 
 ment of one of his son's loans, grumbled and advised 
 a strict attention to the medical business. Under 
 such circumstances Stuttgart could not have been 
 an agreeable place of residence for him, even if the 
 duke had left him free to incur further debt in the 
 pursuit of his literary avocation. 
 
 On his arrival in Mannheim he submitted a new 
 tragedy, " Fiesco," to Baron von Dnlberg, who was 
 then superintendent of the theatre. "Fiesco " beai-s 
 the sub-title, "A Republican Tragedy," and deals 
 with the conspiracy of the Genoese noble of that 
 name against the tyrants Andrea and Ginnettino 
 Doria. It is a decided advance upon " The Robbers," 
 being clearer though hardly less violent in diction,
 
 1 86 GERMAN LIT ERA TURE 
 
 truer in its characterization, subtler and more com- 
 plex in its motifs and action. For all that, Dalberg 
 pronounced it inferior to the latter drama, and Meyer, 
 the manager, refused for a while to believe that the 
 same author could have produced two works differ- 
 ing so widely in merit. This was a severe disap- 
 pointment to Schiller, who had founded many daring 
 hopes upon the anticipated success of "Fiesco." 
 Streicher, too, who was no less sanguine, had been 
 advancing him money for his support, so as to enable 
 him to continue to produce great works, and it had 
 hardly entered into his calculations that booksellers 
 and managers should not be eager for the master- 
 pieces, as soon as they were offered to them. The 
 generous fellow had now actually emptied his slender 
 purse, and his friend was unable to repay his loans. 
 Another trouble which seems to have caused Schiller 
 less anxiety than it did his friends was the hostility 
 of the Duke of Wilrtemberg who looked upon the 
 poet's independence as an insult to his own majesty. 
 Undoubtedly some danger existed, and Schiller was 
 wise in finally heeding the advice of Frau von 
 Wolzogen, his early patroness and the mother of 
 one of his schoolmates, who offered him a safe hiding- 
 place on her estate, Bauerbach, in the neighborhood 
 of Meiningen. In December, 1782, he separated 
 from Streicher and under an assumed name marched 
 from town to town until he reached his new home. 
 Negotiations in the meanwhile were continued, and 
 Dalberg, who availed himself in an ungenerous 
 manner of Schiller's poverty, and offered him the
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 187 
 
 most foolish literary advice, finally concluded to ac- 
 cept " Fiesco," provided it were changed so as to 
 suit His Excellency's taste. The author was hardly 
 in a condition to dictate his terms, and he therefore 
 abjectly, though with inward rebellion, ruined his 
 play by substituting a cheerful and commonplace 
 ending for the tragic one which the situation and the 
 design of the characters, by a psychological neces- 
 sity, demanded. The edition, however, which he 
 prepared for the press and which was published by 
 Schwan, in Mannheim, retained the original con- 
 clusion. 
 
 During his stay at Bauerbach (from December, 
 1782-July, 1783) Schiller labored indefatigably 
 upon a new drama, " Louise Millerin," which he had 
 commenced before his departure from Mannheim ; 
 and moreover occupied himself earnestly with his- 
 torical studies which he expected to utilize for his 
 historical tragedy, "Don Carlos." Frau von Wolzo- 
 gen and her daughter Lotte made occasional visits 
 to the estate and cheered him by their kindly 
 interest and criticism. Nevertheless he was not 
 happy. He had the misfortune to fall in love, or 
 to believe himself in love, with the daughter of his 
 hostess, and his prospects were not at that time so 
 brilliant as to warrant any mother, and especially one 
 of noble blood, in encouraging his matrimonial aspi- 
 rations. It may have been his ill success as a lover, 
 and the expectation of finding higher favor in his 
 courtship of the Muse, which hastened his acceptance 
 of Dalberg's proposition to make him " poet of the
 
 1 88 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 theatre " (Theaterdichter), with an annual salary of 
 three hundred florins. He engaged to write at least 
 three dramas a year, and gave the Mannheim stage 
 the right to bring them out, reserving for himself 
 the copyright on the printed editions. 
 
 Schiller's second sojourn in Mannheim proved a 
 most unfortunate one. But a short time after his 
 arrival he had a severe attack of malarial fever, which 
 he succeeded in keeping at bay only by consuming 
 an incredible amount of quinine. The summer of 
 1783 was unusually hot and oppressive, and the rates. 
 of mortality in the city indicated a veritable malarial 
 epidemic. Schiller worked incessantly, because he 
 could not afford to be ill ; but the consequences of 
 this reckless neglect of all laws of health were felt 
 throughout the rest of his life, which was henceforth 
 a perpetual struggle with disease. The " civic," or 
 perhaps rather " bourgeois," tragedy, "Louise Mil- 
 lerin," which the actor Iffland named "Love and In- 
 trigue," was now completed and had the good 
 fortune to gain the approval of the distinguished 
 Dalberg. The mutilated edition of " Fiesco " was 
 also put upon the boards, but failed to arouse the 
 enthusiasm of the Mannheim public, while "Love 
 and Intrigue," in spite of the more or less qualified 
 condemnation of literary critics, was from the begin- 
 ning a pronounced success ; and it speaks well for 
 the vitality of Schiller's genius that both these youth- 
 ful plays, not to mention his later dramatic master- 
 pieces, have been able to keep their places upon the 
 stage and in the hearts of the people even to the
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 189 
 
 present day. " Love and Intrigue " deals with a 
 problem which has been a favorite one with the 
 dramatists and romancers of all times, viz., the prob- 
 lem of caste. Where the hearts are drawn together 
 and the difference in social position divides the 
 lovers, there are but two alternatives possible : either 
 the party who has the advantage in point of birth 
 must be sufficiently heroic to ignore his conventional 
 superiority and conquer the difficulties which it 
 places in his way, or renunciation, separation, and 
 death will be the requisite denouement. A dishonor- 
 able union, to be sure, lies within the pale of possi- 
 bility, but this alternative is excluded by the high 
 and virtuous character of the lovers in Schiller's 
 tragedy. Ferdinand, the nobleman, and Louise, the 
 poor musician's daughter, therefore die, and their 
 death is intended by the author as a protest against 
 the unjust and artificial order of society which fur- 
 nishes the upper classes with facilities for preying 
 upon the lower, without providing the latter with 
 the necessary weapons for self-defence. 
 
 " Love and Intrigue " is dramatically a great 
 advance upon its predecessors. The characteriza- 
 tion of the old musician Miller and his daughter is 
 as good as anything Schiller has produced in the 
 same line. But he knows low life far better than 
 high life. In dealing with the former he shows ob- 
 servation and intimate acquaintance ; in dealing with 
 the latter he reproduces the sort of gossip which 
 circulates among the bourgeoisie concerning the 
 dazzling wickedness of the great. There is a burn-
 
 190 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 ing wrath in his political satire which sees with in- 
 tensity, but through a magnifying and distorting 
 lens. Lessing had dealt with the same theme in 
 " Emilia Galotti," but his wicked prince had satirized 
 German conditions under an Italian mask. Schiller 
 was bolder. He calls a spade a spade, and lashes 
 the dissoluteness and fathomless corruption of the 
 small courts with the energy of scorn and hate. It 
 is said that nearly all the characters of " Love and 
 Intrigue " were drawn from originals at the court of 
 Wiirtemberg. 
 
 Schiller's position in Mannheim was full of em- 
 barrassments and troubles. The literary profession 
 was hardly at that time recognized as a legitimate 
 one, and the court calendar assigned no definite 
 rank in the social scale to a dramatic poet. Dalberg, 
 to be sure, occasionaUy invited Schiller to dinner, 
 and the bookseller Schwan, who was an important 
 citizen in the town, freely opened his house to him. 
 But when Schiller presumed to aspire to the position 
 of a son-in-law, the prudent bookseller, doubting 
 his ability to earn a livelihood, politely declined to 
 entertain his proposition. It was not, however, 
 until after the poet's departure from Mannheim that 
 he applied for the hand of Margaret Schwan, and 
 it is not positively known whether the question of 
 accepting or refusing him was ever submitted to the 
 lady whom it primarily concerned. Fathers in those 
 days were apt to decide such questions on economic 
 grounds, and quite without reference to their daugh- 
 ters' preferences. Another lady whom Schiller met
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 1 91 
 
 in Mannheim, and who soon eclipsed all his former 
 loves, was Charlotte von Kalb, the wife of a Major 
 von Kalb who was garrisoned in the neighboring 
 town of Landau. Frau von Kalb was one of those 
 restless and passionate women who are always hunger- 
 ing for an unattainable happiness. She had been 
 forced to marry a man for whom she had never pro- 
 fessed a spark of affection, and when Schiller with 
 his daring ideas and ardent unrest approached her, 
 she recognized in him a kindred soul and allowed 
 him to conjecture the enthusiastic regard which she 
 cherished for him. And this, even before their first 
 separation, ripened into an affection which was 
 freely confessed on the part of both. Nevertheless, 
 Schiller's poverty and his inability to fulfil his con- 
 tract with Dalberg, who imagined that dramas could 
 be manufactured like clocks, tended to increase his 
 discontent and to make him look about for a possible 
 amelioration of his circumstances. As he knew from 
 hints that Dalberg would not desire the renewal of 
 their contract for another year, he made haste to 
 resign his position as " poet of the theatre," and as 
 a desperate makeshift founded a bi-monthly literary 
 and theatrical journal entitled The Rhenish Thalia. 
 It is difficult to believe that he could have been 
 sanguine of success for this enterprise, for although 
 the prospectus promised much, and the first num- 
 bers in tone and ability excelled all contemporaries 
 of similar scope and character, it must have been 
 evident to the editor, who had had opportunities 
 for knowing the intellectual condition of his South
 
 192 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 German countrymen, that the very excellence and 
 impartiality of his reviews would prove a hindrance 
 to the success of his journal. The public had not 
 yet been educated up to the stage where they 
 could enjoy a refined and unsensational style and 
 keen critical sagacity. Cruder means were required 
 to enlist their interest and approval. 
 
 In April, 1785, Schiller left Mannheim. In Darm- 
 stadt he read a part of " Don Carlos " to the Duke 
 of Weimar, Karl August, who as Goethe's friend had 
 gained the reputation of a German Mecsenas. His 
 Highness was pleased to praise the drama, and in 
 I'ecognition of the author's ability sent him the fol- 
 lowing day an honorary title as ducal court counsel- 
 lor. But as such a title would be of no avail pe- 
 cuniarily, Schiller betook himself to Leipsic, where 
 his friends Korner and Huber and the sisters Dora 
 and Minna Stock gave him a hearty reception. These 
 excellent people had previously made his acquaint- 
 ance by letter, and Korner had even advanced him 
 money and warmly expressed his admiration of his 
 poetic genius. His subsequent removal to Dresden 
 attracted Schiller also to the Saxon capital, where, 
 as a guest in Korner's house, he completed the 
 tragedy "Don Carlos," besides writing a novelistic 
 fragment, "The Ghost Seer " ("Der Geisterseher "), 
 and several poems full of daring thought and 
 splendid imagery. 
 
 " Don Carlos " is the first of Schiller's dramas 
 which is written in blank verse. It deals with the 
 love of Curios, the son of Philip IL of Spain, for his
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 193 
 
 young stepmother, Elizabeth of Valois, who had been 
 engaged to him before his father married her. The 
 real hero, however, is not Don Carlos, but his friend, 
 Marquis Posa, who is a personification of all those 
 qualities which Schiller especially respected in him- 
 self. His political idealism, his self-sacrificing devo- 
 tion, his humanitarian spirit, and his cosmopolitan- 
 ism have all found their noblest expression in this 
 fearless and generous Spaniard. It has frequently 
 been asserted of Schiller that he had the stuff in 
 him not only for a great poet, but also for a great 
 statesman and politician. The character of Posa 
 indicates what kind of a statesman he would have 
 made, and settles also the fact that he would have 
 ended his life in a dungeon. Posas were not toler- 
 ated in Germany in those days, nor are they now. 
 The only land in the world where a political career 
 would perhaps have been open to a man of Schiller's 
 calibre is England. 
 
 During his residence in Dresden the poet made 
 the acquaintance of a dazzling coquette named 
 Henriette von Arnirn, and if we are to interpret 
 literally his verses in the lady's autograph album, 
 he placed his hand and his heart at her disposal. 
 He squandered his money in making her costly 
 presents, neglected his work, and earned the dis- 
 pleasure of his friends. He was acutely conscious 
 of his dependence upon Korner, and their relation, 
 which had been of mutual benefit as long as their 
 confidence in each other had been complete, began 
 to grow oppressive to Schiller, as soon as he sus- 
 ' 13
 
 194 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 pected that his friend disapproved of his conduct. 
 Moreover, he was so inextricably entangled in Frau- 
 lein von Arnim's toils that he saw no possibility of 
 regaining his reason except by avoiding her pres- 
 ence. An invitation from Frau von Kalb, who had 
 recently removed to Weimar, furnished him with a 
 convenient excuse for taking his departure, and no 
 sooner had he arrived in the capital of the little 
 duchy (July, 1787) than his old love again took 
 possession of him. There is thus no argument 
 needed to prove that, with all his stanch qualities 
 of mind and heart, his affections in his early youth 
 were of an extremely volatile kind. Like most poets, 
 he loved easily and forgot easily, and the ardor 
 enkindled by love he expended in song. 
 
 The dramatic treatment of a historic subject in 
 " Don Carlos " had aroused Schiller's interest in 
 historical studies. Especially did he feel attracted 
 to the history of nations which had made a heroic 
 struggle for liberty. la his tragedy he had had oc- 
 casion to introduce incidentally the revolt of the 
 Netherlands against the tyranny of Philip IT., and he 
 now returned to -this subject and wrote his "History 
 of the Revolt of the Netherlands." This work, 
 although it is now the fashion among German 
 scholars to sneer at it, is undeniably an advance 
 upon all previous historical writing done in Ger- 
 many. It cannot boast the minute accuracy of de- 
 tails, nor the vast accumulation of original learning 
 which distinguish the histories of Mommsen, Cur- 
 tius, and von Rauke, but it possesses a vital or-
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 195 
 
 ganic coherence, and is inspired with an ardent 
 enthusiasm for liberty and human rights which at 
 once make the reader's heart beat sympathetically 
 with that of the author. The faults of the work are 
 a tendency to rhapsody and declamation, and a dis- 
 position to hide deficiencies in scholarship under a 
 cloak of sonorous rhetoric. But it taught the Ger- 
 mans for the first time that scholai'ship and dulness 
 are not identical, or, at all events, that brilliancy of 
 style is not incompatible with learning. For all that, 
 it would not be safe for an historian to take Schiller 
 for his model ; for though he does not " draw upon 
 his imagination for his facts," he does occasionally 
 heighten the color and dramatic effect of his narra- 
 tive in a manner which is more conducive to enter- 
 tainment than to accuracy. There is a poetic afflatus 
 and a rhetorical flow in his sentences which carry 
 the reader along and make him forget that he is en- 
 gaged in scholarly toil. On the other hand, it is not 
 to be denied that his poetic divination enables him 
 to penetrate more deeply into the fundamental mo- 
 tives and characters of historic personages than even 
 a Mommsen or a Curtius. The portraits of Philip 
 II., the Duke of Alva, and Count Egmont are pos- 
 sibly more brilliant than true ; but they are em- 
 phatically alive, and impress themselves indelibly 
 upon the memory. 
 
 " The History of the Kevolt of the Netherlands," 
 whatever its faults, proves that the novelist's art 
 may, with certain limitations, be profitably em- 
 ployed by the historian a proposition which, sev-
 
 196 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 enty years later, was demonstrated once more by 
 Gustav Freytag in his "Bilder aus der deutschen 
 Vergangenheit. " 
 
 Schiller had anticipated great pleasure and profit 
 from his association with Goethe, who at the time 
 of his arrival was still absent on his Italian journey. 
 When finally they met in September, 1788, the 
 younger poet was bitterly disappointed at the cool- 
 ness and the rigid and stately manner of the elder, 
 and abandoned all hope of ever approaching him. 
 The fac 1 ; was, Goethe looked upon Schiller as the 
 head of the " Storm and Stress," a violent and de- 
 clamatory school, to which he had himself once be- 
 longed, but the influence of which he now regarded 
 as pernicious. He had no antipathy to Schiller as a 
 man, but feared, perhaps, that the kind of emotional 
 debauchery which characterized " The Robbers," 
 and Schiller's eaiiy lyrics, might, with the author's 
 personal presence, invade the circles which he was 
 endeavoring to educate up to his own classical 
 standard. Iti view of this half-acknowledged senti- 
 ment on Goethe's part, some of his biographers 
 have asserted that he recommended Schiller's ap- 
 pointment to a professorship of history at the Uni- 
 versity of Jena, merely because he wished to have 
 him removed from 'his own neighborhood. How- 
 ever, this is a mere conjecture, and it is sure that 
 Schiller, when he accepted the unprofitable appoint- 
 ment, had no suspicion that he owed it to anything 
 but his own recently-earned reputation as a popular 
 historian. He accordingly removed to Jena and
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER IQ? 
 
 entered with many misgivings upon his career as an 
 academical teacher. There was no fixed salary at- 
 tached to the position, and the fees which the profes- 
 sors were authorized to collect from their students 
 amounted in Schiller's case to such a trifling sum 
 that he could not rid himself of the feeling that his 
 time and labor were very poorly invested. The 
 Duke of Weimar, however, perceiving his value to 
 the University, granted him an annual pension of 
 two hundred thalers, or about one hundred and fifty 
 dollars. Before this fortunate event occurred, he 
 had made the acquaintance of Charlotte von Lenge- 
 feld, a young lady of noble birth, who lived with her 
 mother and sister on a small estate near the village 
 of Rudolfstadt. Lotte was a charming mixture of 
 common sense and romantic sentiment. She had 
 read much in an innocent and uncritical fashion, 
 and could discourse naively on Homer and .ZEschy- 
 lus, whom she had studied in German and French 
 translations. She even adopts occasionally in her 
 correspondence with Schiller a jocosely Homeric 
 tone, which is scarcely less delightful to the modern 
 reader than it must have been to her adorer. The 
 book containing those of their letters which have 
 been preserved affords a deeper insight into the 
 character of both than all the collected biographies, 
 and gives, moreover, a vivid picture of life in a 
 country nobleman's family in the last century. It 
 is one of the freshest and most enjoyable biographi- 
 cal documents of the period. 
 
 It has been generally supposed that Lotte 's elder
 
 198 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 sister, Caroline von Lengefelcl, who married a noble- 
 man named von Beulwitz, from whom she was later 
 separated, was more than half in love with Schiller, 
 and that Schiller returned her affection with an in- 
 tellectual admiration which possibly she misinter- 
 preted in accordance with her own wishes. Caro- 
 line, in consequence of her matrimonial infelicity, 
 was a restless and discontented woman who always 
 imagined herself misunderstood, and found for the 
 first time in Schiller a man who could recognize the 
 possibilities of her nature. Being herself bound, 
 she favored in every way Schiller's courtship of her 
 sister, whom he married in February, 1790. The 
 new relation into which he had thus entered neces- 
 sitated an explanation of some kind with Frau von 
 Kalb, who was just contemplating a separation from 
 her husband. Schiller's marriage was therefore a 
 great blow to her, and she refused to listen to his 
 excuses. Their interview was a stormy one, and for 
 several years they never saw each other. But when 
 Frau von Kalb, in the course of time, discovered 
 a new ideal in Jean Paul Kichter, she consented to 
 forgive Schiller for his desertion. 
 
 While retaining his professorship in Jena Schiller 
 was chiefly engaged upon historical writings and com- 
 pilations. He wrote a " History of the Thirty Years' 
 War," which appeared first in the " Historical Cal- 
 endar for Ladies," and excited universal admiration. 
 There were a stateliness and dignity in his style 
 which had the effect of novelty in Germany, where 
 learned tradition required that all serious subjects
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 199 
 
 should be treated in a dryly pedantic and dogmatical 
 manner. The characterizations of Gustavus Adol- 
 phus, and of Wallenstein, too, gave evidence of a 
 rare combination of gifts, showing, as they did, a 
 scholarly refinement joined to a happy psychological 
 divination which revealed the great poet. 
 
 Schiller, however, was not in a condition to con- 
 tinue this laborious work, the profit of which was 
 disproportionate to the strength and energy ex- 
 pended. It is said that during his residence in Jena 
 he was occupied fourteen hours daily in writing 
 and lecturing. He was eager to pay off the debts 
 contracted in his youth, and to provide a comfort- 
 able home for his young wife ; and he refused to 
 consider the circumstance that his physical frame 
 was feeble and had been weakened by a former ill- 
 ness, from which he had never completely recovered. 
 In the winter of 1790-91 he had a severe attack of 
 rheumatic fever, followed by spasms and nervous 
 prostration, and the physicians ordered him to the 
 baths of Carlsbad, whither he repaired during the 
 following summer. Korner offered to defray the ex- 
 penses of the whole journey, but Schiller, who feared 
 that he would not live long enough to repay all that 
 he already owed his friend, refused to consider the 
 proposition. When, however, the Duke of Augusten- 
 borg and the Danish Count Schimmelmann offered 
 him an annual pension of one thousand thalers for 
 three years, he was moved by regard for his family 
 to accept with gratitude. He could thus, in the 
 midst of all his sufferings, labor with comparative
 
 2OO GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 cheerfulness, and devote his maturest judgment 
 and creative strength to the composition of the great 
 tragedy upon which he would be content to rest his 
 fame. But while " Wallenstein " was yet in an em- 
 bryonic condition, several journalistic enterprises 
 engaged Schiller's attention, and one of them, " Die 
 Horen " (The Horse, The Hours), had the important 
 effect of bringing him into closer contact with 
 Goethe. When issuing the prospectus of the new 
 periodical, Schiller addressed a business letter to his 
 rival in Weimar, requesting permission to include 
 his name among his contributors. Goethe sent a 
 somewhat stiff but yet favorable response ; and thus 
 the ice was broken, and the two great men began 
 to discover each other's worth. Within a year they 
 were on visiting terms, and the relation thus happily 
 commenced soon ripened into a generous and de- 
 voted friendship. In the year 1797 they presented 
 in their " Xenien " a common front against their lit- 
 erary enemies, and their satirical epigrams, for which 
 they agreed to bear the joint responsibility, made a 
 great havoc in the camp of their opponents. The 
 classic ideal which Goethe was approaching Schiller 
 had independently discovered, and in his " Gods of 
 Greece," a beautiful elegy on the Greek civilization, 
 had shed a poetic tear on the tombs of " the radiant 
 immortals." In the year 1797, an ambition to write 
 ballads, perfect in form and sentiment, took posses- 
 sion of both, and in generous rivalry each strove 
 to outdo the other. The result of this competition 
 was a series of excellent poems which appeared in
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 2OI 
 
 the " Almanac of the Muses," an annual publication 
 which was issued about the beginning of the year 
 under Schiller's editorship. His first periodical, 
 " The Ehenish Thalia," he had abandoned in 1793, 
 " The Horse " struggled through four years of pre- 
 carious existence, and " The Almanac of the Muses," 
 although full of ability, could not protract its lease of 
 life beyond the year 1800 ; while a chatty and easy- 
 going journal like Wieland's "German Mercury," 
 whose cheerful mediocrity appealed to the average 
 uncultured public, enjoyed prosperity. Schiller, 
 however, refused to be discouraged by the slight 
 success of his enterprises, but congratulated himself, 
 when the last number of the " Almanac " had gone 
 to press, that henceforth he would at all events have 
 nothing to do with any worse poet than himself. 
 Among the poems, dating from this period, which 
 have become especially and deservedly popular, we 
 might mention " The Cranes of Ibycus," "The Song 
 of the Bell," " The Walk," " The Fight with the 
 Dragon," and " The Diver." 
 
 The trilogy of " Wallenstein," consisting of " Wal- 
 lenstein's Camp," "The Piccolomini,"and " Wallen- 
 stein's Death," was completed in 1799 and published 
 the following year. It is, if we except the First Part 
 of " Faust," the greatest tragedy written in the Ger- 
 man language, even though it may not merit 
 Goethe's encomium : " The work is so great that 
 there exists no equal to it." " Wall en stein's Camp " 
 is a mere prologue which illustrates the fanatical 
 faith of the troops in their leader, and reproduces,
 
 2O2 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 with admirable subtlety, the moral atmosphere of 
 the camp. " The Piccolomini " introduces us to the 
 officers whom Wallenstein, by various means, has 
 succeeded in attaching to his person. Questenberg, 
 the imperial envoy, arrives, and attempts to induce 
 them to desert, or rather to join in a plot against the 
 general in his own camp. The various types of of- 
 ficers are depicted with originality and force. The 
 bluff and vehement Butler, the deceitful and ambi- 
 tious Terzky, the brave and honorable Max Picco- 
 lomini, the time-serving Illo, who is too shrewd to 
 understand a generous motive all show the mas- 
 ter-hand of a great poet. The manner in which Wal- 
 lenstein's astrological superstition is utilized also 
 betrays a rare subtlety of conception. The stars en- 
 courage all his ambitious hopes, and induce him to 
 dally with the thought of treason long before he has 
 taken any definite resolve. And in all probability 
 this resolve would never have been taken if the cir- 
 cumstances, brought about by his fanatical delusion, 
 had not compelled him to carry out a criminal de- 
 sign which he had never fully matured. In his ex- 
 treme cunning, too, Wallenstein becomes the victim 
 of his own deception. He induces the Emperor's 
 minister to insult Butler in order to attach him the 
 more firmly to himself. But when Butler is in- 
 formed by Octavio that Wallenstein is the real au- 
 thor of the insult, all his wrath turns against the 
 latter, whom, in the last act of the trilogy, he 
 murders. The vengeance which Wallenstein had 
 aroused, and intended to profit by, thus becomes
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 2O3 
 
 his own destroyer. The sub-intrigue with Max Pic- 
 colomini and Wallenstein's daughter Thekla, is of 
 minor importance, although it relieves the uncom- 
 promising sternness of the tragedy, and invests it 
 with a pathos which adds to its effectiveness on the 
 stage. 
 
 Schiller's next drama, " Mary Stuart," was begun 
 in Jena, but was not completed until June, 1800. He 
 had then resigned his professorship and removed to 
 Weimar, where he could devote himself exclusively 
 to his literary profession. The duke, in the mean- 
 while, had raised his annual pension to four hundred 
 thalers without demanding the continuance of his 
 academical labors. He could now live in constant 
 association with Goethe, who, with every year, grew 
 to value him more highly, and he could devote his 
 best energies to the work which he loved. If his 
 health had not been so miserable, this would have 
 been the happiest period in his life. His wife, who 
 loved him dearly, was also his intellectual com- 
 panion, and felt an honest pride in his fame and his 
 great achievements. Children were growing up 
 about him, and he plotted their future with all the 
 hopefulness of a fond parent. 
 
 " Mary Stuart " deals with the last years of the life 
 of the ill-starred Queen of Scots. Schiller wishes 
 to show the exaltation of noble, though not unmer- 
 ited, suffering. He appeals wholly to our feelings 
 without troubling himself much about the question 
 whether our reason can approve the verdict of our 
 hearts. Mary admits that she was an accomplice to
 
 2O4 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 the murder of Darnley ; but she is young and beau- 
 tiful, and she repents sincerely of her past wicked- 
 ness. But wicked she nevertheless is, or has been ; 
 and her repentance we find it a little difficult to be- 
 lieve in. The Mary whom Schiller depicts would 
 have been incapable of murder ; and the murder, 
 being an admitted fact, is therefore unaccounted for 
 and seems to have no connection with the Queen's 
 character. It is as if some sinister Fate had decreed 
 it, and used the lovely woman as a half-unconscious 
 tool. This is to my. mind a serious defect. How 
 much subtler is Swinburne's conception of the char- 
 acter of Mary, with her feline femininity and her 
 exquisite, dangerous beauty ! And the affectionate 
 cajolery, full of sweet sensuous well-being, and the 
 playful tenderness of a leopardess ! There was a 
 masculine simplicity about Schiller which made him 
 incapable of entering into the deeper subtleties of 
 the female nature. He saw and understood large 
 heroic types, but Mary, Queen of Scots, presented a 
 problem which was certainly beyond him. 
 
 In order to arouse our sympathy for the heroine 
 in spite of her guilt, it is of course necessary to 
 make her sufferings as acute as possible, and to de- 
 pict Elizabeth, who inflicts them, in the blackest 
 colors. According to Schiller, jealousy was Eliza- 
 beth's chief motive in persecuting her beautiful rival. 
 The welfare of England, and the preservation of the 
 Protestant faith enter but secondarily into her cal- 
 culations, and petty malice and envy of Mary's phys- 
 ical loveliness appear everywhere as the maiuspi'ings
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 2O$ 
 
 of her action. It is hardly to be disputed that Schil- 
 ler has here anticipated the opinions of later histo- 
 rians who are inclined to agree with him in his esti- 
 mate of the Queen of England. But for all that, it 
 would have been more tragically effective if the wel- 
 fare of the nation, and the preservation of the faith, 
 rather than the jealousy of a woman, had been made 
 to demand Queen Mary's sacrifice. For it is more 
 dignified to die as the victim of a nation's progress 
 than as that of a woman's hate. On the stage " Mary 
 Stuart " proved a success ; and the author's reputa- 
 tion as a dramatist began to spread even to foreign 
 lands, as is proved by the fact that he was offered 
 60 by a London theatre for every play which he 
 would send to England for representation, before he 
 published it in Germany. 
 
 Schiller'a next dramatic venture was "The Maid 
 of Orleans," which was published in 1801, with the 
 significant sub-title, " A Eomantic Tragedy." It is 
 the well-known story of Joan of Arc, which is here 
 dramatized, with all the attendant marvels and mira- 
 cles with which tradition has gradually encumbered 
 it. The Maid appears as a semi-supernatural agent 
 by whom the divine will is executed. In taking upon 
 herself the deliverance of France from its enemies, 
 she obeys reluctantly a divine command, and the 
 moment she yields to earthly love, which puts her 
 on a level with other mortals, her faith in her 
 heavenly mission deserts her, she falls into the 
 hands of the English, and is burned at the stake as 
 a witch. Although abounding in passages of great
 
 2O6 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 beauty, and replete with startling scenic effects, 
 " The Maid of Orleans" is undoubtedly the weakest 
 of Schiller's historical tragedies. It has no root in 
 the moral consciousness of the century. The guilt 
 for which the Maid is punished by Heaven is no 
 guilt to us. She is a woman, and she loves. There 
 is no evidence in the text that she falls. If it were 
 particularly emphasized that she is guilty, because 
 she loves an enemy of France, we might be induced 
 to approve, conditionally, of the judgment of Heaven. 
 But this is not the charge ; it is merely for being 
 what she is, and recognizing the passions insepara- 
 ble from her nature that she is made to suffer a cruel 
 and ignominious death. It was the reading of the 
 authors of the so-called "Romantic School," all of 
 whom dealt in miracles and supernatural mysteries, 
 which led Schiller to make this experiment in medi- 
 seval wonder-lore. As a spectacular stage piece it 
 has always met with extraordinary success ; and 
 however much critics may cavil, the people still per- 
 sist in liking it. 
 
 In " The Bride of Messina," Schiller made a fresh 
 and very daring experiment, not with mediaeval 
 superstition, but with the Greek idea of Fate. With 
 great ingenuity he devised a situation in which a 
 paternal curse takes the place of destiny, and two 
 apparently contradictory dreams correspond to the 
 ambiguous oracles. Even the chorus is reintro- 
 duced and cries its " woe, woe," as it does in the 
 tragedies of .ZEschylus and Sophocles. The whole 
 drama, although its exaltation of language and po-
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 2O/ 
 
 etic beauty are unsurpassed in German literature, is 
 too remote from modern thought and feeling to appeal 
 to a modern audience. It has, therefore, unlike the 
 other tragedies of Schiller, failed to gain a foot- 
 hold upon the stage, and is only occasionally revived 
 as a diversion for scholars, and out of respect for 
 the author's memory. Schiller himself expressed in 
 a letter to Korner great delight at the first perform- 
 ance of this classic drama, and Goethe asserted that 
 it had consecrated the German stage for better 
 things to come. 
 
 In the autumn of 1802, Schiller received from the 
 Emperor Francis IL a diploma of nobility, which, 
 for the sake of his wife and children, he accepted 
 with the pi'oper acknowledgments. In December, 
 1803, Madame de Statil arrived in Weimar, and 
 by her excessive volubility put his patience to a 
 severe test. Her brilliancy was, at times, positively 
 oppressive, and when, finally, she left, he 'wrote to 
 Goethe that he felt as if he had passed through a 
 severe illness. In the spring of 1804 he was invited 
 to visit Berlin, and all his historical tragedies were 
 successively brought upon the stage with a magnifi- 
 cence which exceeded his most daring anticipations. 
 The court and the people delighted to honor him, 
 and negotiations were opened with a view to induc- 
 ing him to take up his residence in the Prussian 
 capital ; but the companionship of Goethe and his 
 familiar circle in Weimar were more precious than 
 the pomp of a royal court. He therefore refused to 
 accept the terms offered by the Prussian minister, if,
 
 2O8 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 indeed, the latter, as has latterly been questioned, 
 embodied his oral promises in a definite proposition. 
 Three months before his journey to Berlin, Schil- 
 ler had finished the last drama which he completed, 
 viz., " Wilhelm Tell." In all probability it was 
 Goethe's journey to Switzerland, and his conversa- 
 tion concerning the poetic possibilities of the Tell 
 legend, which aroused Schiller's interest in the Swiss 
 traditions, and prompted him to peruse Tschudi's 
 Swiss Chronicle. It is well known that Goethe him- 
 self contemplated writing an epic with Tell for its 
 hero, but that he subsequently abandoned the plan, 
 and recommended the subject to his friend. Al- 
 though somewhat loosely put together, and without 
 any well-defined focus of interest, " Wilhelm Tell " 
 has always been the popular favorite among Schiller's 
 dramas, and possesses a charm which seems never 
 to fail or grow old. It may be a weakness of con- 
 struction that Tell's rdle, as the deliverer of his 
 country, is, in a manner, accidental ; since, accord- 
 ing to his own testimony, he kills Gessler in self-de- 
 fence, and in order to protect his wife and children 
 from the tyrant's vengeance. It may also be contra- 
 ry to dramatic canons to have two parallel intrigues 
 without any vital interdependence, but in spite of 
 all such objections the fact remains that the drama 
 has always been greeted with a warm and sponta- 
 neous enthusiasm wherever it has been worthily 
 represented. The fragrance of the Alpine meadows, 
 and the breath of the glaciers blow into our faces 
 from the very opening scene, and a long, clear vista
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SCHILLER 209 
 
 is revealed into the very heart of the beautiful Swit- 
 zerland. In the presence of such vivid impressions 
 the critic's dissenting voice is left unheeded. It is 
 drowned in the rush and roar of the ice-fed rivers, 
 and in the resounding echoes of the ranz-des-vaches. 
 
 As Schiller's hold upon existence grew feebler, 
 his interest in his work grew more intense. He la- 
 bored incessantly, even while tortured by physical 
 sufferings. During the winter of 1804-5, he had 
 several severe attacks of illness which shattered his 
 weak frame. And yet the thought of his next 
 drama, "Demetrius," never left him. Whenever he 
 had a little respite from suffering he immediately 
 resumed his work upon this "child of sorrows." 
 Even after' consciousness had left him he raved in 
 his delirium about the Russian pretender, and de- 
 claimed scene after scene with excited looks and 
 gestures. Next to his wife and children there was 
 nothing in the world which it grieved him more to 
 abandon than this unfinished master-piece ; but per- 
 haps not even this exception ought to be made. 
 May 9, 1805, he expired. His last conscious act 
 was to kiss his wife, and his last words were: "Hap- 
 py, ever happier." 
 
 The significance of his life and work to his coun- 
 try it is difficult to over-estimate. By his fearless 
 protest against tyranny and his worship of liberty 
 he first wakened the noble rebellion which in time 
 will accomplish the enfranchisement of the father- 
 land from spiritual and political despotism. In the 
 sober idealism of his maturer years he sought a con- 
 14
 
 2IO GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 solation, in the world of thought, for what reality 
 could not yield him ; and thus the German finds, at 
 each stage of his development, the fuller utterance 
 in Schiller's life and work for his own unformulated 
 thought and sentiment. Nevertheless, the key-note 
 of his song, which he first struck in his youthful re- 
 bellion against tyranny, has resounded with stronger 
 vibrations than his more philosophic strains ; and 
 he returned to it once more in his last completed 
 drama. Therefore the Germans are not wrong in 
 loving and revering him as " the poet of liberty."
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE EVOLUTION OF THE GERMAN 
 NOVEL 
 
 DELIGHT in epic narration is not a distinctly 
 Teutonic trait ; it is a human one. Barbaric 
 life, as soon as it reaches a certain stage of develop- 
 ment, is sure to have its novelist, whose works per- 
 ish with the memory of those who hear them. The 
 Icelandic scalds and saga-men of the eleventh, 
 twelfth, and thirteenth centuries were such primi- 
 tive novelists, and were only more fortunate than 
 generations of their predecessors in having found 
 somebody to save their tales from oblivion. The 
 metrical form was undoubtedly at first merely a 
 mnemonic device an aid to memory ; and allitera- 
 tion served the same purpose. The initial word or 
 letter of a lay, when cut into a runic staff, would 
 be likely to suggest the remainder of the line ; and 
 as the weighty word of the second line had to com- 
 mence with the same letter the mind would be, as 
 it were, borne along by the suggestive force of the 
 sound. The lays or narratives themselves were 
 not songs, in the modern sense, but merely rude 
 recitatives, or a kind of intoned rhythmical speech,
 
 2 1 4 GERM A N- LITER A TURE 
 
 
 
 similar to that which may yet be heard among the 
 rhapsodists of Greece. 
 
 Tacitus alludes to the existence of such lays 
 among the early Germans, celebrating the deeds of 
 departed kings and ancestors. Thus, in later years, 
 sitting at the festal board, or around their camp- 
 fires, the warriors recited the deeds of Arrninius, 
 who delivered them from the yoke of the Romans. 
 The remnants of these primitive songs which Char- 
 lemagne with intelligent zeal had collected, were 
 deliberately destroyed by his bigoted son, who 
 hoped to save his paltry soul by exterminating 
 these last vestiges of heathenism. If Iceland, too, 
 had had a sufficiently attractive climate to make it 
 worth while for Italian priests to despoil her, we 
 should probably to-day not have a single complete 
 specimen left of these early pagan lays. But, fortu- 
 nately, the Icelandic priests were natives, and un- 
 derstood the national value of the sagas ; and tak- 
 ing it for granted that the development of the 
 Teutonic spirit in Germany and Scandinavia was in 
 all essentials parallel, we may safely infer that the 
 songs which the priests of Louis the Pious burned 
 greatly resembled the lays preserved to us in the 
 Eddas. That the Niblung and Volsung legends, 
 which form a great part of the Elder Edda, were 
 common to the whole Germanic race we have posi- 
 tive evidence ; and it is hardly to be questioned 
 that much of the mythological material must have 
 been preserved, up to the Christian era, by German 
 as well as by Scandinavian tradition. The German
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 21$ 
 
 ballads and folk-lore afford conclusive proof that 
 such was the case ; and any one who will take the 
 trouble to compare the fairy tales of the Brothers 
 Grimm with those collected by the Norsemen, As- 
 bjornsen and Moe, may trace the parallel develop- 
 ment of mythological types in the two nations. It is 
 more than probable, therefore, that the so-called ro- 
 mantic sagas, the pagan prototypes of the fairy tale, 
 must have existed in Germany as well as in Norway ; 
 and if it had not been for the destructive zeal of 
 Louis the Pious, we should in all probability have 
 been able to point to the Teutonic counterparts of 
 the stories of Oervarodd and Angantyr and his breth- 
 ren, which occupy the same position and appealed to 
 the same need in ancient life as the works of popu- 
 lar novelists in our life of to-day. In the mean- 
 while, owing to the anxiety of the aforesaid King 
 for his soul, we have to deplore a missing link in 
 the evolution of the German novel. 
 
 Delight in the marvellous is characteristic of 
 children and savages. All crude and undeveloped 
 minds prefer the miraculous to the normal. " They 
 come to see, but they prefer to stare," as Goethe 
 says of the theatrical public. It takes a very con- 
 siderable culture and an insight, of which but a 
 vanishing minority of mankind is possessed, to ap- 
 preciate what is really typical of the age or the na- 
 tion, and what is the normal and logical conse- 
 quence of a certain line of conduct. If we are to 
 judge men by their actions, they have still only the 
 dimmest perception of the agencies which affect
 
 2l6 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 their lives, and as long as this ignorance exists and 
 is fostered by our educational methods, it is scarcely 
 to be expected that they will take pleasure in seeing 
 that depicted in books which they are unable to 
 recognize in reality. They must know what is nor- 
 mal before they can take delight in it. They must 
 recognize the law before they can distinguish be- 
 tween that which conforms to it and that which 
 does not. Fortunately, the beneficent scientific 
 movement of recent years has revealed and is re- 
 vealing to a constantly increasing number of men 
 the true logic of existence, and teaching them to 
 order their lives in accordance with certain ascer- 
 tainable laws which will govern them, either with 
 or without their consent. To such men exciting 
 tales of crime and mystery, dealing with impossible 
 or abnormal incidents, become positively odious, 
 while the sober and refined novel of manners, illus- 
 trating typical though often unpleasant phases of 
 existence, gives keen enjoyment. They are apt to 
 prefer Thackeray to Dickens, and perhaps Turgeneff 
 to both. They could not be induced to read a de- 
 tective story by Gaboriau, however thrilling the 
 plot, and they have at heart more respect even for 
 Zola than for some of his sentimental confreres. It 
 may be questioned, perhaps, whether this wholesome 
 change in the public taste is due to the progress of 
 science, and I have not the space here to convince 
 those who are inclined to disagree. The influence 
 of scientific discovery asserts itself, however, in a 
 thousand subtle and widely ramified ways, and
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 
 
 reaches even those who are most aggressive in their 
 hostility to the modern school of thought. The 
 phenomenon nevertheless remains that a notable 
 change is taking place in the opinions of cultivated 
 people all over the world, and their literary tastes 
 naturally keep pace with their growth in other di- 
 rections. Such changes have, of course, been tak- 
 ing place at all times, and the chief value of litera- 
 ture consists in its preserving a record of these 
 progressive changes, and thus furnishing data for a 
 history of the evolution of the human mind. In 
 Germany this record is, up to the twelfth century, 
 extremely fragmentary, but from the Middle Ages 
 down to the present day the material is abundant. 
 
 By a novel in its broadest sense I mean a narra- 
 tive, either in prose or verse, whose primary object 
 is to entertain ; and in tracing the pedigree of the 
 novel back into savage life I shall merely endeavor 
 to find some corresponding agency, ministering to 
 this same need of entertainment. A community in 
 the militant state is naturally oppressed with a su- 
 perfluity of leisure ; the warriors, however brave, 
 cannot always be fighting and hunting, and as they 
 disdain to till the field, time must during the great- 
 er part of the year often hang heavily upon their 
 hands. In Iceland we know from the sagas that 
 this was the case. The men, when they did not 
 drink or sleep (in both of which luxuries they in- 
 dulged largely), went about aching for a quarrel, 
 and seizing the most trifling pretext for killing any 
 one who came in their way. They had to find some
 
 2l8 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 outlet for their superabundant energy, and slaying 
 was regarded as a convenient and honorable amuse- 
 ment. But even quarrelling will in time become 
 monotonous ; and kings and chiefs, who could not 
 afford to have their men decimated by internecine 
 brawls, had to provide some more harmless way of 
 keeping their faculties occupied. That this was the 
 only reason for attaching one or more scalds to the 
 court of every king, earl, or chieftain, I would not 
 assert ; but that it was a very weighty reason is ob- 
 vious from many passages in the sagas. When the 
 men grew quarrelsome the king called upon the 
 scald to entertain them, and they forgot their wrath. 
 The tales that he told were usually of tremendous 
 feats of strength, terrible battles, and marvels of 
 foreign lauds ; and it is notable that the oldest 
 sagas (such as the Volsunga) are almost one contin- 
 uous series of miracles. Magic, incantations, trans- 
 formations into animals, play an important part in 
 them. They touch reality only remotely, and their 
 power to charm depended primarily upon their su- 
 pernaturalism. Prose is here used, interspersed 
 with occasional songs, and the heroes are often his- 
 toric personages who are magnified into supernat- 
 ural proportions. But besides these we have the 
 so-called romantic sagas, which are as frankly ficti- 
 tious as " Puss in Boots " and " Jack the Giant- 
 Killer. " The familiar figure, Boots, or the Ashie- 
 pattle, as he is called in the Norse fairy tale the 
 despised boy who sits in the ashes and is supposed 
 to be good for nothing occurs constantly in such
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 
 
 sagas as that of Ketil Hoing, Grim Lodinkin, etc., 
 and even though he does not always end by many- 
 ing the princess, he never fails to dumfound his 
 contemners by some monstrous feat of strength or 
 daring. Dragons, hidden treasures, -wizards, mer- 
 maids, and all the well-known figures of the fairy 
 tale abound in these sagas, which, however, in those 
 early times were told for the edification of grown 
 people, and not of children. That the Germans had 
 similar tales, and a class of men similar to the Norse 
 scalds, can scarcely be doubted. Primitive society 
 positively demanded them, and it would have been 
 strange if so urgent a demand should have met with 
 no response. It is not necessary that they should 
 have formed a distinct caste, like Klopstock's and 
 Kretchmann's hypothetical bards ; but they may, 
 like the Scandinavian scalds, have been warriors, ex- 
 ceptionally endowed with imagination and the power 
 of speech. A vast deal of nonsense has been written 
 in Germany about " das dichtende Volk" and much 
 ingenuity has been wasted in attempts to pi*ove that 
 portions of the Nibelungen Lied have no individual 
 author, but are the direct product of the poetic faculty 
 of the collective people. The Wolfian theory regard- 
 ing the origin of the Homeric poems has, by Bartch, 
 Lachmann, and others, been applied to the Nibelung- 
 en, and the very flattering conclusion has been ar- 
 rived at that, previous to the twelfth century, when 
 the minnesingers began to flourish, the whole Ger- 
 man people, in a half-unconscious and miraculous 
 manner, composed epics, or epic ballads, dealing
 
 22O GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 with the illustrious deeds of their kings and heroes ; 
 and that all that the professional poet had to do, 
 when he appeared upon the scene, was to join these 
 ballads together, polish up the metre here and there, 
 and supply the missing links in the tale by some 
 supplementary verses. Although I cannot subscribe 
 to this theory, it is fair to admit that no one has the 
 historical data at hand either to prove or to dis- 
 prove it. It has grown out of a certain sentimental 
 regard for " the people " which has become fashion- 
 able in Germany during the last thirty years, and 
 in part also from a very pardonable desire to have a 
 national epic of as dignified a pedigree as the 
 " Iliad " and the " Odyssey." 
 
 But whether the Germans had scalds or not, be- 
 fore the age of the minnesingers, it is very sure that 
 they must have had some kind of story-tellers who 
 preserved their national traditions. It is not ci'ecli- 
 ble to me that the story of the Niblungs and Vol- 
 sungs should have been brought to them by Scandi- 
 navian vikings, and afterward remodelled in accord- 
 ance with the Christian spirit and the changed 
 geography of its new domicile. If, as I believe, the 
 legend is indigenous, it must have taken various 
 shapes in the hands of various singers, and assumed 
 in some degree the color of every successive age in 
 which it was reproduced. If we take the extant 
 version, which dates from the latter half of the 
 twelfth or the beginning of the thirteenth century, 
 we can trace in every canto a conscious softening 
 of the crude material, and concessions to the courtly
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 221 
 
 taste. The story was, in this shape, intended for 
 the entertainment of knights and ladies, and that 
 it must have been very popular is evident from 
 the fact that more than twenty manuscripts have 
 been discovered. It is, then, if we stretch the term 
 a little, a coherent story or novel in verse, or, to be 
 more exact, the thirteenth century's equivalent for 
 the modern novel. It answered the same purpose ; 
 it aroused emotions of sympathy, admiration, pleas- 
 ure ; it entertained. As a counterpart of life it was 
 imperfect, but yet a much closer approximation to 
 reality than the tales which held spell-bound the 
 ruder warriors of earlier centuries. The fairy tale, 
 or what corresponded to the romantic saga, gradu- 
 ally found its way into the nursery and the peasants' 
 hall, and the fine ladies who wept with Chriemhild 
 at the death of her lord, would have smiled con- 
 temptuously at the crude wonder-tales which had 
 delighted their ancestors. And yet wonders are by 
 no means excluded from the Nibelungen. In fact, 
 the opening verse announces : 
 
 " In ancient song and story many a wondrous tale is told; " 
 
 but the wonders, though often startling enough, are of 
 a less extravagant character than those which abound 
 in the fairy tale. Thus the story of Brynhild's fab- 
 ulous strength, previous to her marriage, and Gun- 
 ther's and Sigfried's exchange of form, are remnants 
 of an older version, and are retained chiefly be- 
 cause they are indispensable to the intelligibility
 
 222 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 of the plot. The mythological incidents of the 
 sleeping-thorn and the wall of fire are omitted, 
 as I imagine, in deference to a more enlightened 
 taste which easily wearied of childish marvels. On 
 the other hand, manners, customs, and details of 
 courtly etiquette, which were foreign to the age 
 from which the legend sprang, are continually in- 
 sisted upon, and described with a minuteness worthy 
 of a modern novelist. It is very evident that this 
 was what, in the poet's opinion, especially appealed 
 to his public, and he, therefore, omits no opportu- 
 nity for dwelling upon it. Thus the splendor of the 
 tournament, the magnificence of the costumes, the 
 rattle and glitter of precious arms, etc., are depicted 
 with a lingering fondness which is wholly at vari- 
 ance with the spirit of the heroic ballad. In the 
 end, to be sure, the wild tragedy of the original 
 theme asserts itself in unrelieved ferocity, and the 
 courtly poet may be pardoned for forgetting his 
 chivalrous manner in the general carnage with 
 which his tale closes. The effect which single 
 scenes in the Nibelungen produce depends in no 
 wise upon felicity of phrase ; for the author often 
 expresses himself in the most tediously prolix and 
 lumbering manner ; but for all that, one receives 
 impressions from the book which are indelible. It 
 is the beauty of the situations themselves which 
 makes them linger long in the mind, not their treat- 
 ment by the author, which is always inadequate, 
 often trite and pusillanimous. Thus, the scene 
 where Chriemhild starts for the matin-mass at
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 22$ 
 
 daybreak, and finds her husband slain before her 
 door, has a picturesqueness, apart from its sublimity, 
 which makes it loom up among the solitary peaks 
 of memory ; and tremendous in its wild beauty is 
 the scene where Hagen rises at King Etzel's board, 
 and, as an introduction to the carnage that is to fol- 
 low, shouts : " Now let us drink the toast to the 
 dead, and waste the king's wine ! " That there is a 
 departure here from the attempt to describe con- 
 temporary manners, is very evident ; but the fact 
 still remains that a conscious effort is made to drape 
 the legend in a contemporary garb, and to make the 
 heroes think, feel, and act like knights and ladies of 
 the minnesinger's age. 
 
 In the other popular tales of the period, the same 
 method is followed. The idea of reproducing the 
 color of a bygone age had as yet occurred to no one .; 
 and the minnesingers, like the mediaeval painters of 
 Italy, would have had no scruple in dressing the 
 Madonna in the costumes of their wives. In the 
 sacred and classical stories, which were amplified 
 and remodelled for the edification of the mediaeval 
 German public, this adaptation of the historical cos- 
 tume to contemporary taste often makes the oddest 
 impression ; as, for instance, in Heinrich von Veld- 
 eke's " Eneide," where the wife of King Latinus is 
 made to converse in the following manner with her 
 daughter Lavinia about the nature of love : 
 
 " Mother. If you wish to live happily and well, 
 daughter, then love Turnus. 
 
 " Daughter. Wherewith shall I love him?
 
 224 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 "Mother. With your heart and with your senses. 
 "Daughter. Shall I give him ray heart? 
 " Mother. Yes ; to be sure. 
 "Daughter. How, then, can I live? 
 "Mother. Not in that way shall you give it to 
 him. 
 
 "Daughter. How could I turn my mind to a 
 man ? 
 
 " Mother. Love will teach it you. 
 
 " Daughter. Mother, by God, what is love ? 
 
 " Mother. Daughter, it is from the beginning of 
 time powerful over the whole world, and shall ever 
 remain so, even unto the day of doom ; but in order 
 that no one shall in any wise be able to resist it, 
 love is so made that one can neither hear nor see it," 
 etc. 
 
 There is, of course, no pretence here of fidelity to 
 Latin character a very difficult thing, by the way, 
 as next to nothing is known concerning the peoples 
 that inhabited Latium previous to the founding of 
 Rome. But even if every nook and cranny of the 
 pre-Eoman history of Italy had been explored, I 
 doubt if Heinrich von Veldeke would have availed 
 himself of these sources of knowledge. -The age, 
 though knowing and self-conscious when compared 
 to the age of the Niblungs and Vulsungs, was yet 
 naive in its acceptance of whatever pleased, and it saw 
 no incongruity in transferring the perennial type of 
 the ingenue into the age of Moses or that of Eneas,
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 22$ 
 
 without change of speech or costume. This frank 
 acceptance of one's self and one's own experience as 
 typical for all times and races is a healthy sign, 
 however, and characteristic of active, vigorous nat- 
 ures who have no time to expend in psychological 
 investigation. Especially during the Middle Ages, 
 when so little historical knowledge had been accu- 
 mulated, and only misty legends floated about, con- 
 stantly changing form and yet finding credence, a 
 premature effort at historical correctness could only 
 have revealed its own impotence. That is only 
 sound literature which has its root in life, and it can 
 represent only that life which it knows ; not that 
 which its authors have never seen. The mediaeval 
 epics are therefore only the more valuable, because 
 of their reliance upon living models. When profess- 
 ing to give information concerning the Madonna, 
 or Dido, or Alexander, they give glimpses of contem- 
 porary life and thought which are no less precious 
 because, in their relation to Hebrew or classical an- 
 tiquity, they are amusingly mendacious. Even the 
 semi-religious epics, such as Wolfram von Eschen- 
 bacli's " Parsifal," where a rnj'stic symbolism pre- 
 vails, and endless miracles entangle the plot, derive 
 their chief interest from the revelation which they 
 afford regarding the mediaeval temper and the state 
 of mind to which such obscure and labored allego- 
 ries could appear at all edifying. For literature is 
 the biography of humanity, and only where it is 
 autobiographic is it absolutely authentic. 
 
 The first book which appeared in Germany to 
 15
 
 226 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 which the title of romance was given, was the once 
 famous tale " Amadis ; " and romance (Roman) is, as 
 everyone knows, the German equivalent for the 
 English "novel." Originally the name was given 
 merely to indicate that the book was translated from 
 a Latin tongue, or in this case from two, as the 
 French version proved to be a translation from a 
 Spanish original by Vasco le Sobeira. The lingua ro- 
 mana was the common Eoman vernacular from which 
 Italian, French, and Spanish have sprung, in contra- 
 distinction to the lingua latino, the classical Latin. 
 The German word wcllsch is used as a collective 
 term for these languages, and walsche Mahre was 
 formerly a common term for a fantastic, extravagant 
 tale. But the word Roman (romant) soon came to 
 be applied even to indigenous tales which described 
 love and chivalrous adventure in a high-flown and 
 exaggerated style ; and in the course of a century, 
 as the memory of " Amadis " was obliterated, Roman 
 became the generic term for all prose fiction. So 
 great was the fascination which this book exerted 
 upon the German public, in the sixteenth and seven- 
 teenth centuries, that not only were editions con- 
 stantly multiplied, but the story itself was amplified 
 and enlarged from the original twelve books, first 
 to twenty-four, and at last to thirty. Amadis's chil- 
 dren and his grand children invaded the story, and 
 as the family of the knight and his virtuous Oriana 
 ramified, the opportunities for tracing the advent- 
 ures of successive generations became, of course, 
 unlimited. It is, indeed, hard to imagine how
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 22J 
 
 people were constituted who cpuld find pleasure in 
 the turgid style and unwholesome amorousness of 
 this book, and it gives a measure of our intellectual 
 remoteness even from those whose culture was most 
 advanced, two hundred years ago ; for it was the 
 so-called higher classes who gloated over the unsa- 
 vory twaddle of this "model of chivalrous virtue," 
 and who were edified by his encounters with giants, 
 wizards, and other dangerous characters. It is well 
 to take into account, however, the dreaiy and event- 
 less life of the German country nobility, whose 
 ladies, in their enforced quiet, have always been 
 large consumers of unwholesome fiction. Where 
 for weeks and weeks nothing of interest is apt to 
 happen, a book, whether it be good or bad, is a wel- 
 come guest ; and one may well pardon the avidity 
 with which the soul-hungry country ladies of two 
 centuries ago devoured immoral romances, and for- 
 got to blush at indelicacies which in speech they 
 might have resented. 
 
 In the train of " Amadis " followed a long series of 
 so-called "Amadis Romances," which were but vari- 
 ations of the same theme of solemn chivalry and 
 over-conscious virtue. Marvels yet abound, and, 
 what is worse, they are utterly absurd and arbitrary 
 marvels, invented merely because they were in de- 
 mand. Passing over a long and dreary waste of 
 semi-biblical and semi-classical wonder-stories, we 
 come at last to a work of definite literary value. In 
 fact, Grimmelshausen's " Der Abenteuerliche Sim- 
 plicius Simplicissimus," is not only the first German
 
 228 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 novel of real merit, but it will always remain a his- 
 torical document of the utmost importance. It is, 
 however, in the strictest sense, scarcely a novel, but 
 a thinly disguised autobiography, in which the au- 
 thor relates, with as much fidelity to fact as the 
 pretence of fiction permitted, his own adventures in 
 the Thirty Years' War. In a perfectly easy-going 
 manner, and without any attempt at construction, 
 Grimmelshausen initiates his readers into the life of 
 the peasantry, the life of the camp, and the reckless 
 and desperate spirit of the wandering hordes whom 
 the war had driven from peaceful occupations into 
 vagabondism and crime. All these sketches, in spite of 
 the artlessness of the author's style, have a racy vigor 
 and an uncompromising naturalism which bespeak 
 the eye-witness, not the romancer. As a romance, 
 the book would be a well-nigh unaccountable phe- 
 nomenon in the seventeenth century, while as a per- 
 sonal history its isolation from preceding and suc- 
 ceeding literary movements is easily explainable. 
 The so-called " Robinson ades," on the other hand, 
 which followed with an interval of about fifty years 
 (1720) in the wake of " Simplicitssimus," are more dis- 
 tinctly in accord with the intellectual temper of the 
 age. Their esthetic worth is nil, but as links in the 
 chain of intellectual development they are not without 
 interest. Rebellion against the traditional organiza- 
 tion of society, and enthusiasm for an imaginary 
 state of Nature, were already finding their way from 
 France into Germany ; and Defoe's " Robinson Cru- 
 soe," though scarcely meant as a revolutionary mani-
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 22Q 
 
 festo, was accepted as a protest against conventional 
 reality, and as such prepared the way for Rousseau's 
 more direct and daring arraignment of civilization. 
 The delight and wonder which the book excited in 
 the. Fatherland can now scarcely be conceived. In the 
 course of thirty years more than forty imitations ap- 
 peared and found hosts of admiring readers. The 
 absurd titles did not discourage anyone. Thus we 
 have the "German Robinson," the "Italian Robin- 
 son," the "Clerical Robinson," the " Medical Robin- 
 son," the "Moral Robinson," nay, even the "In- 
 visible Robinson," the " Bohemian Female Robin- 
 son, "the "European Robinsonetta," "Miss Robinson, 
 or the Artful Maid," and " Robunse and her Daugh- 
 ter Robinschen." Besides these we have a count- 
 less multitude of so-called Aventuriers or Books of 
 Adventure, many of which celebrated more or less 
 fervidly the superior advantages of desert islands 
 over effete civilizations, and made little boys plan 
 midnight flights to the happy land of the cannibals. 
 These books, which have many points of resemblance 
 to our dime novels, remained in vogue for nearly a 
 century, and two or three of them retain their hold 
 upon the population of servant-maids and journey- 
 men mechanics up to the present time. They usu- 
 ally give a comprehensive outline of the plot on the 
 title-pages as a bait to reluctant purchasers. Al- 
 though there is no lack of marvels, and at times of 
 the crudest kind, there is yet a tendency perceptible 
 to confine the incidents within the bounds of the 
 possible. The tale, after all, depends no longer
 
 230 GERM A N LITER A TURE 
 
 upon the supernatural for its attractiveness ; on the 
 contrary, it recognizes, in a general way, the laws of 
 Nature, and though stretching them to their utmost 
 limits, is rather ostentatious in its pretended con- 
 formity to them. Slight as this transition may seem, 
 it yet indicates an important change in the attitude 
 of the "public. The naive credulity of former times 
 had given way to a vaguely critical mood, which ac- 
 cepted as interesting only that which seemed within 
 the range of possibility. 
 
 The sentimental novel, which, during the latter 
 half of the eighteenth century, gradually displaced 
 the novel of adventure, was, with all its absurdities, 
 an advance upon its predecessor. Gellert's "Life of 
 the Swedish Countess G.," was the first swallow of 
 sentiment which heralded the swarm that was to fol- 
 low ; but it was Goethe who, in his "Sorrows of 
 Werther" (1774), revealed to the German public the 
 luxury of self-pity and the charm of morbid self- 
 analysis. All Germany wept, and found pleasure in 
 weeping. Some men went to the length of killing 
 themselves in imitation of Werther. Each little man 
 or woman exaggerated his or her little feelings into 
 colossal proportions, took careful note of all his or 
 her exquisite sentiments, which were then written 
 out in diaries and passed around for the edification of 
 friends. It was marvellous what a crop of exquisite 
 sentiments the Werther period produced. Later 
 ages have nothing to show in comparison with it ; 
 and yet if we were all to keep watch of our fine feel- 
 ings and record them for the benefit of the public,
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 
 
 what beautiful things we might manage to feel on 
 proper provocation ! Nevertheless, it was not 
 " Werther " which raised this storm of hysterical 
 sentiment. The sentiment was there before, though 
 in a latent and half -unconscious state ; and Goethe 
 was merely the first to give a poetic expression to a 
 universal state of mind. Who has not been im- 
 pressed, when reading memoirs and correspondence 
 from the eighteenth century, with the emotional ex- 
 travagance which seems to have pervaded the rela- 
 tions of men and women in those days? Every 
 feeling is magnified, and its expi-essiou heightened, 
 until it borders upon the absurd. Where a man of 
 to-day would tell his friend that he had missed him, 
 a German of the eighteenth century would assure 
 him that his heart had yearned for him, that his 
 soul had been athirst for the sound of his voice. 
 That is, in general, the tone of Schiller's youthful 
 correspondence with Kurner and Frau von Wol- 
 zogen, and Goethe's epistles from the Werther 
 period (particularly those to Jacobi), are no less hy- 
 perbolical. ' ' Werther " is, therefore, in no wise the 
 expression of an isolated mood ; it is a diagnosis of 
 the malady of the age. The book is, in the noblest 
 sense, realistic. The incidents are poetic, yet nor- 
 mal, the characters are typical and psychologically 
 true, and not the remotest concession is made to the 
 crude taste for excitement and marvels. Its literary 
 quality is admirable. Nevertheless, Goethe would 
 have been the first to admit that, in other respects, 
 it leaves much room for further achievement.
 
 232 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 " Werther " is a simple tale hardly reaches the 
 dimensions of what we call a novel ; and Goethe 
 may have felt that the fame which he reaped from 
 it was all out of proportion to the effort its compo- 
 sition had cost him. At all events, he made in his 
 next novel, " Wilhelm Meister," an attempt to repre- 
 sent a larger section of life, to strike the key-note 
 of the intellectual movement of the century. In- 
 stead of one slender thread of narrative, he has here 
 half a dozen intertangled intrigues, each of which 
 tends to enlarge the picture of life in all its check- 
 ered heterogeneity. 
 
 Evolution, according to one of the several defini- 
 tions presented by Herbert Spencer, is a develop- 
 ment from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous, 
 and if the novel is to keep pace with life, it must 
 necessarily be subject to the same development ; it 
 must, in its highest form, convey an impression of 
 the whole complex machinery of the modern state 
 and society, and, by implication at least, make clear 
 the influences and surroundings which fashioned 
 the hero's character and thus determined his career. 
 To explain all these things in explicit language 
 would, of course, require an encyclopaedia, but there 
 are yet other ways of making them present to the 
 reader's consciousness. Thus in Thackeray's " The 
 Newcombes," "Peudennis," and "Vanity Fair," wo 
 seem to hear the rush and roar of the huge city in 
 which the scene is laid. The vigorous blood of the 
 nineteenth century throbs and pulsates through 
 every scene and chapter, and we have a subcon-
 
 THE GERMAN- NOVEL 233 
 
 sciousness of the noisy metropolitan life even in the 
 quietest domestic episodes. It is this vivid presence 
 of the spirit of the age which imparts to Goethe's as 
 to Thackeray's novels a perennial, I might say an 
 historical, value. Especially does " Wilhelm Meis- 
 ter " occupy a position as a culturgeschichllicher Bo- 
 man, unapproached by any other work of German 
 literature. The central theme is self-development, 
 a Quixotic pilgrimage in search of culture. Wil- 
 helm begins by recognizing no obligations except 
 those of his own choosing, but passes through a 
 long discipline which teaches him that happiness is 
 to be found not in rebellion against, but in submis- 
 sion to, the established order of the world. The 
 fantastic individualism which characterized the cen- 
 tury is tamed and curbed in this representative hero, 
 until it resumes, of its own accord, all the burden- 
 some duties which are supposed to hinder the free 
 development and retard the daring flight of the 
 soul. That this is a wholesome doctrine no one Avill 
 dispute. It is the ever-recurring theme of George 
 Eliot's novels ; and Freytag and Auerbach have 
 treated it incidentally in " Debit and Credit," and 
 " On the Heights." The short cut to happiness is 
 always the longest road ; emancipation from duty 
 leads to slavery, not to freedom. By submission to 
 the cosmic laws of order, however, Goethe did not 
 necessarily mean an uncritical acceptance of reality 
 as it is. Conservative as he was by temperament, 
 and personally disinclined to agitation, he was yet 
 too clear-sighted not to perceive the tendency of
 
 234 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 the century. That the old feudal civilization was 
 gradually breaking up, and giving way to a new in- 
 dustrial civilization in which every man's worth 
 should be in accordance with his usefulness was, 
 perhaps, the cardinal proposition which he wished 
 to demonstrate in "Wilhelm Meister." Hence 
 Wilhelm, instead of remaining an actor, or becom- 
 ing a noble idler, as his early inclination would have 
 led him to desire, takes up deliberately the yoke of 
 duty which he had flung away, and settles down to 
 humdrum domestic life and usefulness as a country 
 physician. " What a lame and disappointing end- 
 ing ! " exclaims the romantic young lady who has 
 read the book because she has seen it hinted in her 
 "Handbook of Universal Literature" that Goethe was 
 a great, though somewhat immoral writer. True, 
 from the romantic point of view, the novel offers 
 few attractions, except, perhaps, the story of Mignon 
 and the Harper, and the fascinating improprieties 
 of the pretty actress, Philine. But, philosophical- 
 ly, it will always remain a work of significance, 
 even though the unpardonably chaotic arrange- 
 ment of the second part (" Wilhehn Meister's Wau- 
 derjahre ") and the many puzzling allegories which 
 every now and then interrupt the progress of the 
 tale, often try the reader's patience and spoil his 
 pleasure. In spite of these glaring faults, however, 
 the book became the prototype in conformity to 
 which a great number of German novels during the 
 first half of the present century were more or less 
 consciously modelled. Even as late as 1860 we
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 2$$ 
 
 recognize in Oswald Stein, the hero of Spielhagen's 
 novel, " Problematic Characters," the features of 
 Wilhelm Meister modified by the experiences of 
 more than half a century. In fact, the hero who re- 
 bels has always been popular in Germany, possibly 
 because Germany, with its musty police atmosphere 
 and its all-devouring army, affords a large variety of 
 occasions for legitimate rebellion. 
 
 Among those who had a special grievance against 
 reality, the members of the so-called Romantic 
 School were the most persistent and vociferous. 
 Thej T were, however, far from accepting Goethe's 
 solution of the problem which puts the fantastic 
 hero in the wrong and treats his quarrel with reality 
 as the result of youthful arrogance and an undis- 
 ciplined fancy. To the romanticist the endeavor 
 to escape from the prosaic routine of life seemed 
 highly commendable, and the peripatetic hero who 
 strolls about the world, in imitation of Wilhelm 
 Meister, in search of culture and refined enjoyments, 
 is usually rewarded by finding a shadow, at least, of 
 what he seeks. The eudsemouist who consciously 
 pursues happiness as an aim is always reprobated 
 by Goethe and finds the object of his quest, if at all, 
 only after he has abandoned his search for it. With 
 the romanticists, on the other hand, literature was 
 so largely a mere play of unfettered imagination 
 that fidelity to fact and the logical sequence of 
 cause and effect seemed a matter of small conse- 
 quence. Thus in Novalis's " The Disciples of Sais," 
 which was intended as a protest against the sordid
 
 236 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 philosophy of " Wilhelm Meister," we move in the 
 upper spheres of allegorical mysteries where miracles 
 are every-day affairs and where reality is only per- 
 ceived as a distant hum, far down in the depth be- 
 low. Franz, in "Sternbald's Wanderings," by Lud- 
 wig Tieck, is another aesthetic hero of the romantic 
 variety, who roams about in the "moon-illumined 
 magic night," sings songs on very slight provoca- 
 tion, indulges in hot, confidential heart-effusions 
 with every man he chances to meet, and altogether 
 has the queerest and most unforeseen things happen 
 to him. It takes very little to make this style of 
 hero rapturous ; only his raptures are as unreal as 
 he is himself. When imagination soars so high 
 above the solid ground of fact, there is no longer 
 any limit to its excesses ; everything becomes arbi- 
 trary and as such devoid of interest. 
 
 Among the many novels which, with occasional 
 reminiscences of " Wilhelm Meister," reflect certain 
 typical conditions of mind during the first half of 
 the present century, Gutzkow's " Ritter vom Geist " 
 occupies a prominent place. The Knights of the 
 Spirit are a secret brotherhood, reminding one of 
 the curious freemasonry of culture, in which Wil- 
 helm Meister derived so much benefit from hobnob- 
 bing with noblemen. These knights have a suspi- 
 cion that somewhere in the universe, and partic- 
 ularly in Germany, something or other is wrong, 
 and that it is their mission in some way or other to 
 set it right. For this purpose they unite in a secret 
 order, the members of which style themselves be-
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 
 
 lievers in the progressive development of humanity, 
 independently of religion, morality, and the state. 
 That such a confused proposition could seriously be 
 advocated by an author of Gutzkow's reputation is 
 in itself sufficiently startling, and that a large num- 
 ber of people could be induced to peruse with edifi- 
 cation the nine volumes in which this vast and misty 
 scheme is made still mistier, bespeaks even greater 
 heroism in the German mind than had been sus- 
 pected. To account for this strange phenomenon, 
 one must bear in mind that the illuminati craze 
 had taken possession of the age ; and the expecta- 
 tion to accomplish the amelioration of the lot of 
 man through the agency of secret orders devoted 
 to schemes of mysterious benevolence, pervaded all 
 the upper ranks of society. Hence, the enormous 
 extension of Freemasonry during this period, and 
 the influence of brazen impostors like Cagliostro, 
 who did not scruple to take advantage of the 
 universal credulity. Nevertheless, the so-called 
 " Young-German " movement, in which Gutzkow 
 took a conspicuous part, had other excuses for being 
 than that of sharing in many of the Utopian delu- 
 sions of the age. It was as the spokesmen of the 
 opposition to the political and religious reaction 
 which swept over Germany after the downfall of 
 Napoleon that the Young-German authors gained 
 public favor ; and in this capacity there can be no 
 doubt that they accomplished much good. The 
 German people are too prone to acquiesce in what 
 seems inevitable ; and political dissenters, however
 
 238 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 fantastic and wrong-headed, are, in Germany, never 
 without value. The Young-Germans were reckless 
 iconoclasts, but in arousing opposition to the per- 
 fidious policy of the Holy Alliance, they did an ex- 
 cellent work. Even though in the novel they pro- 
 duced no masterpiece, they certainly have, in their 
 own confused idealism, portrayed the confused ideal- 
 ism of the time ; and in the lofty phrase-making of 
 their heroes and their impotence in action, they have 
 faithfully reflected a spirit, the proper apprehension 
 of which will supply the key to an age during which 
 an insolent mediocrity like Metternich was the 
 representative man in Europe. 
 
 The later developments of the German novel will 
 be the subject of a separate article. Freytag and 
 Spielhagen have taken up the problem of " Wilhelm 
 Meister " in an interesting series of novels, and have 
 carried the conflict between feudalism and indus- 
 trialism down to a more recent date. They have 
 eliminated to a great extent the fantastic element 
 which enters so largely into every work of the eigh- 
 teenth century, and have planted the novel more 
 securely in the soil of every-day reality. The phil- 
 osophical spirit is still predominant in the works of 
 Berthold Auerbach, whose "Black Forest Village 
 Tales " and " On the Heights " have gained a well- 
 deserved popularity for their author on both sides of 
 the Atlantic. More uncompromisingly realistic are 
 the novels of Fritz Reuter, whose skilful blending 
 of humor and pathos is scarcely surpassed by any 
 contemporary writer. Of all German authors he
 
 THE GERMAN NOVEL 239 
 
 has broken most completely with the romantic tra- 
 dition, and his " Onkel Brasig " and the whole splen- 
 did gallery of Stavenhagen portraits represent, per- 
 haps, in the direction of realism, the latest results of 
 the evolution of Teutonic fiction. 
 
 If I were to sum up in a single paragraph the 
 development of the German novel, I should say that 
 it commenced with the miraculous, progressed to 
 the possible, thence to the probable and the normal ; 
 though I am forced to admit that this evolution is, 
 as yet, by no means completed. 
 
 The novelist of the seventeenth century asked him- 
 self, in regard to the incidents of his plot : " Could 
 they have happened ? " The novelist of to-day puts 
 the question : " Are they likely to happen ? " The 
 novelist of the future will not be satisfied unless he 
 can prove to himself that, his premises given, nothing 
 else could have happened. The German novelists, 
 however, have not yet caught up with this modern 
 movement ; they linger yet on the borderland of the 
 sensational.
 
 IX. 
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 
 
 OETHE'S " Wilhelm Meister," though it prop- 
 erly belongs to the eighteenth century, struck 
 the fcey-note of a theme which the novelists of modern 
 Germany have ever since been content to vary. Gutz- 
 kow, Freytag, Spielhagen, and more indirectly Fritz 
 Reuter and Auerbach, have all offered their expositions 
 (I would not say solutions) of this vital problem, viz., 
 the conflict between the feudalism of the past and the 
 industrial spirit of the pi'esent. As feudalism is more 
 powerfully intrenched in Germany than in any other 
 European country, and the conflict accordingly as- 
 sumes an acuter form, it is natural enough that the 
 novelists should fight the battle of the age with such 
 weapons and powers as they have at their command. 
 But, even apart from this consideration, it is not to 
 be denied that problems of this order possess a pe- 
 culiar attraction to the national mind. The move- 
 ment of history, the conflict of social forces, which 
 year by year imperceptibly modify the character and 
 the relations of men these are the things which to 
 the German novelist appear most worthy of his at- 
 tention. A merely piquant intrigue, affording no
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 241 
 
 chances for historic outlook or illustration of social 
 problems, he relegates to what he calls " die Nov- 
 elle" i.e., the short story. Take any one of the 
 eminent German novelists Spielhagen, Freytag, 
 Auerbach and this predilection for large problems 
 is everywhere manifest. A pronounced philosoph- 
 ical bias is perceptible in every one of them, and it 
 would be an easy thing to reconstruct each one's 
 philosophy of life from his writings. This is, to be 
 sure, to a certain extent possible in the case of every 
 author of mature convictions, unless he happens to 
 be as severely objective as Tourgueneff or Prosper 
 Merimee, whose opinions, though scarcely to be in- 
 ferred from his writings, have nevertheless leaked 
 out through his correspondence. I think, howevei 1 , 
 that it is capable of demonstration that a German 
 author rarely rests satisfied until he has equipped 
 himself with a " philosophy " until he has acquired 
 definite convictions concerning a thousand things 
 which a Frenchman or an Englishman is willing to 
 leave to the decision of those whom they may con- 
 cern. A certain irrepressible tendency toward phil- 
 osophical generalization is therefore perceptible in 
 the great majority of German novels, especially those 
 of the Young-German period. Among the moderns, 
 Auerbach is especially brimming over with convic- 
 tions, and frequently, as in " The Villa on the 
 Rhine," forgets that he has a story to tell, flings 
 nway his mask and preaches Spinozism in propria 
 persona. Spielhagen possesses much more artistic 
 self-restraint, and his social philosophy is only to be
 
 242 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 inferred from the general drift of his plots, and an 
 occasional little panegyric which he pronounces 
 upon the remains of his democratic heroes who 
 have sacrificed their lives upon the barricades. And 
 yet I know of no English novelist except George 
 Eliot whose views upon any vital question I could 
 with equal certainty infer. 
 
 This philosophic attitude toward the century is 
 one of the chief characteristics of Gnstav Freytag's 
 famous novel, "Debit and Credit." The author 
 possesses a profound comprehension of the indus- 
 trial revolution of the century, and a beautiful con- 
 sistency of sentiment pervades all his later writings. 
 And this consistency is the result, not of impulse or 
 of hereditary bias, but of mature culture and labori- 
 ous thought. There is something admirable, too, 
 in the ruthlessness with which he carries out the 
 philosophical purpose in every detail of his work, 
 enforcing his moral, not in preaching, but in the 
 inexorable sequence and logic of his fictitious events. 
 There can be no doubt that the old feudal civiliza- 
 tion, with its patriarchal relations, its pomp and cir- 
 cumstance, was a far more picturesque affair than 
 the barren and colorless industrialism which is now 
 driving the nobleman from his inherited acres and 
 giving the merchant the weightiest vote in the coun- 
 cils of 'state. Thus Baron Rothsattel, in "Debit 
 and Credit," is a much more vivid and interesting 
 personage than his unconscious opponent, Mr. T. O. 
 Schroter, the wholesale grocer, whose sober indus- 
 try and minute adaptation of means to ends make
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 24$ 
 
 him the predestined survivor in the social struggle. 
 The author is perfectly weli aware that the Baron 
 would conduct himself in most relations of life with 
 the greater dignity, and be altogether a more agree- 
 able companion than the merchant ; but he is 
 equaUy well aware that Fate has small regard for 
 picturesque advantages, and that the struggle for 
 existence is not decided by sentimental considera- 
 tions. He has, indeed, a lurking predilection for 
 the nobleman, and it goes, no doubt, hard with him 
 to sacrifice him ; but the more praise he deserves 
 for adhering so rigidly to his purpose, and complet- 
 ing his picture with such exclusive regard for the 
 logic of reality. 
 
 " The German novel," says the literary historian, 
 Julian Schmidt, " must seek the German people, 
 where alone it is to be found, viz., at its labor." 
 This proposition, which Freytag has quoted with 
 approbation, expresses another important change 
 which the German novel has undergone during the 
 present generation. We all know that labor is apt 
 to be dry, and has neither the piquant nor the pict- 
 dresque qualities upon which a novel relies for its 
 interest. It is only when a man has leisure that he 
 can go in search of gallant adventures, or surrender 
 himself to emotions which may arouse the sympathy 
 of tender readers. The novelists have therefore 
 always shown a preference for the rich man, whether 
 he be a parvenu or of noble birth, and the toilers 
 have, as a rule, been assigned inferior roles, figuring 
 as rascals or comic characters, or as mere " supers"
 
 244 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 The business of life, as the majority of novelists rep- 
 resent it, is enjoyment, excitement, or at best self- 
 development. In " Willielm Meister " it was the 
 latter, but it was to be acquired by association with 
 men of wealth and station who were free from the 
 narrow prejudices of the toiling Philistine world. 
 In order to enable his hero to enjoy this advantage, 
 Goethe makes him spend his time in directing the 
 amusements of a company of noble idlers, and it 
 hardly seems to have occurred to him what an un- 
 dignified occupation this was for a young gentleman 
 with ideal aspirations and in search of " harmonious 
 culture." Goethe, with all his clear-sightedness in 
 the abstract, was too deeply imbued with respect for 
 the nobility to perceive that there was anything anom- 
 alous in this instinctive subordination of the citizen 
 to the nobleman. Very likely he had his reasons 
 for thinking so, and in a certain way he was right. 
 In the feudal organization of the state, and while 
 society is yet semi-militant, the nobleman fulfils an 
 important function and is entitled to a correspond- 
 ing respect ; but, as society emerges from the state 
 of militancy, the function which he performs will 
 be less and less needed, and the only salvation for 
 the representatives of feudalism in the modern state 
 is, therefore, to abandon their claims to superiority 
 and engage in industrial pursuits. It is this very 
 thing which Rothsattel attempts to do in "Debit 
 and Credit," but, as he has had no training for busi- 
 ness, and moreover possesses no criterion for the 
 judgment of men except their deference to himself,
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 24$ 
 
 he is cheated on all sides and precipitates his ruin 
 by the very means by which he had hoped to re- 
 establish his position in the state. He cannot con- 
 descend, like that unpicturesque toiler, T. O. 
 Schroter, to investigate his own ledgers and see that 
 the accounts tally ; nor can he bear to give his con- 
 fidence to an upright and honest man with a fair de- 
 gree of self-respect. It wounds his pride to have a 
 citizen behave frankly and independently in his 
 presence, and in order to save this inherited pride 
 he turns from the honest and self-respecting mer- 
 chant to an obsequious Jew, who fleeces him with 
 the deepest of bows and chuckles to himself, while 
 he draws his toils about him. 
 
 According to Freytag, it is labor which in the end 
 gives a man the upper hand in the struggle for ex- 
 istence ; and it is interesting to note how he has 
 succeeded in investing the various mercantile trans- 
 actions of the house of T. O. Schroter and the es- 
 tablishment of Kothsattel's factory with a human 
 interest. The fates of the characters for whom we 
 feel so lively a sympathy are so intimately inter- 
 woven with these transactions that it is impossible 
 not to follow them with anxious suspense. Even the 
 young nobleman Fink, who has imbibed a fair share 
 of the military traditions of his ancestors, sees him- 
 self forced to enter the office of the wholesale grocer, 
 and, gradually conquering his somewhat volatile 
 nature, adapts himself to the changed requirements 
 of the age. He has been in the United States, 
 where he has had occasion to rid himself of many of
 
 246 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 his noble prejudices and has learned the art to help 
 himself. This man, e.g. the man of birth and brains 
 and devoid of prejudice, is, according to our author, 
 the heir of the future. He is, at all events, the suc- 
 cessor in the industrial state to the defunct noble- 
 man of the past. This is, in fact, the solution of the 
 problem presented by nearly all the German novel- 
 ists who have dealt with it. The homo novus the 
 pure plebeian they are unable to stomach. And 
 yet whoever reads the signs of the times aright will 
 risk the prophecy that the man without ancestors 
 will probably secure the lion's share in the heritage 
 of the future. 
 
 In his endeavor to depict the German people at 
 its labor, Freytag has not confined himself to mer- 
 cantile toil. Besides commerce, a large portion of 
 the German nation is also devoted to scholarly labor. 
 This is a branch of labor in which the Germans have 
 reached the highest excellence ; and a novelist who, 
 like Freytag, is familiar with all its joys and trials 
 could scarcely fail to extract from it a great amount 
 of entertainment. The novel "The Lost Manu- 
 script," which deals with the search of Professor 
 Werner for the lost books of Tacitus, is, to my mind, 
 one of the most delightful books in the German 
 language. The adorable Use whom the Professor 
 finds instead of the lost Tacitus is the historic Ger- 
 man maiden, a modern Thusnelda in the bud, in 
 whom repose in half-slumber all the heroic possi- 
 bilities of the German mind. Modern civilized life, 
 to be sure, rarely calls for the kind of heroism that
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 247 
 
 the Teutonic woman exhibited at the battle of 
 Aix, but in the emergencies which arise in Use's 
 life, of which some, indeed, are of a mediaeval 
 character, she shows herself a worthy daughter of 
 those ancestresses whom Tacitus glorified in his 
 "Germania." Vividly dipicted is also the Profes- 
 sor's deepening absorption in his search which leads 
 him to neglect his young wife and fail to perceive 
 the dishonorable designs of the prince in whom Use's 
 beauty has enkindled a baleful passion. Of scarcely 
 less interest to the scholar, though perhaps a little 
 tedious to the general reader, is the description of 
 the various parasitical growths which flourish upon 
 the vigorous trunk of the German tree of knowl- 
 edge ; particularly Magister Knix, the forger of 
 ancient manuscripts, who comes within a hair of 
 wrecking a noble reputation. All these complica- 
 tions, dealing with the inner struggles and the outer 
 vicissitudes of an existence devoted to scholarly in- 
 vestigation, form in their ensemble a picture of Ger- 
 man university life which no later chronicler has so 
 far rivaled. 
 
 The long series, "The Ancestors" ("Die Ahnen"), 
 which Freytag has not yet completed, undertakes 
 to trace the historic physiognomy of the German 
 people in its gradual transformations from the earli- 
 est period down to the present time. He selects for 
 this purpose one typically German family, whicli he 
 follows from generation to generation, noting the 
 changes of customs, manners, and sentiments in 
 each successive ajje.
 
 248 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 The action in "Ingo and Ingraban" plays in that 
 legendary twilight which precedes the dawn of au- 
 thentic history and centres in two distinct tales, the 
 second of which deals with the conversion of the 
 Germans to Christianity. There is something a trifle 
 labored in the style, and a kind of learned con- 
 scientiousness which restrains the free movement of 
 the plot and interferes with the reader's pleasure. 
 The same is true, though in a lesser degree, of " The 
 Nest of the Wrens," which describes entertainingly 
 the extravagant woman worship and other affectations 
 of the Minnesingers. " The Brothers of the German 
 House " contains a vivid study of the period of the 
 Hohenstaufens (1226) and the social conditions pre- 
 vailing at the time of the Crusades. "Markus 
 Konig " is a story of the time of the Reformation, 
 and in the person of Georg, a son of the grand- 
 master of the Order of German Knights, represents 
 the conflict between the new religion and the old. 
 " Die Geschwister " (" The Brother and Sister ") con- 
 tains really two novels, the first of which, "Cavalry 
 Captain von Alt-Bosen " (1647) gives an extremely 
 effective picture of the moral and physical devasta- 
 tion wrought by the Thirty Years' War. The second, 
 " The Volunteer Corporal at the Margrave Albrecht," 
 extends into the eighteenth century and furnishes 
 interesting pictures of Prussian military life and the 
 methods by which Frederic William I. laid the 
 foundations of the Prussian state. But altogether, 
 though much research and no mean gift of nar- 
 ration are displayed in this elaborate series, the
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 249 
 
 reader is frequently reminded of Goethe's dictum 
 concerning historical scholarship : 
 
 " The ages of the past 
 
 Are now a book with seven seals protected ; 
 What you the Spirit of the Ages call 
 Is nothing but the spirit of you all 
 Wherein the ages are reflected." 
 
 A firmer place than Freytag in the affection of 
 transatlantic readers had Berthold Auerbach, whose 
 death in 1882 we have scarcely ceased to lament. 
 His novel, "On the Heights," made the round of the 
 world and carried its author's reputation to the an- 
 tipodes. And yet, ungracious as the assertion may 
 seem, this book shows plainly enough that Auerbach 
 was not an integral part of the nation which he un- 
 dertook to describe, and could not, however much 
 he yearned to do so, feel entirely as it felt, and de- 
 pict from the inside its sentiments and experiences. 
 Of the keenest exterior observation "On the Heights " 
 gives abundant evidence, but all the figures, even 
 the sturdy Walpurga and her Hansei, are more or 
 less " sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." 
 There is a still, small voice whispering, half uuper- 
 ceived, through every one of them, and that voice is 
 Berthold Auerbach, or rather Berthold Auerbach's 
 idol, Spinoza. Walpurga and Hansei certainly dis- 
 play a marvellous degree of religious toleration a 
 most unusual characteristic, as everyone will admit, 
 among peasants and a freedom from prejudice 
 which they could never have acquired except by
 
 2$0 GERM A N LIT ERA TURE 
 
 passing through the Spinozistic mind of Auerbach. 
 Old Count Eberhard, too, seems to have derived his 
 hard- won wisdom from the same source, and Colonel 
 Brounen and Dr. Gunther in fact everyone whom 
 the author regards as admirable have all drunk, 
 whether avowedly or not, from the pure fount of 
 Spinoza. Now there is, to my mind, no doubt that 
 Spinoza is the greatest philosopher of modern times, 
 and that Hegel, Fichte, and even Kant have in no 
 such manner, by pure inductive reasoning, antici- 
 pated the conclusions of modern scientific thought. 
 He unquestionably deserves all the admiration which 
 Auerbach bestows upon him. But for all that, one 
 may question the wisdom of making propaganda for 
 him in a novel, especially when the value of the novel, 
 as a work of art, is thereby perceptibly injured. 
 Auerbach, as those who had the good fortune to 
 know him are aware, habitually breathed this rare- 
 fied ether of philosophic thought, and with the 
 clear-sightedness and freedom from prejudice of an 
 "emancipated" Jew he viewed the world frankly 
 through this medium. Apparently he did not dis- 
 cover until a few months before his death how iso- 
 lated his position was on these upper altitudes of the 
 mind, and how far removed even the cultured classes 
 in Germany were from that serene and unbiassed 
 attitude with which he had credited them. " But 
 my God ! " he exclaimed to an American friend on his 
 return from the Spinoza festival in Holland, where 
 the mob could scarcely be restrained from attack- 
 ing him, " here I have labored for the German people
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 2$l 
 
 unweariedly for nearly fifty years, and this is what I 
 get for it. Is it not terrible ? " He seemed utterly 
 broken in spirit ; and it is the common opinion 
 among his friends that the " Judenhetze " killed him. 
 He had contemplated humanity serenely and with 
 kindly interest through his clear Spinozistic specta- 
 cles ; and he had not been aware that humanity had 
 all the while viewed him through a pair of intensely 
 colored mediaeval glasses. No wonder the discovery 
 was a shock to him. It was a pity he could not have 
 anticipated in spirit Spielhagen's noble tribute to 
 his memory. It would have brightened his dying 
 hour. 
 
 It is yet too soon after Auerbach's death to form 
 any conjecture as to what posterity's estimate will 
 be of his work. Of course posterity will drop nine 
 out of every ten of our present immortals ; and I can 
 hardly suppress the conviction that Auerbach will 
 not be among the latest survivors. He was not a 
 sufficiently pronounced representative of anything 
 (unless it be Spiuozism) to survive as the exponent 
 of any particular school of thought or the chronicler 
 of any particular phase of civilization. Spielhagen 
 and Freytag have depicted the age, as it shapes it- 
 self in Germany, much more objectively and with a 
 deeper knowledge of national characteristics. " On 
 the Heights " is a book of great ability and with a 
 moving and beautifully developed plot. Neverthe- 
 less it seems already now old-fashioned. There is a 
 subcurrent of didacticism in it which arrests and 
 often breaks the narrative. The characters occasion-
 
 252 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 ally fall out of their rdles and preach wisdom that is 
 much beyond them. The same thing occurs again 
 and again in the " Black Forest Village Tales ; " for 
 instance, in the journal of the village school-master, 
 "TheLauterbacher," and the philosophical disquisi- 
 tions of the rebellious peasant Lucian in " Lucifer." 
 What Auerbach has contributed to German litera- 
 ture is chiefly his own noble personality, and no one 
 will deny that this is a valuable contribution. He 
 has illustrated himself, and distributed disguised 
 counterfeits of himself in all his works, and in their 
 ensemble these form a most interesting individuality. 
 On the Galton plan of " composite portraiture " the 
 resulting " pictorial average " of the whole Auerbach 
 gallery would be Auerbach himself. To a certain 
 extent this may perhaps be asserted of every promi- 
 nent author. I question, however, if it be true of the 
 very greatest. Neither Tourgueneff nor Thackeray 
 could be successfully reconstructed from the types 
 which they have created, even though the latter re- 
 veals himself freely enough in his marginal com- 
 ments. 
 
 It is a notable fact that the latest school of novel- 
 writing, of which Zola is the most aggressive repre- 
 sentative, has as yet made no conspicuous convert in 
 Germany. Spielhagen has in one of his latest books, 
 " Theorie und Techuik des Romans," entered a for- 
 mal protest against the tendencies of the naturalistic 
 school, without, however, denying the ability which 
 is expended in its service. And when Spielhagen, 
 who is the most radical thinker among German
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 
 
 authors, judges in this way, it is safe to conclude 
 that the others, with the possible exception of Paul 
 Heyse, are even severer in their judgment. But 
 Spielhagen's radicalism appears to be based upon 
 philosophical convictions which antedate the scien- 
 tific developments of recent years. Moreover, his 
 method, which he has in the above-named book ex- 
 haustively explained and accounted for, was already 
 formed, and like a well - constructed tool, is admir- 
 ably adapted for his purpose. No wonder, then, 
 that he should look askance at the innovations of a 
 fanatic iconoclast and denunciator like Zola. That 
 he is likewise, in his estimate of Daudet, disposed 
 to be unsympathetic is, I think, due to a certain 
 temperamental dislike for the frivolous conception 
 of life and the apparently shallow solutions of the 
 social problems with which the French authors are 
 apt to content themselves. Spielhagen would prob- 
 ably be disinclined to subscribe to Mr. Charles Dud- 
 ley Warner's proposition, that the prime requisite of 
 the novel is that it should entertain ; nor do I sup- 
 pose that he would be entirely satisfied with Mr. 
 James's emendation, that its object should be to 
 represent life. He would, of course, admit that it 
 ought to do both ; but in his hands the definition 
 undergoes a further and very characteristic enlarge- 
 ment. The business of novelists, he says (" Theorie 
 und Technik des Romans," p. 262) is : "Weltbilder 
 aufzustellen Bilder ihres Volkes uncl seiner Stre- 
 bungen in einem gewissen Zeitabschnitt ;" e.g., to 
 give world-pictures pictures of their nation and its
 
 254 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 aspirations during a certain period. The personal 
 episode, then, in Spielhagen is related primarily with 
 a view to illustrate the national problems and aspir- 
 ations at a certain period. It is necessary to bear 
 this proposition in mind if one is to do full justice 
 to Spielhagen's literary activity. From his very first 
 work until the last he has been faithful to the large 
 purpose which he has here enunciated, and the pro- 
 found pleasure which I have found in reading his 
 works is perhaps also due to the fact that I have 
 recognized their typical quality and their direct 
 bearing upon the great questions which agitate the 
 century. One may agree or disagree, accept or re- 
 ject his solutions of these problems, but his strong 
 and earnest voice will never fail to stimulate one's 
 thought and rouse one from the indolent lethargy 
 which the fatalistic philosophy of modern life in- 
 duces. The reason why his novels have never 
 gained the popularity here that was freely accorded 
 to Auerbach is scarcely far to seek. They were too 
 serious for the average American reader, who cares 
 little for the problems which, as he flatters himself, 
 merely concern the effete monarchies ; and, unhap- 
 pily, popularity can never be obtained except from 
 the average reader. The people who wept over the 
 cheap sentimentalism of Marlit and Werner found 
 little to appeal to them in the tragic perspective and 
 uncompromising logic of such works as " Problema- 
 tic Characters," "In Bank and File," and " Hammer 
 and Anvil." We are so unaccustomed to look for 
 any deeper historic significance in the plots of our
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 255 
 
 own novelists, that we occasionally fail to perceive it 
 even where it exists. That larger vision which sees 
 not only incidents and personal relations, but recog- 
 nizes their bearing upon the grand social move- 
 ments of the century, is extremely rare among us 
 is in fact extremely rare everywhere. But it is just 
 this vision which distinguishes Spielhagen among 
 German authors, and which would make his popu- 
 larity problematic among any people less thoughtful 
 than the Germans. Freytag, as I have endeavored 
 to show, possesses the same gift in an eminent de- 
 gree, and altogether a tendency to philosophic gen- 
 eralization may be said to be a national characteristic. 
 The German critic looks for it as naturally as our 
 own remains blind to it ; and he judges the value of 
 a novel, cceleris paribus, by its presence or absence, 
 by the relevancy of its types, and by the consistency 
 with which its philosophical purpose is carried out. 
 It is particularly perceptible how, since the re- 
 establishment of the empire and the centralization 
 of the national life in Berlin, the novelist has, in 
 this respect, gained an advantage which during the 
 old scattered condition he must have missed. Ber- 
 lin is now the only city in Germany which, in the 
 American sense of the word, is alive, and all the 
 other little capitals where petty courts reside have 
 sunk into absolute insignificance. Nevertheless, it 
 was from the narrow horizon of Weimar that Goethe 
 contemplated the great panorama of the century, 
 and the influence of the old "particularism" is per- 
 ceptible in his character and on every page of " Wil-
 
 2$6 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 helm Meister." Jean Paul must have beard but 
 very feebly tbe pulse-beat of the age ill his rural 
 retreat at Hof ; and one wonders how Frey tag could 
 have surveyed the great movements of civilization 
 from his villa at Siebleben, in the shadow of the 
 little court at Gotha. His university career at 
 Leipzig, to be sure, gave him a post of vantage, 
 and, as we know from his own confession, it was 
 there the material accumulated for his two impor- 
 tant novels. If, however, he had undertaken to pur- 
 sue into the present the theme which he has so ably 
 treated in " Debit and Credit," I cannot but think 
 that he would have shown the effect of the national 
 consolidation as vigorously as Spielhagen does in 
 " Sturmflut." 
 
 It is not often that social problems have received 
 such exhaustive, philosophic, and yet thoroughly 
 dramatic treatment in a novel as is accorded to 
 them in " Sturmflut." The book deals with the 
 effect of the French milliards upon the German 
 state and society at large ; the speculative mania 
 that followed ; the decay of old-fashioned rectitude ; 
 the increased burdens resulting from official extrav- 
 agance ; the gi'owing discontent of the working 
 classes, who were debarred from enjoying the pro- 
 fits of the war though sharers in its tribulations. All 
 these things are held in hand firmly by the author, 
 and it is a real pleasure to observe how this whole 
 complex plot moves forward, preserving throughout 
 its typical character. The impartiality with which 
 the virtues and the limitations of the nobleman as
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 2$? 
 
 well as those of the citizen are depicted, indicates a 
 more cosmopolitan view, and perhaps a riper expe- 
 rience, than was exhibited in the treatment of sim- 
 ilar relations in "Problematic Characters" and 
 "Through Night to Light." The varied and bril- 
 liant metropolitan life of the German capital is set 
 in motion before our eyes, and the whirling activity 
 of clashing interests which emanates from here to 
 the remotest corner of the empire serves only to 
 complicate the situations and to deepen their inter- 
 est. Such a novel could not have been written with 
 the same degree of vividness and power in the old 
 languid ante-bellum capital of Prussia ; and a lively 
 sense of the contrast between the old state of affairs 
 and the new can be realized by comparing the nov- 
 els of Spielhagen's first period with those of his 
 second. The "problematic character" the man 
 who was destroyed by his own genius, and fit for no 
 position which the State could then offer was his 
 typical hero. The German State had no need of 
 genius, unless it were a strategic one. There was no 
 public life to speak of : the State was a semi-mil- 
 itary corporation, which could be best administered 
 by mediocrities. Therefore those who were bur- 
 dened with an excess of ability or critical insight 
 consumed their hearts in discontent or wasted them 
 in love-adventures. Love was, in fact, the only 
 legitimate business in those days for a man of 
 genius, and death on the barricades the legitimate 
 end of a life wasted in love and talk and insatiable 
 longings.
 
 258 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 The situation is now somewhat different ; and 
 the change is again faithfully chronicled in Spielha- 
 gen's novels. Germany has now a quasi-constitu- 
 tion which a powerful Chancellor may be inclined to 
 ignore, and perhaps openly violate. The militant 
 spirit fostered by the late war has brought about a 
 reaction toward autocracy, and a consequent decay 
 of parliamentary institutions. The reaction, as 
 every clear-sighted man must know, is of course 
 temporar}', but it is dangerous as long as it lasts, 
 and retards the industrial development of the na- 
 tion. A most oppressive system of protection (only 
 rivalled in foolish severity by our own) increases the 
 cost of living makes the poor poorer and the rich 
 richer. A vast military machinery is needed to 
 keep the discontented in order, and only feeds the 
 socialistic sentiment which it is intended to sup- 
 press. The whole force of evolution and the resist- 
 less logic of history are on the side of the oppressed 
 masses, and in the end their cause must prevail. 
 
 Everyone will admit that in a situation like this 
 there is abundant material for a novelist with Spiel- 
 hagen's ability to discern the forces at work be- 
 neath the social movements. His works, which ex- 
 tend over the last thirty-five years, though some of 
 them deal with earlier periods, are to my mind the 
 most valuable and faithful chronicles of German life 
 and thought during the last quarter century that we 
 possess. 
 
 Paul Heyse, who at present shares with Spiel- 
 hagen and Freytag the favor of the German public,
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 259 
 
 I shall also have to dismiss more briefly than his 
 importance warrants. It is, however, chiefly as a 
 writer of short stories that he has gained his fame, 
 and the short story I have excluded from my con- 
 sideration in the present paper. Paul Heyse's two 
 long novels, "The Children of the World" and "In 
 Paradise," are, Avith all their undeniable ability, so 
 remote from the horizon of American readers, that 
 I should only do injustice to the author in attempt- 
 ing to characterize them. His radicalism asserts 
 itself chiefly within the pale of ethics ; the tradi- 
 tional barriers which civilization has gradually im- 
 posed upon society seem to him too narrow, and 
 with much ingenuity he devises situations in which 
 the natural feeling would seem to side with the law- 
 breaker. It is especially the matrimonial rebel who 
 commands Heyse's sympathy the youth or the 
 maiden who, in the ardor of youth or yielding to 
 outside pressure, has tied him or her self to an un- 
 congenial partner and is paying the penalty of a 
 daily martyrdom. Madame Toutlemonde, the Ger- 
 man Mrs. Grundy, has a great dread of Heyse, and 
 it is said she keeps his books on the poison-shelf in 
 her locked closet. Their pages are, however, dog's- 
 eared and well fingered. 
 
 Among the rebellious men of genius whom Ger- 
 many has produced (and I have endeavored to show 
 that a man of genius in Germany has much excuse 
 for being" a rebel) no one holds a place closer to the 
 popular heart than the late Fritz Reuter. Unfortu- 
 nately, however, the period of Renter's rebellion
 
 26O GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 preceded his productive period, and lie had the ill- 
 luck to be sentenced to death for having belonged 
 to a patriotic student society (Surschenschuft) and 
 having written some enthusiastic verses in an au- 
 tograph-album about " fatherland " and " libertj*." 
 That was a dangerous experiment in those days ; 
 and though Reuter was pardoned, he had to spend 
 seven long years of his youth in being dragged 
 about from one military jail to the other, and in 
 drinking brandy with his jailers, who found him a 
 jolly companion. Both the brandy and the idle- 
 ness of such a life proved fatal to Reuter, and it was 
 only (o save himself from absolute ruin that, after 
 his release, he turned in despair to literature. Odd- 
 ly enough, it was as a humorist that he made his 
 fame ; there is not a particle of indignation in his 
 books against those who so cruelly wrecked his life. 
 He drew on the early reminiscences of his boyhood 
 in his native town of Stavenhagen, in Mecklenburg, 
 and with inimitable drollery reproduced the quaint 
 speech and manner of his fellow-townsmen. His 
 realism is almost photographic in its minuteness, 
 and yet full of concessions to the prevalent romantic 
 taste. Pathetic in the extreme is his description 
 (written, as all his works, in the Plattdeulch dialect) 
 of his release from the fortress and his first outlook 
 into the strange world after his long imprisonment 
 Several of his novels, particularly "Ut mine Strorn- 
 tid" and "Ut mine Festungstid," have been trans- 
 lated into English, but they lose so much in the 
 translation that one can hardly form any conception
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 26 1 
 
 of their effective blending of humor and pathos in 
 the original. 
 
 For all that, it is not to be denied that Renter's 
 art is crude. He makes no pretence of impartiality. 
 He scolds his bad characters roundly, and will leave 
 them no shred of honor ; and he takes the part of his 
 good characters with equal vehemence. A slightly 
 hysterical vein, reminding one of Dickens, runs 
 through all his books. His characterizations are 
 vivid, but drawn in rather a slovenly, haphazard way 
 which seems to concern itself but little about the 
 result. The charm of his tales (which also accounts 
 for their artistic shortcomings) is their tone of genial 
 improvisation. They are written in a conversational 
 key, and have all the artlessness; spontaneity, and im- 
 pressiveness of good talk. So vivid becomes this im- 
 pression, at times, that the reader instinctively sup- 
 plies the cadence of the human voice. But judged 
 by the canons of literary art, Renter's books are, 
 with all their chaotic strength, defective. 
 
 Of Professor Georg Ebers, whose Egyptian ro- 
 mances have gained a great popularity in Germany, 
 I need scarcely speak at any length. With him art 
 seems to be the mere handmaid of scholarship ; and 
 as knowledge clothed in so attractive a form could 
 not fail to prove alluring, his easy conquest of the 
 public is not to be marvelled at. Nevertheless, a 
 novel equipped with learned references and profuse 
 scholarly footnotes strikes one oddly, and the con- 
 scientiousness with which the author has studied his 
 hieroglyphics and explored the tombs of the Pharaohs
 
 262 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 can scarcely compensate for the absence of that name- 
 less charm which only a highly developed artistic 
 faculty can supply. A vivid dramatic movement is, 
 to be sure, not lacking in any of Ebers's romances, 
 and excitement is also plentifully supplied, varied 
 with descriptions which are full of color and anima- 
 tion. For all that, his books often tax the patience 
 >f the transatlantic reader severety, in spite of the 
 satisfaction one naturally feels at having acquired so 
 valuable an insight into the heart of a remote civili- 
 zation. Archaeological love-making, murders, ab- 
 ductions, and intrigues of diabolical ingenuity are 
 traced in bold relief against a background of sphinxes 
 and pyramids. But all this complexity of plot is 
 sustained by characters of great simplicity. Cam- 
 byses, Phanes, and that arch-villain Boges, in " An 
 Egyptian Princess," are of that order of crude un- 
 composite stock characters with which all primitive 
 fiction abounds. There is no fine shading in their 
 portraiture, no subtle art. Even Nitetis is wholly 
 modern in sentiment, and except in name, no more 
 archaic than Ethel Newcome or Amelia in "Vanity 
 Fair." She does, however, for this very reason en- 
 chain the reader's interest. She even arouses in his 
 bosom a certain tenderness for the mummies in the 
 Metropolitan Museum and a desire for their nearer 
 acquaintance. Was not Moses, perhaps, a trifle pre- 
 judiced in his view of the Egyptians, and would it 
 not be well to read " Homo Sum " and " Uarcla " 
 before giving our sympathies unreservedly to the 
 Israelites in " that memorable conflict ? " Sensational
 
 STUDIES OF THE GERMAN NOVEL 263 
 
 in the vulgar sense Ebers's romances are not, al- 
 though they revel in an excess of exciting incidents ; 
 but it may well be taken for granted that the violent 
 incidents with which they deal were as normal in 
 the time of the Pharaohs as the eventless chronicles 
 of Howells and James are to-day. As civilization 
 progresses, incidents of the kind which novel-readers 
 crave, involving some sort of mental or physical vio- 
 lence, must necessarily become more scarce ; and the 
 exploration of insane asylums and police-courts, or 
 any of the agencies which are provided for the care 
 of the laggers-behiud of civilization, merely because 
 a depraved public taste demands the abnormal rather 
 than the typical, is certainly an undignified pro- 
 ceeding on the part of anyone who claims the name 
 of an ai'tist. Among the German novelists of to-day 
 there is really no one who has the fearlessness to 
 depend exclusively upon his charm as a narrator, and 
 to deal in the manner of George Eliot with the quiet 
 soul-histories of common people. But it may be 
 answered that life in a semi-feudal state like Germany 
 has necessarily more color and incident of the excit- 
 ing sort than our tame and unrelieved democracy. 
 The mere system of caste, with all the complex senti- 
 ments which it engenders, is a most precious agency 
 to the novelist, affording him opportunities for con- 
 trasts and conflicts which in our republican society 
 have only feeble counterparts. Nevertheless, as 
 this system is doomed, the German novelist of the 
 twentieth century may have to face the problem of 
 making a democracy entertaining.
 
 X. 
 
 "CARMEN SYLVA" 
 
 IN a certain sense, all writing is autobiographi- 
 cal, as it reveals, directly or indirectly, the 
 tendencies and limitations of the writer's mind. Of 
 authorship, in the higher sense, this is particularly 
 true, though the degree of self-revelation varies in 
 accordance with temperament and circumstances. 
 The lyric poet is necessarily a tuneful egoist, who 
 mirrors his soul's physiognomy en face or en profil 
 with more or less interesting distortions in the bab- 
 bling brooklet of his song. Goethe, the greatest 
 lyric genius of the century, set his own heart to mu- 
 sic ; and Heine, who follows close behind him, drew 
 no less freely upon his emotional experience : 
 
 " Aus meinen Thranen spriessen 
 
 Viel' Uuhende Blumen /terror, 
 Und meine Seufzer werden 
 Ein NachtigattenchorS' 
 
 When I say that " Carmen Sylva," the Queen of 
 Kumania, is a lyrist, and in the cadence of her song, 
 though not in her philosophy of life, closely akin to 
 Heine, it is almost superfluous to add that the auto-
 
 " CARMEN SYLVA " 26$ 
 
 biographical note in her is distinctly audible, and at 
 times dominant. There is a charming spontaneity 
 in her verse which suffices to show that her talent is 
 genuine. In fact, so warmly and impetuously do 
 her feelings and emotions rise from the depth of her 
 ardent nature, that she scarcely finds time to give 
 them an adequate artistic expression. The concep- 
 tion is fine, the fundamental thought poetic, in 
 nearly all that she has written ; but the headlong 
 zeal with which it is unfolded and developed leaves 
 no opportunity for that attention to detail without 
 which the highest excellence is never achieved. 
 When, for all that, I regard "Carmen Sylva's" 
 writings as worthy of the popularity they have 
 gained, it is because they are vital, because there 
 throbs a warm and noble heart through them, and 
 we feel behind them a living personality. This per- 
 sonality is so distinct that it is easily described. It 
 is, moreover, everywhere the same, and the masks 
 with which fiction disguises it are so transparent 
 that the voice (which in both " Carmen Sylva's " 
 novels speaks in the first person) were scarcely 
 needed for purposes of identification. But this voice 
 is sweet and sympathetic, and lingers in the mem- 
 ory. 
 
 "Carmen Sylva's" first work was published in 
 1880. It is a translation into German of the most 
 eminent Romanian poets Constantino Negruzzi, 
 Vasilio Alexaudri, and Scherbanescu. These are 
 strange-sounding names to us. Not the faintest echo 
 of their fame has reached our shores.
 
 266 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 Of the merit of the translation it is difficult to 
 judge, for the Rumanian language looks to the un- 
 initiated more puzzling than Chinese, and more be- 
 wilderingly polysyllabic than the dialects of the 
 North American Indians. 
 
 One acquires respect for the Queen's intellect 
 from the mere fact of her having mastered such an 
 awe-inspiring language. What strikes one in the 
 volume, besides the easy and melodious flow of the 
 translations, is the modern tone of these remote and 
 unknown poets. Schopenhauer actually has a Ru- 
 manian disciple named Eminesca, who prefers non- 
 existence to existence ; the same battles of thought 
 which agitate the rest of the world reverberate also 
 through the intellectual atmosphere of the Dauubian 
 kingdom. The impassioned lyrics and the simple 
 and vigorous ballads of Alexaudri well deserve a 
 place in the world's literature, and to have made 
 them accessible to the great European public consti- 
 tutes one of the Queen's many claims to the grati- 
 tude of her people. 
 
 The task of translating apparently revealed to the 
 Queen her own poetic resources. Her first original 
 work was a volume of narrative poems entitled 
 "Storms," which is dedicated in the following ear- 
 nest and impressive lines (translated by Miss Helen 
 Zimmern), to her fellow-sufferers, the women : 
 
 "Ye, having heart and strength to bear 
 
 Deep in the fervent glowing soul, 
 Whom the fierce flames of Passion's self 
 But strengthen, making firm and whole.
 
 " CARMEN SYLVA" 267 
 
 " Ye, having might, when tempests rage, 
 To lift the head free, fearing naught, 
 Whom the heart pressing weight of life 
 Rules with the sway of earnest thought. 
 
 " Ye, breathing only light and warmth 
 
 Forever like a true sun's ray, 
 Till tenderly the bare, black earth 
 
 Kindness and joy brings forth straightway. 
 
 " Smiling, great burdens ye have borne, 
 
 Mountains of woe, and still smile on ; 
 Guerdonless where no trumpets sound, 
 Victorious battles have ye won. 
 
 "There laurel is not, nor proud fame ; 
 
 There secret tear-drops fall like dew ; 
 O heroes whom no crowds proclaim, 
 Women, I give this book to you." 
 
 Miss Zimrnern has anticipated me in saying that 
 " Sappho," the principal poem in this volume, is 
 quite un-Greek. It is, in fact, both in form and 
 conception, as Germanic as possible. It has none of 
 the bright sensuousness and heedless grace of Greek 
 song. The fateful dream of La'is, the daughter of 
 Sappho, with which the poem opens, bears some 
 resemblance to the dream of Chriemhild in the first 
 canto of the " Niebelungen Lay," although butter- 
 flies are substituted for eagles. But apart from the 
 moral anachronism which is implied in the domes- 
 tic virtues and Teutonic conscientiousness of the 
 Lesbian poetess, there is much to admire. As a 
 mere woman, without reference to age or national- 
 ity, Sappho is vividly delineated, and the songs
 
 268 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 which she sings, though they have neither the Sap- 
 phic meter nor spirit, we could ill afford to miss. 
 Thus the charming little lay : " Wenu todt ich werde 
 sein," in the third canto, has an " unpremeditated 
 art " which none but true singers attain. It expires 
 like a sigh in the air, and is as eloquent of the 
 emotion which prompted it. 
 
 The hexameter in " Sappho " is handled with 
 skill ; but the perpetually recurring alliteration in- 
 terferes with its melodious effect. As a metrical 
 device alliteration is of Germanic origin, and seems 
 alien to the spirit of Greek poetry. There is also a 
 certain exasperating monotony in the constantly re- 
 peated initial letters, which gives an air of artificial- 
 ity even to the noblest verse. As a criticism of less 
 moment it might be permissible to ask why Sappho's 
 lover is called Memnon, when history supplies the 
 scarcely less resonant name of Alkseus. 
 
 The word " Sturmesseele " (storm soul), which 
 occurs repeatedly in " Sappho," and which is more 
 or less descriptive of all the Queen's heroines, con- 
 tains also the formula of her own character. Astra, 
 in the epistolary novel of that name, and the Prin- 
 cess Ulrike zu Horst Kauchenstein, in "From Two 
 Worlds," are both pronounced types of the tempest- 
 uous soul. Daringly unconventional, headstrong, 
 generous to a fault, affectionate and impulsive such 
 is the type of womanhood with which " Carmen 
 Sylva " sympathizes, and which she most completely 
 comprehends. Naturally enough such characters 
 come into frequent conflicts with reality, as inherit-
 
 " CARMEN SVLFA" 269 
 
 ed custom and tradition Lave moulded it ; and the 
 result is usually tragic. For no single individual, 
 even though armed with right and justice, can cope 
 with the world. The Lilliputians are always stronger 
 than Gulliver. And when the moral question at 
 issue is, as in the case of Astra, more than ques- 
 tionable, it is even for the good of society that the 
 tempestuous soul should succumb. We may sym- 
 pathize with its suffering and deplore its fate ; but, 
 sociologically considered, we cannot declare that 
 either the one or the other is unjust. 
 
 The problem in "Astra " is an old one, and there 
 is nothing in the book, except the picturesque and 
 effective setting of the scenes in the terra incognita 
 of one of the Danubian principalities. The vigorous 
 characterization of the heroine and the accessory 
 figures compensates for the entire absence of a plot, 
 in the old-fashioned sense. Astra belongs evidently 
 
 to 
 
 " jenem Stamm der Astra 
 Welche sterben wenn sie lieben. " 
 
 It is unhappily her sister's husband whom she 
 loves ; and there is obviously no solution possible 
 except death. In the case of the Princess Ulricke, 
 in " From Two Worlds," the tempestuous character 
 triumphs over the obstacles which tradition inter- 
 poses between her and happiness. Carried away by 
 the beauty of a book dealing with ancient Greek 
 art, she enters into correspondence with the author, 
 under the supposition that he is a hoary and vener- 
 able scholar, whose suggestions may be likely to im-
 
 2/0 GERMAN' LITERATURE 
 
 prove her mind. That he turns out to be a young 
 and handsome man (professor though he is) follows, 
 as a matter of course ; and that the intellectual tone 
 of the correspondence should gradually change into 
 a personal and semi-sentimental one is also what 
 might have been expected. But what in a queen is 
 wholly surprising and shows a remarkable indepen- 
 dence of character, is the circumstance that this 
 paragon of manly beauty and intellectual vigor is rep- 
 resented as an advanced radical in his political opin- 
 ions, and does not even shun to apply to himself the 
 name " social-democrat." He belongs to the class of 
 the so-called "Katheder-Socialisten ;" i.e., didactic, 
 professorial socialists, who believe (with Lasalle) that 
 the State must eventually take the place of corpora- 
 tions as employers of labor and entrepreneurs in in- 
 dustrial enterprise. He has a wholesome pride in 
 his bourgeois origin, and a violent prejudice against 
 nobles and princes. This does not, Lowever, pre- 
 vent him from constructing, in fancy, a fascinating 
 image of his princely correspondent, or from visit- 
 ing her incognito, in the guise of a piano-tuner. 
 The princess, who with all her grandeur leads a 
 lonely and isolated life, also expends a great deal of 
 romantic sentiment on her learned plebeian, and 
 finally elopes with him and marries him. The inev- 
 itable stormy scenes ensue, and the happy denoue- 
 ment is only brought about by the birth of a child, 
 and a meeting between the prince and the plebeian at 
 what is supposed to be the death-bed of the young 
 mother.
 
 " CARMEN SYLVA " 2/1 
 
 Now, the interest of this little complication is in 
 the light it throws upon the author's character. 
 
 A wholesome I might almost say a homely nat- 
 ure breathes through all these epistles. It is the 
 stormy soul whom we have already learned to know 
 in " Sappho," but more humanly real, more tender 
 and lovable. All that is known of the Queen's char- 
 acter harmonizes so well with it that, in a wholly 
 psychological way, the book becomes autobiograph- 
 ical. It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that her 
 own childhood and her early environment must 
 have furnished the material for the letters dealing 
 with the Princess Ulricke's daily life in the lonely 
 but beautiful Castle Rauchenstein. That she was 
 a very headstrong and ungovernable child, much in- 
 clined to adventurous enterprise and independent 
 judgments, is well known ; and that her princely 
 dignity sat very lightly upon her during those years 
 we may conclude from the anecdotes related by 
 Miss Zimmern. She was born December 29, 1843, 
 and is, accordingly, now forty-eight years old. Her 
 father, Prince Hermann von Wied, was a general in 
 the Prussian army, and belonged to one of the old- 
 est dynastic families of Germany. He was a man 
 of great culture, interested in metaphysical studies, 
 and published three able books dealing with philo- 
 sophical subjects. The Princess Elizabeth, his 
 daughter, thus came naturally by her love of study 
 and her predilection for authorship. It was her 
 delight in her childhood to ignore her rank and mix 
 with " common children," to whom she eagerly ini-
 
 2/2 GERMAN- LITERATURE 
 
 parted her newly-acquired knowledge, or indulged 
 in rough and noisy games, which were held to be 
 neither maidenly nor aristocratic. Her ambition at 
 that time was to become a school-mistress to elevate 
 and benefit her kind by teaching and by example. 
 To live her own life, to work out her own individ- 
 uality, was her idea of happiness. And as her im- 
 pulses were naturally generous, and lessons of com- 
 passion and charity had been early impressed upon 
 her by a wise mother, her own happiness consisted 
 in spreading happiness about her. She often fol- 
 lowed literally the biblical precept to give to him 
 who asked for the coat the cloak also ; and there 
 was danger that, unless restrained, she might give 
 away her entire wardrobe. 
 
 On one occasion (as related by her sympathetic 
 biographer) she took it into her head to attend the 
 village school ; and, without awaiting the consent of 
 her mother, took to her heels and burst into the 
 astonished assembly of school-children. The school- 
 master, who knew her by sight, did not interrupt 
 the lesson on her account, but allowed her to par- 
 ticipate in the exercises. When the singing began 
 she joined so heartily with her strong, impetuous 
 voice that the performance had all the effect of a 
 solo. Her neighbor, a little girl who herself had 
 musical pretensions, became so exasperated at her 
 vigorous performance that, forgetting all ceremony, 
 she put her hand over the princess's mouth. Before 
 she had time to resent this liberty, a servant arrived 
 from the castle and carried her home in disgrace.
 
 " CARMEN SYLVA" 2/3 
 
 The hand of the young Princess of Wied was nat- 
 urally sought by many wooers ; but her personality 
 was too positive, too titanic to contemplate the com- 
 promises and sacrifices of individual tastes which 
 matrimony necessitates with any degree of pleasure. 
 Like Briinhilde in the "Volsunga Saga, her heart 
 could only be awakened by a hero who had the 
 courage to ride through the wall of flame. She was 
 wont to say jocosely merely to express how remote 
 the idea of marriage was from her mind that she 
 would never marry, unless she could become Queen 
 of Rumania. In the first place Rumania was not 
 then a kingdom, but a tributary dependency of the 
 Porte, and, secondly, the miserable Prince Cousa, 
 who governed it, was a married man. If Princess 
 Elizabeth had declared that she would never marry 
 unless she could be Empress of China, the contin- 
 gency would scarcely have appeared less improba- 
 ble. But it is sometimes the most improbable that 
 happens. During a visit to the Court of Berlin, she 
 slipped in going downstairs, and fell into the arms 
 of the gentleman who was destined to become King 
 of Rumania viz., Prince Charles of Hohenzollern. 
 When the latter, in 1868, became Prince Cousa's 
 successor, he took Princess Elizabeth at her word, 
 and offered her the opportunity to share with him 
 the Rumanian throne. That that throne was for a 
 time extremely unstable we all know, and that it is 
 so no longer is in a large measure due to the tact,, 
 the wisdom, and the unbounded benevolence of the 
 Queen. The German nationality is not beloved in
 
 2/4 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 the Danubian kingdom ; nay, it is almost hated 
 among all the Slavonic tribes. To have overcome 
 this stubborn and deep-rooted prejudice by the force 
 of her noble and lovable character is an achievement 
 the magnitude of which few, outside of -Rumania, 
 are able to estimate. The indefatigable activity of 
 the Queen for the welfare of her subjects has 
 touched their hearts, and they have rewarded her 
 with one of those affectionate pet names with which 
 the Slavonic languages abound. " Little Mother," 
 the peasants call her ; and a mother she has been to 
 them in many ways. Hospitals, soup-kitchens, in- 
 dustrial schools, art galleries, etc., testify to her 
 vigilant care both for their bodies and their minds. 
 She has, indeed, become a school-mistress in the 
 most exalted sense. A throne offers facilities for 
 teaching which no other tribune affords, and Ru- 
 mania, which under the cruel and degrading rule of 
 the Turk had sunk into semi-barbarism, presented 
 a field for a crowned benefactress such as scarcely 
 another European state did. Her sympathy with 
 toil, her respect for all honest labor and all spheres 
 of usefulness, is obvious in every line of her " Songs 
 of Toil." They are not mere melodious fancies, or 
 romantic conceits, with which any imaginative aris- 
 tocrat might beguile his gilded leisure ; but homely 
 and sincere rhymes, entering into the very spirit of 
 each trade, and seizing upon its human and pathetic 
 phases. " Carmen Sylva " has earned the right to 
 sing " Songs of Toil ; " for her own life, although 
 passed upon the highest altitudes of society, has
 
 " CARMEN SYLVA " 2J5 
 
 been one of arduous and incessant labor. That 
 there is heroic stuff in her she has shown on more 
 than one occasion ; but especially during the terri- 
 ble winter of 1877-1878, when the Eusso-Turkish 
 war raged. Like a ministering angel she went 
 among the wounded soldiers, relieving their wants, 
 assisting at amputations, comforting the suffering, 
 and receiving the last messages of the dying. A 
 public monument in Bucharest commemorates her 
 noble activity during this year of triumph and sor- 
 row. 
 
 As a wife and mother the Queen has also known 
 affliction, having lost her only child, a daughter of 
 four years. She has cared little for the mere tinsel- 
 show and glitter of life since then, but has turned 
 her attention to its great and enduring realities. 
 Like Faust (in the second part of Goethe's master- 
 piece) she finds happiness after having abandoned 
 all conscious striving for personal well-being. In 
 the social and moral sphere she conquers, like him, 
 the land from the unruly ocean, and wrings fertility 
 and a thousand blessings from the waste wilderness. 
 From a hint in her novelette, " Es Klopft " (It 
 Knocks), it is obvious that by her own warm-hearted 
 charity she wishes to raise a memorial in every 
 breast to the dear one she has lost. The story of 
 the little Friedlein and the blessings that flowed 
 from his premature death could only have been 
 written out of a personal experience. It is only 
 small natures whom sorrow paralyzes. The Queen 
 has made hers a source of happiness to hundreds of
 
 2/6 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 her fellow-men. It has given an outward, altruistic 
 vent to her energies ; partly from an innate need of 
 action, peculiar to the strong, partly to escape from 
 brooding over her loss, she clothed the naked, fed 
 the hungry, comforted the afflicted, and lightened 
 tke burdens of the heavy-laden. 
 
 " Carmen Sylva's " books, which contain a spirit- 
 ualized and symbolical record of the experiences 
 through which she has passed, have followed each 
 other in such rapid succession that space will not 
 permit me to give an account of all. The book 
 which interests me most as an evidence of earnest 
 thought and a faculty of expression is a poem en- 
 titled " Jehovah." The hero of this book is Ahasu- 
 erus, the Wandering Jew, but the cause of his 
 eternal wandering is not, as in the legend, his denial 
 of a resting-place to the Saviour on his way to Gol- 
 gotha. " Carmen Sylva's " Ahasuerus denies the 
 suffering Christ, because he cannot conceive of a God 
 who can suffer ; but the curse that drives him eter- 
 nally onward is his determination to live until he 
 shall have solved the riddle of creation until he 
 shall see God. He goes to the edge of the desert 
 and listens to the sound with which the statue of 
 Memnon greets the dawn, in the hope of distin- 
 guishing the answer to the riddle. He seeks God 
 in gold and precious stones, in song, in war for 
 Islam ; and everywhere he Avins the highest praise 
 aud distinction. But nowhere does he find Him 
 whom he seeks. At last he becomes an artist, and 
 recognizes, while fashioning his ideas in marble and
 
 " CARMEN SYLVA " 
 
 color, the evolution of all ideals, the eternal, in- 
 finitely progressive development in the world of 
 matter as in the world of thought. This progressive, 
 evolutionary impulse, this creative energy that never 
 rests or ceases, he hails as God. " Gott ist ewig 
 Werden " is his final conclusion, which gives him 
 peace and permits him to die. Whatever we may 
 think of this declaration, which is pantheistic rather 
 than Christian, it would be vain to deny the beauty 
 and dignity of the verse in which the wrestlings of 
 Ahasuerus with the infinite are depicted. 
 
 Scarcely inferior to this poem in value, though of 
 a totally different character, is the volume of " Pe- 
 lesch-Marchen" (Fairy Tales of the Pelesch), which 
 has all the fantastic and artless character of real 
 folk-lore, and which, we should judge, must have 
 some basis in popular tradition. The tales entitled 
 "Leidens Erdenyang" (Sorrow's Earthly Pilgrimage) 
 give in allegorical form the history of the Queen's 
 own spiritual life, her sorrow, her despair, and her 
 final attainment of peace. 
 
 It is a noble life and a rich personality that are 
 revealed to us in the writings of " Carmen Sylva ; " 
 and if she had not a crown already, she might con- 
 quer one in the realm of song. 
 
 But the royal rank seems, somehow, to be a dis- 
 qualification for the highest literary distinction. A 
 certain dilettanteism. showing defective training and 
 wavering purpose, is perceptible in the workman- 
 ship of all the Queen's books. The wayward ro- 
 manticism of her temperament has never been re-
 
 2/8 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 strained by the sort of discipline which experience 
 is apt to supply to less exalted mortals. She has 
 read much, thought much, and felt passionately, 
 but she has never come in close enough contact 
 with life, such as it shows itself to ordinary men, to 
 know it at first hand, and utilize it effectively for 
 the purposes of art. All her tempestuous aspira- 
 tion, shooting upward with a grand momentum, 
 reaches nowhere, but explodes like a rocket in inef- 
 fective pyrotechnics.
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GER- 
 MANY
 
 XL 
 
 SOCIAL ASPECTS OF THE GERMAN 
 ROMANTIC SCHOOL 
 
 Italian Renaissance was a revival not only of 
 -- Greek art, but also of Pagan philosophy, my- 
 thology, and religion. The ascetic abstinence, in 
 color as in form, of the pre-Raphaelite masters was 
 supplanted by a joyous splendor of blooming and 
 throbbing flesh, and the galleries which had once 
 witnessed the pictured transports and ecstatic visions 
 of pale nuns and lank saints now suddenly teemed 
 with the spirited scenes of sensuous pleasure. And 
 even where the painter adhered to the old themes 
 from the sacred history, a certain profane delight in 
 mere physical beauty betrayed the influence of the 
 Periclean age. 
 
 During the reign of Louis XIV. this Pagan Re- 
 naissance invaded France, but it was not until the 
 middle of the eighteenth century that it reached 
 Germany. Then Winckelmann devoted his noble 
 life to the writing of that great work on the art of 
 the ancients which first opened the eyes of his coun- 
 'trymen to the true significance of the Greek civiliza- 
 tion, and thereby turned the current of the intel-
 
 282 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 lectual life of the Fatherland. In order to complete 
 such a work the author had virtually to emancipate 
 himself from the sentiments and traditions of his 
 own century, and in a measure ignore the long pro- 
 cess of evolution through which the world had 
 passed since the days of Phidias and Pericles ; and 
 Winckelmann did nothing short of this. In order 
 to make the individual work of art intelligible, he 
 had to reproduce in himself, and through himself in 
 his reader, that sensuous equilibrium which had 
 made its first creation possible, and that ideal sim- 
 plicity of feeling from which it had sprung. His 
 protest against modern Christianity could not be a 
 conscious one ; he could not denounce it, he could 
 only ignore it. Nevertheless, the theologians did 
 not fail to notice the anti-Christian tendency of his 
 writings, and to decry them accordingly. In the 
 meanwhile another intellectual giant had caught 
 the spirit of the Renaissance, and now the dissatis- 
 faction which had long been gathering broke out in 
 open warfare. Lessing, although disagreeing with 
 Winckelmann on many unessential points, willingly 
 acknowledged himself his pupil, and the struggle 
 with orthodoxy which the latter had indirectly oc- 
 casioned, the former fought in open and aggressive 
 warfare. 
 
 Heine has fittingly characterized Lessing's life in 
 comparing him to those Jews who returned to Je- 
 rusalem under Neherniah : they brandished the 
 sword with one hand, while with the other they re- 
 built the temple of God. It was not Christianity
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 283 
 
 against which Leasing aimed the keen arrows of his 
 wit, but it was bigotry, and more especially bigotry 
 as represented by that arch-prelate, Pastor Gotze, in 
 Hamburg. The Protestant clergy of Germany were 
 at that time a kind of self-constituted tribunal, 
 which had assumed to itself the right to censure and, 
 if possible, ostracize from the national literature 
 every production which in spirit or letter was at 
 variance with Lutheran orthodoxy. Accordingly, 
 when Lessing undertook to publish the rationalistic 
 fragments of his deceased friend Reimarus, these 
 watch-dogs of the faith immediately sounded the 
 alarm, and with Gotze in their van began those at- 
 tacks upon " the free-thinker " which with unwearied 
 zeal they continued to the end of his life. To quote 
 another of Heine's sayings, Lessing sleAV them, and 
 by deigning to slay them he made them immortal ; 
 the rocks which he hurled at them in his so-called 
 anti-Gotze pamphlets, became their imperishable 
 monuments. Indeed, the athletic stature of his in- 
 tellect gained him an easy victory in all the literary 
 tilts in which he engaged, and even after his death 
 his country seemed for a long time to be still feed- 
 ing on the surplus amount of vitality which his vig- 
 orous individuality had imparted to it. The intel- 
 lectual result of his life naturally crystallized itself 
 into certain fixed doctrines and stereotyped phrases, 
 which became the watchwords of a certain clique of 
 men, the well-known Party of Enlightenment (Auf- 
 klarung). 
 
 The chief of this party, the bookseller Nicolai,
 
 284 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 in Berlin, who regarded himself as Lessing's legiti- 
 mate heir and successor, with a certain comic per- 
 severance and a grand air of authority, arraigned 
 before his tribunal the rising authors of the 
 land, thus continuing what he conceived to be the 
 spirit of his master's criticism. Lessing had been 
 harsh in his judgment of the Sturm und Drang 
 (Storm and Stress) school, not even excepting Goe- 
 the's Gotz von Berlichingen from the general con- 
 demnation. Nicolai, perceiving the tendency rather 
 than the degree of merit, therefore persevered in 
 waging war against every incipient literary move- 
 ment which accorded to emotional strength the 
 prominence which in his opinion belonged only to 
 the rational side of our nature. What had been 
 an unconscious limitation in Lessing's nature, his 
 incapacity to appreciate a purely lyrical talent, de- 
 generated in Nicolai into a conscious, stubborn an- 
 tipathy against everything which bordered on vehe- 
 mence. Opposition and ridicule drove the zealous 
 bookseller into ever greater paradoxes. The critical 
 maxims which Lessing had bequeathed to posterity 
 were now no longer new, and by constant repetition 
 and misapplication had begun to pall on the sense 
 of the public. The ancient saws about utility, per- 
 spicuity, and morality could now no more cause a 
 sansation, and the people were heartily longing for 
 something new. Lessing had endeavored to estab- 
 lish the supremacy of reason also in matters of re- 
 ligion, and had in his daily life practised toward 
 others the toleration he claimed for himself. Nicolai
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 28$ 
 
 and his followers, as is too often the case with men 
 of " advanced opinions," forgot in their partisan zeal 
 the tolerance they were themselves preaching, and 
 by their opposition to everything which conflicted 
 with their own utilitarian tendencies, for a time ex- 
 erted an unwholesome influence upon the literature 
 of the land. Narrowness of vision, a certain crude, 
 intellectual complacency, utter absence of imagina- 
 tion, exti'eme utilitarianism, and con sequent hostility 
 to everything which points beyond this temporal 
 sphere of existence, were the chief characteristics of 
 this " Period of Enlightenment." 
 
 It is self-evident that a school which so entirely 
 ignored the emotional nature of man could not for 
 any length of time satisfy so warm-hearted and im- 
 aginative a nation as the Germans. Their Gothic 
 character, with all its mystic depths of gloom nnd 
 passion and pathos, soon reasserted itself, the pro- 
 tests became louder and louder. A strong tide of 
 reaction rolled over the land, and this reaction has 
 found its literary and historic expression in what is 
 commonly known as the Romantic School. To those 
 who care for a minute and scholarly exposition of the 
 origin and progress of this remarkable movement, I 
 would recommend the exhaustive accounts of Julian 
 Schmidt, R. Haym, and Koberstein. Heine's essay on 
 Romanticism is a most fascinating book, which is 
 equally remarkable for its epigrammatic brilliancy, its 
 striking originality, and its utter injustice and unre- 
 liability. A distinguished Danish critic, G. Brandes, 
 rivals Heine in vividness of style, without being in
 
 286 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 the same degree liable to the charge of partisanship. 
 My purpose at present is merely to illustrate the 
 movement in its moral and social bearings, to sketch, 
 as it were en profile, the more prominent features of 
 the Romantic physiognomy, and, by gathering these 
 into an intelligible portrait, convey to the reader an 
 impression of what Romanticism was, or at least 
 what it purported to be. 
 
 Though it was primarily the dry and wooden 
 utilitarianism of the Party of Enlightenment which 
 aroused the hostility of the Romantic authors, the 
 tendency, which they came to represent, was scarce- 
 ly less hostile to the classicism of Goethe and Schil- 
 ler. Although Novalis, the brothers Schlegel, and 
 nearly all the champions of the new movement 
 were profoundly stirred by " Wilhelm Meister," 
 and did not stint their admiration of "Faust," and 
 " Hermann und Dorothea," the spirit of Goethe re- 
 mained alien to them ; and as their own convictions 
 developed and became formulated, their antagonism 
 became pronounced and emphatic. Toward Schiller 
 they assumed at first a more tolerant attitude ; and 
 after the publication of "The Maid of Orleans" 
 were half inclined to claim him as one of their own. 
 But, for all that, they could not remain blind to the 
 fact that his enthusiasm for Greek antiquity implied 
 an antipathy to their reactionary medisevalism, quite 
 as strong as that of his friend. The modern revolu- 
 tionary spirit which gives its magnificent vehemence 
 to " The Robbers," and inspires the stormy elo- 
 quence of Marquis Posa in "Don Carlos," was, as
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 28/ 
 
 the Romanticists could not fail to perceive, a more 
 dangerous foe to their feudal ideals than the placid 
 classicism of " Iphigenia," and "Tasso." And when 
 Schiller, in " The Bride of Messina," even introduced 
 the Greek chorus, and embodied in his drama a 
 tragic fate, no less rigid than that of JSschylus and 
 Sophocles, it was time to protest, in the name of 
 German art, against such forced and artificial stand- 
 ards. As Mr. Brandes says : 
 
 " The antique was too severe, people yearned for 
 color and variety ; the antique was too plastic, peo- 
 ple demanded something warm and musical. The 
 antique was so Greek, so cold, so alien ; who could 
 endure reading Goethe's 'Achilleis,' or Schiller's 
 ' Bride of Messina ' with its solemn antique 
 choruses ? The people longed for something home- 
 like and German. The antique was too aristocratic, 
 and the enthusiasm for the classical was carried so 
 far that even the old court poetry from the time of 
 Louis XIV. was reinstated in honor. But ought 
 not art to be for all classes ? Ought it not to unite 
 high and low ? Something simple and popular was 
 desired. The .classical movement was, in fine, too 
 sober. Lessing's bright religion of reason had, 
 in the hands of the bookseller Nicolai, become a 
 dull rationalism. . . . The pantheism of Goe- 
 the could not warm the hearts of the masses ; Schil- 
 ler's ' The Sending of Moses ' would scandalize a 
 believer, and to be ' poetical ' was certainly not the 
 same as to be ' sober.' People wished to be en- 
 thusiastic ; they wished to become intoxicated and
 
 -288 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 enraptured. They wished to believe like a child, 
 feel the knight's enthusiasm and the monk's ecstasy ; 
 they wished to rave poetically, dream melodiously, 
 bathe in moonshine, mystically feel the spirits flit- 
 ting in the Milky Way. They wanted to hear the 
 grass grow and understand what the birds said. 
 Deep into the moon-illumined night we are con- 
 ducted by Tieck into the moonshine of which he 
 sings : 
 
 " ' Mondbeglanzte Zaubernacht, 
 Die den Sinn gefangen halt, 
 Wundervolle Miirclienwelt, 
 Steig' auf in der alten Pracht.' " * 
 
 It was a goodly array of poets, wits, and philoso- 
 phers which, in the year 1798, gathered about the 
 Romantic banner as displayed in the columns of 
 The Athenaeum, the first organ of the school. It is 
 noticeable that they were nearly all young men, all 
 sworn enemies of the Phttiaterthum (Philistinism), 
 all filled with revolutionary ardor and eager for bat- 
 tle. Their object, as the first number of their jour- 
 nal announces, was to concentrate jthe rays of cul- 
 ture in one focus, and to re-establish the eternal 
 synthesis of poetry and philosophy. This, to be 
 sure, is rather vague, and the next manifesto, con- 
 tained in the second number of The Athenceum, is 
 not much more explicit : 
 
 " Romantic poetry is progressive and universal. 
 
 * G. Brandes : Den Komantiske Skole i Tydskland, pp. 
 237, 238.
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 289 
 
 Its aim is not only to reunite all the severed branches 
 of poetic art, and to bring poetry into contact with 
 philosophy ; it is also to blend and combine poetry 
 and prose, genius and criticism, the poetry of nature 
 and the poetry of art, make poetry living and social, 
 and life and society poetic. . . . Like an epos, 
 it is to be the mirror of all the surrounding world, 
 an image of the age. . . . Only a prophetic 
 criticism would dare to characterize its ideal. It 
 alone is infinite, because it alone is free and recog- 
 nizes as its first law that the free will of the poet 
 brooks no law above it ; that beauty is something 
 apart from truth and morality, and is entitled to 
 equal rights. . . . Like transcendental idealism, 
 Romantic poetry and in a certain sense all poetry 
 ought to be romantic should in representing out- 
 ward objects also represent itself. If poetry is to 
 be an art, then the poet must philosophize ; in the 
 same degree as poetry is made a science, it also be- 
 comes an art." 
 
 This confused document, which defies every ef- 
 foi't at a clear and accurate translation, is remark- 
 able as showing that Romanticism was, from its 
 very outset, a conscious and deliberate movement. 
 All the tendencies which during the next decade 
 blossomed into full vigor are here distinctly indi- 
 cated : rebellion against existing social laws, fore- 
 shadowed by the hint about the identification of 
 life and poetry, the sovereignty of genius, and the 
 morbid self-reflection which, by co-ordinating poetry 
 with philosophy, makes it a speculative art and
 
 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 thereby kills that warm spontaneity of utterance in 
 which rests the chief strength of the poet. The au- 
 thor of this bold manifesto was Friedrich Schlegel, 
 iu whom all the extravagances, as well as many of 
 the nobler qualities, of the rising school found their 
 living embodiment. In the scope and reach of his 
 faculties he was excelled by few of his Romantic 
 colleagues. His mind, thronged with fine possibili- 
 ties and overflowing with a certain chaotic fruitful- 
 ness, seems to have resembled an antediluvian land- 
 scape ; unruly passions like dark reptiles slept in 
 its depths of philosophic contemplation ; trees and 
 ferns of strange, primeval growth sprung from its 
 soil ; but the more delicate flowers of sentiment 
 seem to have been choked by these luxuriant ex- 
 otics. The description given by his most intimate 
 friend, Schleiermacher, will make the portrait of this 
 youthful Titan intelligible. He possessed, evidently, 
 not only the strength but also something of the 
 coarseness, of the primeval race. "He is exceed- 
 ingly childlike, open-hearted, and joyous ; naive in 
 all his expressions, rather inconsiderate, a mortal 
 enemy of formality as also of drudgery, violent in 
 his wishes and inclinations, and, as children are apt 
 to be, a little suspicious and full of antipathies. 
 . . . What I miss in him is the delicate sense 
 for all the charming trifles of life, and for the finer 
 expressions of beautiful sentiments, which often in 
 little things spontaneously reveal the entire charac- 
 ter. As he has a predilection for books with large 
 type, so he also prefers men with large and strong
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 29 1 
 
 features. What is only tender and beaxitiful does 
 not appeal to him, because, judging according to the 
 analogy of his own nature, he regards everything as 
 weak, if it is not strong and fiery." . 
 
 The society of Berlin, at the time when Schlegel 
 made his appearance there, was divided between 
 numerous conflicting tendencies in morals, philos- 
 ophy, and religion. On one side there was the 
 sober, utilitarian life of the " Enlighteners," with 
 whom poetry, religion, and even human passions 
 were recognized only so far as they were useful, 
 then there was the higher fashionable circle which 
 gathered around the court, and in which religion 
 possibly was worn as a holiday cloak on ecclesiasti- 
 cal occasions, but at other times abandoned to give 
 place to licentiousness and coarse unrestraint. Half- 
 way between these lay the society of the Jewish 
 salons, where black-eyed Judiths and Rachels and 
 Eebeccas, radiant with the beauty of their rich, 
 Oriental womanhood, burned incense, somewhat in- 
 discriminately, to every new candidate for literary 
 laurels. Goethe was the idol of this coterie, Rahel 
 Levin, later the wife of the diplomat, Varnhagen 
 von Ense, having been one of the first to recognize 
 the greatness of his genius ; but besides Goethe 
 they also worshipped Engel and Ramler and a 
 dozen other ephemeral phenomena, whose very 
 names have now dropped out of memory. Rahel 
 was the social leader in this interesting sisterhood. 
 Her universal sympathies and indifference to popu- 
 lar prejudice enabled her to play a prominent part
 
 292 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 in the capital, and made her the intimate friend and 
 confidante of two generations of literary celebrities. 
 Acuteness of mind coupled with a certain intellect- 
 ual voracity, defiance of the restraints which society 
 imposes upon her sex in short, all the peculiarities 
 which made her circle so attractive to men of let- 
 ters were combined and, as it were, concentrated 
 into a type in her personality. 
 
 Here, in her house, all men, whatever their party, 
 position, or intellectual predilections, met on neu- 
 tral ground. Princes of the blood, and aristocratic 
 snobs, here rubbed shoulders with literary bohe- 
 naians, statesmen, and poets. All questions were 
 debatable, provided they were debated with esprit. 
 Everything was tolerated except dulness. The 
 great problems of life and society were discussed, 
 and no opinion, however extreme, gave offence, if 
 defended with ability and knowledge. And this 
 tolerance was not the result of indifference, but of an 
 extraordinary hospitality to new ideas, eagerness to 
 hear all sides, and a delight in the interchange of 
 forceful and significant thought. 
 
 Raliel was not beautiful ; nay, even as a young 
 girl she was almost devoid of physical attractions. 
 Nor did she seem to be supremely gifted. She was 
 not a sparkling conversationalist. But she possessed 
 a rare power of sympathy, and the faculty to make 
 everyone who came in contact with her feel at his 
 best. She always appealed to that which was high- 
 est in her interlocutor ; and by her appreciation and 
 the warm glow of her genial presence stimulated
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 
 
 him to a brilliancy which was, perhaps, ordinarily 
 beyond him. 
 
 A man like Schlegel could not, of course, remain 
 long in Berlin without drifting into this coterie, and 
 the day when he was first introduced into Rah el's 
 salon made an epoch in his life. It was here that 
 he met Dorothea Veit, daughter of Lessing's friend, 
 the famous Moses Mendelssohn, and wife of the 
 Jewish banker Veit. This Dorothea, whose name, 
 together with that of Rahel, henceforth appears on 
 every page in the annals of the Romantic School, 
 was, to say the least, a woman of unusual attain- 
 ments. As a young girl of sixteen, she had, ac- 
 cording to her father's wish, married the prosaic 
 banker whose intellectual inferiority to herself, and 
 indifference to literature, art, and all the things which 
 her early training had taught her to worship and 
 revere, must gradually have widened the gulf which 
 already from the beginning separated them. Never- 
 theless their marriage had for many years preserved 
 an outward show of harmony, and Dorothea was al- 
 ready the mother of two sons when her acquaintance 
 with Schlegel suddenly called to life the slumbering 
 dreams of her youth, and fanned the torpid passion 
 of her nature into full blaze. Here was a man built, 
 as it were, in a larger style than those whom she 
 had been wont to meet ; a man, on the wide hori- 
 zon of whose mind the future dawned with golden 
 promise ; a man whose very faults and passions by 
 their intensity assumed the dimensions of grandeur. 
 Schlegel came, saw, and conquered. Never until
 
 294 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 then had a woman made any lasting impression 
 upon him ; he felt convinced that this was the one 
 love of his life ; he knew that his love was returned ; 
 he was furthermore aware that she was married, 
 which does not seem to have caused him any serious 
 scruples. He jumped at the conclusion that mar- 
 riage was an irrational, immoral, and objectionable 
 institution, which ought to be abolished. The re- 
 sult was what might have been expected. Veit 
 closed his eyes as long as it was possible, and at last, 
 when he learned that his wife neither asked nor de- 
 sired his forgiveness, he consented to a separation. 
 " Kejoice with me," Schlegel writes to his sister-in- 
 law, " for now my life has a foundation and soil, a 
 centre and a form. Now the most extraordinary 
 things will be accomplished." In another letter to 
 his brother he describes his beloved in the follow- 
 ing manner : " She is a fine woman of genuine 
 worth ; but she is quite simple, and has no thought 
 for anything in the world except love, music, wit, 
 and philosophy. In her arms I have found my youth 
 again, and I can now no more reason it out of my 
 life. . . . Even if I cannot make her happj', I 
 can at least hope that the germ of happiness in her 
 soul will thrive in the sunshine of my love, so that 
 the mists which envelop it may no more be able to 
 hinder its growth." 
 
 It was at this time that the first chapters of that 
 much-praised and much-reviled romance, " Luciude," 
 were written, and if there were not too much proof 
 to the contrary, we should prefer to believe that the
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 295 
 
 book was a pure fiction, and had not been suggested 
 by the author's relation to Dorothea. The latter 
 herself declared, when " Lucinde " was read to her> 
 that "poets tell tales out of school." It seems 
 almost inconceivable at the present day that a pro- 
 duction so chaotic, so wildly extravagant, and so 
 artistically feeble, could have made so much noise 
 in a land and at a time which rejoiced in the living 
 presence of poets like Goethe and Schiller. 
 
 The pervading sentiment of the book is one of 
 contempt for all the prosy realities of life, and for 
 all the rules and laws with which man has im- 
 prisoned his spirit, born for freedom. Julius, the 
 hero, like all romantic heroes, is a gentleman of 
 wealth and leisure. He is a dilettante in almost 
 everything, and an artist by inclination but not by 
 profession. His youthful excesses are described at 
 great length ; he is forever craving excitement, and 
 when he can find nothing else to do, he feeds as it 
 were on his own vitals, indulges in a sort of psycho- 
 logical vivisection, makes the minutest observations 
 on each of his passing moods, registers the result, 
 reasons over it, and philosophically accounts for it. 
 This is the realization of that " beautiful self- 
 reflection " which Schlegel in his first manifesto an- 
 nounced as being the essence of Romantic poetry. 
 It is this same vein which Chateaubriand simulta- 
 neously worked with so much success in his " Rene " 
 and which in a somewhat modified shape has found 
 its representative in Byron's " Childe Harold." In 
 fact, it is the prevailing mood of the age, which the
 
 296 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 poets naturally were the more keenly conscious of, 
 through the greater sensitiveness of their mental 
 organism. Goethe hacl given it expression in "Wer- 
 ther," Jean Paul in " Roquairol," and Tieck in "Will- 
 iam Lovell ; " and henceforward the Romantic litera- 
 ture teems with dissolute, philosophic, and morbidly 
 contemplative young men and maidens, who, with- 
 out respect for moral or social obligations, live only 
 to enjoy, and then, when the natural reaction suc- 
 ceeds the intoxication of the senses, strike tragically 
 interesting attitudes before a mental mirror, and 
 make profound observations on themselves in a 
 carefully-kept journal, which the next day they read 
 to an appreciative audience of intimate female 
 friends. This, in brief outline, is the Romantic type, 
 and a glance at the society of the day will easily 
 convince one that the poets are not altogether re- 
 sponsible for its existence. Its most conspicuous 
 features have even found their way into the philo- 
 sophic systems of the time. What is, for instance, 
 Fichte's " sovereign I," which creates the world out 
 of the depths of its own consciousness, but a doc- 
 trinal embodiment of the Romantic defiance of law 
 and social order ? Again, no one will mistake the 
 Romantic tendency of his Wissenschaftslehre (Doc- 
 trine of Science) when it deals with his favorite 
 theme of self-contemplation. In order to under- 
 stand the external phenomena of the world, which 
 only exist in their relation to the subject or to his 
 consciousness, he (the subject) must watch the 
 modus operandi of his own mind. As Heine puts it,
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 
 
 the thought must listen to itself while it thinks. 
 The philosophic thinker is like the monkey who took 
 it into his head to boil his own tail. For, as he rea- 
 soned, the most refined art of cookery does not con- 
 sist in crude objective boiling, but in the subjective 
 consciousness of being boiled. 
 
 It is in the portrayal and analysis of these ever- 
 shifting moods that the author of " Lucinde " has his 
 forte. Here, for instance, is a piece of character- 
 ization which is drawn from experience : " A love 
 without object burned within him (Julius) and con- 
 sumed his heart. On the slightest provocation the 
 flames of his passion blazed up. . . . His spirit 
 was in a state of constant ferment ; he was always 
 expecting that something extraordinary was going 
 to happen to him. Thus nothing could really have 
 surprised him, and least of all his own destruction. 
 Without any business or aim, he roamed about like 
 a man who is anxiously seeking something on 
 which he might risk his whole happiness. Every- 
 thing excited, but nothing satisfied him. Hence it 
 was that a dissipation only interested him as long 
 as it was untried and unknown ; there was as much 
 scorn in his nature as levity. He could preserve his 
 coolness in the midst of a sensual revel, and, as it 
 were, studiously measure the enjoyment : but 
 neither in this nor in the many fanciful studies and 
 occupations, into which he plunged with youthful 
 enthusiasm and a certain voracious hunger for knowl- 
 edge, did he find that supreme bliss which his 
 heart so vehemently demanded."
 
 298 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 Then, at length, Julius makes the acquaintance of 
 a woman, Lucinde, who, like himself, is an amateur 
 in art, and who shares his contempt for the world 
 with all its emptiness. " She lived," says the author, 
 " not in this commonplace world, but in a world of 
 her own imagining. She, too, had by one daring 
 resolution thrown away all considerations and broken 
 all bonds, and now lived in perfect freedom." 
 
 Now the veil suddenly falls from Julius's eyes, his 
 art becomes warmer and more animated, and a life 
 of brighter promise dawns before him. Lucinde 
 loves him, and he too, after a fashion, loves her ; 
 that is to say, the feeling with which she inspires 
 him affords him a new subject for study. For love, 
 according to Schlegel, is not that sudden, sponta- 
 neous flowering of the soul, that impetuous, gener- 
 ous, and self-forgetful emotion which the romancers 
 of all ages have delighted in picturing, but rather 
 an empiric science, a curious medley of sensuality 
 and speculative philosophy, with a slight admixture 
 of tenderness. 
 
 In justice to the author we must remark that in 
 his own life his heart put his intellect to shame. 
 He never wavered in his devotion to the woman who 
 for his sake had braved the judgment of the world 
 and exchanged a life of ease and luxury for one of 
 vain and aimless wanderings. Their love, in spite 
 of its lawlessness, was its own law, and needed, ac- 
 cording to their own testimony, no social statute to 
 shield it ; for it rested on the sure foundation of 
 real kinship of soul. It was not until many years
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 2Q9 
 
 after they had joined their fates together, when 
 persecution and want had quelled their revolution- 
 ary ardor, that they suffered their union to be sanc- 
 tioned by the church. Then their social ostracism 
 was at an end, Schlegel obtained a position in 
 Vienna, and Dorothea could again show her face in 
 the company of virtuous matrons. 
 
 The book fell like a bombshell into the peaceful 
 circles of Berlin society. An open attack upon the 
 holy institution of marriage and an undisguised 
 avowal of the doctrine of free-love could not fail to 
 arouse the indignation of those whose office it was 
 to guard the public morality. Schlegel was hunted 
 from place to place ; in Gottingen the authorities 
 refused him entrance to the city. In Berlin he was 
 notified that, if he attempted to lecture, the police 
 would interfere, and even in the academic halls of 
 the University of Jena, where he disputed for his 
 degree of Ph.D., he was overwhelmed with invec- 
 tive and abuse. No doubt he had the satisfaction 
 of believing himself a martyr for a good cause, and 
 Dorothea, whose enthusiastic faith in his greatness 
 never flagged, did her best to uphold him in this 
 conviction. To be sure, her womanly instincts were 
 too fine not to make her at times doubt the expe- 
 diency of " Lucinde's " publication ; in fact, we learn 
 from a letter of hers to Schleierinacher that she 
 rather regretted that her Friedrich had written the 
 book ; but if Schleiermacher had ventured to agree 
 with her, we dare say that she would have promptly 
 retracted her opinion. " In regard to ' Luciude,' "
 
 300 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 she writes, "I often shudder with cold, and then 
 again burn with shame, to see that which to me was 
 the most secret and the most holy exposed to the 
 view of curious and hostile men. In vain he tries to 
 strengthen me by the thought that you would have 
 been even bolder than he. It is not the boldness 
 which frightens me. Nature celebrates the adora- 
 tion of the Most High in open temples and over the 
 whole world but love ? " 
 
 In Rahel's coterie " Lucinde " naturally excited the 
 liveliest interest. The tone of this society had al- 
 ways been of the freest, and its members, carried 
 away by the fervor and aesthetic susceptibility of 
 their temperaments, had often strayed beyond what 
 the Philistine world regarded as the boundary-line 
 of propriety. Their characters had, to begin with, 
 been further removed from prudery than moralists 
 might have deemed desirable ; and now came 
 Schlegel with his " Lucinde," and the last remnant of 
 the veil of Isis was torn away. Women like Rahel, 
 whose lives and conduct were above reproach, had 
 sudden attacks of artistic depravity, and there was 
 not a thing in heaven or on earth which they 
 blushed to discuss. They were convinced that " Lu- 
 cinde " was destined to revolutionize society and es- 
 tablish a freer relation between the sexes ; and for 
 the time being it really seemed as if the prophecy was 
 to be fulfilled. The intellectual women of the day 
 especially showed a great willingness to break the 
 ancient fetters. Schlegel's definition of marriage 
 as "devotion unfettered" was joyfully received.
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 3OI 
 
 Schleiermacher, then minister of the Charite Church 
 in Berlin, cherished a profound admiration for the 
 Jewess Henriette, the wife of the physician Herz, 
 one of the chief ornaments of Rahel's circle. Hen- 
 riette cordially returned his sentiments of affection 
 and regard, and their relation soon ripened into the 
 most intimate friendship. Here, indeed, we find 
 a realization, not of the relation which "Lucinde" 
 deals with, but of a far higher and nobler one, 
 which the author of "Lucinde " would have been in- 
 capable of comprehending. Henriette, according to 
 the testimony of contemporaries, was a woman of 
 magnificent form and stature, and bore a resem- 
 blance to one of Titian's most beautiful heads. Her 
 character was proud, with perhaps a touch of defi- 
 ance ; her impressible yet vigorous mind could 
 grasp and retain the most abstruse ideas ; her cult- 
 ure was broad and many-sided ; her command of 
 picturesque language, and her dialectic skill, as her 
 published correspondence with Schleiermacher tes- 
 tifies, were truly marvellous. And yet her attitude 
 toward her friend is so womanly ! She clothes his 
 abstract speculations in a bodily form, as it were, 
 and imparts to them the warm flush of her own in- 
 tense and sympathetic nature. No wonder that he 
 who had half-jocosely expressed his desire " to take 
 a course in womanliness " became gradually more 
 and more dependent upon her, rejoiced in the in- 
 tellectual stimulus her society afforded him, and 
 confided to her the most secret thoughts and desires 
 of his heart. Schleiermacher was a singularly pure-
 
 302 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 minded and unsophisticated man, and when ignoble 
 whispers concerning his relation to Henriette began 
 to reach his ears, he showed a sincere surprise, and 
 even attempted to justify himself. Not so with her ; 
 she had known from the very beginning what she 
 risked by accepting his friendship, but she had 
 calmly decided that he was worth more to her than 
 the opinion of the world. 
 
 The account of their studies, mutual confessions, 
 doubts, and resolutions, preserved in their own cor- 
 respondence and in that of their friends, giving us a 
 glimpse of two beautiful and original characters, is 
 one of the most fascinating chapters which the his- 
 tory of the Romantic School has to show. The only 
 doubt which harasses us, the only question which 
 remains unanswered is, how Dr. Hertz bore this 
 seeming neglect of himself, and whether he sanc- 
 tioned his wife's intimacy with the aesthetic clergy- 
 man. But there was revolution in the air, and it 
 was rather the fashion to shock one's fellow-men ; so 
 Dr. Hertz, knowing his own inferiority to his wife, 
 probably accepted the inevitable. 
 
 That Schleiermacher himself, however, was occa- 
 sionally in the dark regarding the nature of his 
 feelings toward Henriette, the following extract 
 from a letter to his sister, in spite of its confident 
 tone, sufficiently proves: "You are afraid of rela- 
 tions of tenderness and intimacy with persons of the 
 other sex, and no doubt you are right ; to keep 
 watch over myself is my constant endeavor ; I call 
 myself to account for the most trifling thing. I be-
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 303 
 
 long to Henrietta's existence ; passion will ever be 
 excluded from our friendship, for it has already en- 
 dured the most decisive tests. It is deeply implanted 
 in my nature that I can become more closely at- 
 tached to women than to men ; for there is so much 
 in me which only a woman can understand. I must, 
 then, if I will not renounce a true friendship, remain 
 standing on this otherwise dangerous point. In re- 
 gard to what you write about the appearance, I have 
 my own principles on that subject ; I believe that it 
 is plainly a part of my office to despise it. It is my 
 simple duty." 
 
 In another letter he makes the discovery that, if 
 he could have married Henriette, it would have 
 been nearly an ideal marriage ; the only objection, 
 aside from the fact that it is an impossibility, is that 
 their wedded life would have been rather too har- 
 monious. 
 
 It is difficult to decide whether it was Schleier- 
 macher's desire to justify himself in the eyes of the 
 world, or a disinterested friendship for Schlegel, 
 which induced him to enter the lists and break a 
 lance in defence of " Lucinde." At all events, con- 
 sidering his social position as preacher of the gospel 
 in the Prussian capital, it was a most audacious 
 thing for him to do. In his confidential letters on 
 "Lucinde," addressed to three female friends, in 
 one of whom the public recognized his Henriette, 
 he boldly attacks the prudish insincerity of the age, 
 which took a secret delight in the lascivious ro- 
 mances of Wieland, and gloated over the coarse
 
 3O4 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 platitudes of Lafontaine, 1 while it cried out in virtu- 
 ous horror at the immorality of Schlegel, who, deal- 
 ing with essentially the same thing, had the courage 
 to call it by its right name. 
 
 We might select a dozen more instances from the 
 private and public life of the Romanticists, showing 
 that the school in its early rebellion against the 
 prejudices of society went to the opposite extreme, 
 and methodically arranged as a new system of 
 ethics what had hitherto been regarded as abnormal 
 phases of human intercourse. Amid a great deal of 
 youthful foil)', amid a great deal that was accidental, 
 extravagant, and purely personal, there was also 
 sufficient talent, earnestness, and justice on the side 
 of the iconoclastics to insure a certain degree of suc- 
 cess, and a sufficient amount of immorality, hollow- 
 ness, and irreligion among the adherents of the old 
 to lend a shadow of justice to the rebellion. Schle- 
 gel, who, like many another young man, mistook 
 his own personal peculiarities for universal laws, 
 and the momentary cravings of his heart for the 
 voice of humanity, was unfortunately during this 
 period the spokesman, and, to the eyes of the world, 
 the public representative of Romanticism. His 
 mind was so constituted that even the simplest 
 truism, as soon as he attempted to utter it, assumed 
 the shape of a paradox. It was in the nature of the 
 case, then, that when he defended a proposition 
 which in itself closely bordered on the paradoxical, 
 
 1 A popular German novelist ; not the Frenchman of the 
 same name.
 
 THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL IN GERMANY 305 
 
 it assumed the most monstrous dimensions, and 
 frightened even those who were half-inclined to agree 
 with him. In his glorification of the eraipai, "the 
 free women of Greece," the Romantic paradox of 
 marriage culminated. 
 
 "All marriages," he writes, " are nothing but con- 
 cubinages, morganatic marriages, or, rather, pro- 
 visional attempts at marriage. . . . The domestic 
 man clings to the hearth where he gets his food ; 
 gradually, as he ripens, he begins to strike root like 
 a plant, and renounces the foolish wish to move 
 about according to pleasure, until at length he be- 
 comes a fossil. Man in his civic aspect is a machine, 
 . . . the individual as the whole multitude. He 
 feeds, marries, grows old, and leaves children be- 
 hind him, and so on ad infinitum. To live merely 
 for the sake of living is the real source of all vulgar- 
 ity. . . . According to the idea of the ancients, 
 the nobility of human nature should prevail in man 
 as well as in woman. The character of the race 
 should be predominant over the diverging qualities 
 of the sexes. In modern society the very opposite 
 is the case. We can never represent a woman suf- 
 ficiently weak and womanly, and we take it for 
 granted that she must be so. This view has the 
 most injurious effect upon those artistic representa- 
 tions which are meant to be ideal. We include in 
 our idea of woman features which are merely derived 
 from experience. ... In Athens, where the 
 public judgment was equally far removed from silly 
 prudery and from lawless indifference, where only
 
 306 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 what was evil was improper, where there were none 
 of those prejudices which with barbarians take the 
 place of moral feeling, there the wisest man of his 
 age (Socrates) could engage in conversation with a 
 frivolous priestess of joy. . . . This peculiar 
 position of woman in Greece is justified by the en- 
 deavor to refine manhood as well as womanhood into 
 the higher unit of humanity (Menschlichkeit). . . . 
 What we moderns call womanliness is nothing but a 
 total lack of character. The Greeks made the mis- 
 take of placing their ideal, cultivated, free women 
 outside of the social order of morality ; we moderns 
 make a far greater mistake in altogether separating 
 ideality and all kindred qualities from our idea of 
 woman." 
 
 Some later essays on similar subjects are openly 
 addressed to Dorothea, and in these the author 
 brings his heaviest artillery into the field. But I 
 must forbear to quote, especially as I do not wish 
 to take the responsibility of deciding whether Schle- 
 gel, in his last conclusions, was really in earnest. 
 He ends with asking whether, as an experiment, a 
 marriage en quatre would not be a good thing. Here 
 the paradox indeed reaches the dangerous point, 
 where it threatens to topple over and crush its own 
 foundation.
 
 XII. 
 
 NOVALIS AND THE BLUE FLOWER 
 
 Romanticism is generally character- 
 VJT ized as being a retrogressive movement, an at- 
 tempted revival of feudalism and a reaction toward 
 Catholicism. A Romanticist, in the modern accep- 
 tation of the term, is a man who places himself in a 
 hostile attitude toward the progressive spirit of the 
 age, and tries by artificial means to revive " the 
 good old times." That the phase of Romanticism 
 represented by Friedrich Schlegel and Schleier- 
 macher in the early stages of their careers was any- 
 thing but Catholic or conservative, my former article 
 on this subject must have sufficiently proved. The 
 man who gave the strongest religious impulse to the 
 school, and whose character more nearly approaches 
 our present idea of the Romantic type, was Fried- 
 rich von Hardenberg, more commonly known by the 
 norm de plume Novalis. 
 
 Who does not know Heine's story of the young 
 girl, sister of the postmistress near Gottingen, who 
 read consumption out of Novalis's romance, " Hein- 
 rich von Ofterdingen ?" It may seem irrelevant in 
 this connection, but nevertheless it conveys an idea
 
 308 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 of a certain subtle quality in this author's genius 
 which a more direct critical analysis might fail to 
 detect. Novalis was one of those whom death had 
 early marked for its own. A- hectic flush burned 
 upon his cheeks, his exquisitely chiselled lips indi- 
 cated extreme sensitiveness, and his large blue eyes, 
 whose gaze appeared to be turned inward, shone 
 with a deep, unearthly lustre. Even the one strong 
 passion of his life, his love for the twelve-year-old 
 child, Sophie von Kiihn, seems to have been a kind 
 of ethereal, sexless feeling, a mere poetic devotion, 
 purged of the earthy element which clings to the pas- 
 sions of men. No one will wonder that the poetry 
 springing from such a relation lacks that virile 
 quality and that robust health which characterize 
 the lyrics of poets like Goethe, or even Schiller be- 
 fore he had drunk too deeply of Kantian philosophy. 
 Nevertheless, the verses of Novalis have a vague, 
 spiritual, not to say phantasmal beauty of their own ; 
 they fascinate by their very strangeness ; their fleet- 
 ing perfume lures the sense by its very deftness in 
 evading its grasp ; they gleam with that "light that 
 never was on sea or land ; " they move onward with 
 a delicious, subdued splendor of cadence that falls 
 upon the ear like melodious whispers from distant 
 fairy realms. Excelling as they do in rhythmical 
 effects and tunef ul transitions rather than in strength 
 of thought and splendor of imagination, they baffle 
 the translator's art. It would be as easy for a 
 flower-painter to bind the perfume of the lily to his 
 canvas as for a translator to transfer the fleeting
 
 NOVALIS AND THE BLUE FLOWER 309 
 
 beauty of Novalis's songs into a foreign tongue. An 
 attempt has been made by an English writer,* but 
 be who knows the Spiritual Songs in the original 
 will keenly feel the shortcomings of the English 
 renderings. 
 
 The early education of Novalis was calculated to 
 develop the mystic tendencies of his nature. His 
 father, a stern, grave man of commanding appear- 
 ance, belonged to the so-called Hernhutters, or Mo- 
 ravian Brethren, a sect which, without essentially dif- 
 fering from Lutheran orthodoxy in its doctrinal 
 tenets, censured the laxity of its moral discipline 
 and demanded a return to the early Christian sim- 
 plicity of life. Tieck, who as a friend of Novalis 
 visited his home, has given a quaint and interesting 
 account of the daily life of the family. " The old 
 Hardenberg," says he, " stood like a patriarch 
 among his gifted sons and his amiable daughters. 
 He praised and loved the much-abused old 
 times, and whenever he had an opportunity he 
 boldly expressed his views or flared up in sudden 
 indignation." At certain times, Tieck further relates, 
 the father was in the habit of testing the orthodoxy 
 of his children, and then stormy scenes were of no 
 infrequent occurrence. Once, on hearing a great 
 noise in the next room, Tieck anxiously asked the 
 servant what had happened. "Nothing," was the 
 careless answer, " it is only the master giving relig- 
 ious instruction." 
 
 At the University of Jena, Novalis made the ao- 
 * George Macdonald.
 
 3IO GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 quaintance of Schiller, whose " Bobbers " and " Don 
 Carlos " had filled him with an ardent love and rever- 
 ence for their author. Schiller, who at once recog- 
 nized the extraordinary talents of the young man, 
 took a very kindly interest in him, gave him the 
 benefit of his advice and instruction, and even for 
 several years kept up a correspondence with him. 
 Novalis's letters, which have been published among 
 his posthumous papers, read more like the passionate 
 effusions of a young maiden to her lover than the 
 communications of a scholar to his teacher ; he 
 nearly exhausts the vocabulary of his native tongue 
 in trying to find words strong enough to convey his 
 unbounded homage and admiration. But Novalis 
 was of a sympathetic and affectionate nature, and 
 moreover he was a poet and a German. For him the 
 step from the poem to the poet's personality was a 
 short one. He feels the same kind of personal 
 friendship and attachment for Homer as he does for 
 Schiller. The Wolfian theory does not in the least 
 disturb him. "Oh, "he exclaims, "if I could but 
 fall upon the neck of the singer of the ' Odyssey,' and 
 hide my blushing face in the thick, venerable beard 
 of the worthy old man ! " 
 
 His intercourse with Friedrich Schlegel opened 
 Novalis's eyes to the greatness of Goethe, and when, 
 in the spring of 1795, " Wilhelm Meister " appeared, 
 " the great Pagan " threatened to gain the place in 
 his affections which had hitherto belonged to Schil- 
 ler. Schlegel had in his usual paradoxical way de- 
 clared that " 'Wilhelm Meister, 'Fichte's Doctrine of
 
 NOVA US AND THE BLUE FLOWER $11 
 
 Science, and the French ^Revolution were the great- 
 est phenomena of the century ; " and Novalis, whose 
 flexible mind was at this time strongly influenced 
 by his aggressive friend, readily subscribed to this 
 verdict. " Fichte and Goethe " became the watch- 
 word of both, and the constant theme of their con- 
 versation. The idealism of Fichte they .still further 
 idealized, and the freedom from moral restraints 
 which characterizes Goethe's romance they pushed 
 even beyond the boundary line which the liberal 
 author had fixed. But the radicalism of Novalis, 
 which is, no doubt, chiefly attributable to his asso- 
 ciation with Schlegel, was of short duration. The 
 death of his betrothed, Sophie, who was then fifteen 
 years old, dispelled these intellectual vagaries and 
 plunged him back into his native mysticism. His 
 sorrow knew no bounds ; for three days and nights 
 he shut himself up in his room and wept, then moved 
 to Tennstadt, where she was buried, and sat at her 
 grave, brooding over his loss. Darkness closed 
 around him, the light of day seemed odious to him, 
 and the scenes of life passed like a horrible, mean- 
 ingless pageant before his eyes. The thought of 
 suicide haunted him, and he was on the verge of 
 despair, when at length Sophie, yielding to his 
 prayers, appeared to him in a vision and brought 
 him comfort. Then his old gift of song came to 
 his rescue ; although not altogether abandoning the 
 thought of death, he still resolved to live, and his 
 sorrow gained a voice in a series of poems entitled 
 " Hymns to the Night." " If I have hitherto lived in
 
 3 1 2 GERM A N LITER A TURE 
 
 the present," he writes, " and in the hope of earthly 
 happiness, I must now live altogether in the real 
 future, in my faith in God and immortality. It will 
 be very difficult to me to separate myself from this 
 world which I have studied with so much affection ; 
 frequent relapses will bring me many a sorrowful 
 moment, but I know that there is a power in man 
 which by assiduous care can be developed into a re- 
 markable energy." 
 
 Again, speaking of Sophie's death : " The flower- 
 petal has been wafted over into the other world. 
 The reckless player throws up his hand and smiles, 
 as if awakened from a dream, listening to the last 
 call of the watchman, and waiting for the glow of 
 the morning which shall rouse him to renewed life 
 in the world of reality." 
 
 But this first glow of the morning is long com- 
 ing ; and long the poet waits in vain. Nevertheless, 
 in the midst of his grief, when the violent emotion 
 might be expected to banish all thought of self, his 
 attitude is that of a true Romanticist. His self- 
 consciousness never for a moment leaves him ; his 
 eye is constantly turned inward, and its keen sight 
 penetrates into the darkest chambers of his mind. 
 With a half-psychological, half-poetical interest he 
 watches the crescendos and diminuendos of his emo- 
 tions, records in his journal the results of his ob- 
 servations, and upbraids himself whenever a note of 
 natural, worldly joy mingles in the transcendental 
 harmonies of his soul. He stimulates his grief by 
 artificial means in order to keep it up to the proper
 
 NOVA LI S AND THE BLUE FLOWER 313 
 
 pitch. If Novalis had not from his earliest youth 
 breathed the air of philosophical abstraction, and if 
 he had not lived in an age which was universally 
 afflicted with this habit of morbid introspection, 
 we might be justified in regarding these delicately 
 retouched negatives of his mental states as insincere 
 and affected. But a deeper knowledge of Novalis's 
 character excludes such a supposition ; he was, in 
 the truest sense of the word, a child of his time, and 
 it is perhaps the best proof of his sincerity that he 
 followed it in its extravagances, shared its infirmi- 
 ties, and respected its limitations. 
 
 The " Hymns to the Night " open with an apostro- 
 phe in prose to " the all-rejoicing light with its 
 colors, its rays, its undulations, its gentle omnipres- 
 ence, as awakening day." Then the poet turns to 
 " the holy, inexpressible, mysterious night," in 
 whose darkness he beholds " the memories and 
 wishes of his youth, the dreams of his childhood, 
 the brief joys and vain hopes of his whole life, 
 marching before him, draped in gray garments like 
 mists of the evening when the sun has set." His 
 beloved is hidden in the impenetrable night ; there- 
 fore he loves the night better than the day. "Em- 
 brace with spirit passion my body," he exclaims, 
 " that I may become more inwardly blended with 
 thee, and that my bridal night may last forever." 
 
 A mixture of sensuous pleasure with high re- 
 ligious raptures gives a curious interest to these 
 hymns of Novalis. It is as if this earthly body 
 which he is resolved to renounce and to mortify, in
 
 3 1 4 GERM A JV LITER A TURE 
 
 spite of him, again and again asserted its rights ; as 
 if his spiritual nature struggled desperately to break 
 loose from the trammels of the flesh, and in the 
 ardor of the combat gathered strength to rise to 
 loftier flights. But this forcible heightening of 
 eveiy sensation, these endless distorted attitudes of 
 ecstasy and despair, indicate a state of mental dis- 
 ease. Novalis seems himself to have been aware 
 that his was not the normal condition of humanity, 
 but this does not disturb him. The Romantic poet, 
 according to Friedrich Schlegel's manifesto, knows 
 no law except his own sovereign will, and where he 
 differs from the rest of humanity, the presumption 
 is that humanity is in the wrong. Thus Novalis 
 also performs a series of philosophical somersaults, 
 and ends with the conclusion that disease is pref- 
 erable to health. For "life," he says, "is a dis- 
 ease of the spirit." 
 
 A volume of fragments, published under the title 
 of " Flower Dust " (Bliithenstaub) contains numerous 
 abstruse speculations on these same subjects, of life 
 and death, health and disease, pain and pleasure, 
 etc. There is no obscure region of the soul which 
 the mystic poet has not attempted to explore, there 
 is no human emotion so ethereal and fleeting as to 
 evade his search, and no object in heaven or on 
 earth too mean or too exalted for his earnest interest 
 and consideration. Here we find a striking aphor- 
 ism embodying some homely truth, in the next para- 
 graph a conjecture as to the nature of the divine 
 trinity, and a few lines further on some mere per-
 
 NOVALIS AND THE BLUE FLOWER 31$ 
 
 sonal item, a literary project, a sigh of regret and 
 resignation, or a half subdued sob for the death of 
 the beloved. 
 
 The author has himself fairly estimated the value 
 of these fragments when he says : 
 
 " The art of writing books has not yet been dis- 
 covered, but it is on the point of being discovered. 
 Fragments of this kind are literary seed-corn. 
 There may be many a barren grain among them, 
 however, if only some will sprout. . . ." 
 
 From the whole number, amounting to upward 
 of a thousand, we select the following for transla- 
 tion : 
 
 " Goethe is the true steward of the poetic spirit 
 on earth." 
 
 "Poetry is absolute reality. This is the kernel of 
 my philosophy. The more poetic the truer." 
 
 "Every Englishman is an island." 
 
 " There is a possibility of an infinite delight in 
 pain." 
 
 " Whatever I will do, that I can do. With man 
 nothing is impossible." 
 
 " Pain should properly be the normal state, and 
 joy should be what now sorrow and pain are." 
 
 " Religion cannot be preached except as love and 
 patriotism." 
 
 " The republic is the fluidum deferens of youth. 
 Wherever there are young people, there is a re- 
 public. By marriage the system changes. Tho 
 married man demands order, security, and rest ; he 
 seeks the genuine monarchy."
 
 3 1 6 GERM A N LITER A TURE 
 
 " Death is the Komantic principle of life. Death 
 is life. Through death life is intensified." 
 
 " The epigram is the central monad of old French 
 literature and culture." 
 
 " Coals and diamonds are one and the same sub- 
 stance. And still how different ! Is there not just 
 the same difference between man and woman ? We 
 are the homely charcoal ; the women are opals and 
 sapphires, which likewise are nothing but coals." 
 
 "A marriage is a political epigram. An epigram 
 is only an elementary poetic expression a poetic 
 element a primitive poem." 
 
 " Love is the end and goal of universal history 
 the amen of the universe." 
 
 " Klopstock's works give the impression of being 
 free translations of some unknown poet by a very 
 talented but unpoetical philologist." 
 
 " Very properly do many women speak of sinking 
 into the ai'ms of their husbands. Happy she who 
 can rise into the embrace of her lover." 
 
 " Can an ego suppose itself an ego without another 
 ego or non-ego ? " 
 
 " Love is the highest reality, and the first cause. 
 All romances which deal with true love are fairy 
 tales, magic narratives." 
 
 " To become a man is an art." 
 
 We learn from Tieck that these fragments, many 
 of which were written only for the author's own 
 amusement and without a view to publication, are 
 the first crude beginnings of a great encyclopaedic 
 work, in which facts and speculations drawn from
 
 NOVA US AND THE BLUE FLOWER 317 
 
 all departments of human knowledge should mu- 
 tually explain and support each other. It is safe to 
 assert, however, that Novalis, even if he had lived 
 to the age of a patriarch, would have been poorly 
 equipped for such an undertaking. 
 
 Without an acquaintance with the leading philo- 
 sophical systems of Germany, and especially that of 
 Fichte, the greater part of Novalis's prose writings 
 will appear obscure and unintelligible. And their 
 obscurity does not always, as Carlyle would have us 
 believe, prove that the thought which is struggling 
 for utterance is too profound to be embodied in the 
 common vernacular of cultivated men, but is as fre- 
 quently the result of a confusion of ideas in the au- 
 thor's mind. It is truly to be regretted that a man 
 in whom there dwelt so rich a fountain of song 
 should have spent so great a portion of his life in 
 unprofitable investigations regarding " the internal 
 plural," or the relation of mathematics to the emo- 
 tional life of man. It may be that occasionally he 
 caught glimpses of truths too high for the compre- 
 hension of men of coarser fibre, but it is as cer- 
 tain that his speculations often lost themselves in 
 vague abstractions and pedantic sophistries. As a 
 curiosity we quote in the original the following 
 untranslatable passage, which, if it means anything, 
 certainly does not bear its meaning on the sur- 
 face : 
 
 " Wir sind gar nicht Ich, wir konnen und sollen 
 aber Ich werden, wir sind Keime zum Ich-Werden. 
 Wir sollen Alles in ein Du, in ein zweites Ich ver-
 
 3l8 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 wandeln ; nur dadurch erheben wir uns zuni groszen 
 Ich das Eins und Alles zugleich 1st." 
 
 We comprehend that these utterances, although 
 clothed in the phraseology of Fichte, have been sug- 
 gested by, or at least have something to do with, 
 Spinoza's doctrine of the mere relative existence of 
 all finite things when compared to the one " abso- 
 lute existence," God. No doubt Novalis was an in- 
 genious dilettante in philosophy, and perhaps divined 
 a profounder meaning in the systems of his day than 
 even the founders themselves ; but the world has 
 outgrown many an elaborate philosophic structure 
 in this century, and will doubtless outgrow many 
 more. But of its true poets mankind can afford to 
 forget none ; and when the philosopher Novalis 
 shall long have been forgotten, the poet Novalis may 
 yet survive. 
 
 If we had been writing a romantic fiction, instead 
 of a biographical sketch, we could never have in- 
 vented a series of more pathetic events than those 
 which mark the closing years of this author's life. He 
 had coquetted so long with death, that death at last 
 took the matter in earnest, placed its hand upon his 
 shoulder, and bade him keep himself in readiness 
 for the final summons. But never had this earth 
 appeared more beautiful to the poet than just then ; 
 never had the quickening tide of life pulsated more 
 vigorously through his veins, never had the future 
 dawned upon him with such golden promise. He 
 loved again, and this time not a child, but a charm- 
 ing maiden in the first flower of her womanhood,
 
 NOVALIS AND THE BLUE FLOWER 319 
 
 who in return had bestowed upon him all the affec- 
 tion of her heart. Moreover, he had been appointed 
 assessor of the Thuringian mines, and rejoiced in 
 the prospect of a useful activity in his chosen field 
 of labor. His literary fame was spreading, and 
 that first recognition which is so dear to a young 
 author's heart had come to him from a source which 
 made it tenfold sweet and delightful. The poet 
 Tieck, whose popular tales ( Volksmdrchen) he had 
 long ardently admired, sought him at this time, and 
 their very first meeting laid the foundation of a 
 warm friendship, which during the few years they 
 were allowed to remain together shed a softly 
 brightening lustre over the lives of both. "My ac- 
 quaintance with you," writes Novalis, " opens a 
 new chapter in my life. . . . No one has ever 
 appealed to me so gently and still so universally as 
 you. Every word from you I understand perfectly. 
 In no point do I meet you only from afar. Nothing 
 human is foreign to you ; you take an interest in 
 everything, and your spirit diffuses itself like a per- 
 fume over all objects, and still lingers most lovingly 
 with the flowers." 
 
 It was, no doubt, the association with Tieck which 
 counteracted Schlegel's influence, and induced No- 
 valis to relinquish his philosophical speculations and 
 henceforth devote himself exclusively to poetry. In 
 the meanwhile his illness, which he had so often 
 apostrophized in prose and verse, was gradually 
 undermining his strength, but the nearer the end 
 approached, the more tenaciously he clung to this
 
 320 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 life, which had once appeared but a heavy burden 
 and au endless sorrow. His aesthetic convictions 
 also underwent radical changes. The sensuous equi- 
 librium, the sunny realism which once had attracted 
 him in Goethe, now disgusted and repelled him. 
 The shimmering moonshine, the forest solitude, the 
 wonder-blossoms, and all the magic machinery of 
 Tieck seemed to embody the essence of poetic art, 
 and the nebulous mysticism in the theosophic med- 
 itations of Jacob Buhme completely won his heart. 
 " Wilhelm Meister, " his former ideal of a romance, he 
 finds " altogether prosaic and modern." It is merely 
 a domestic tale, which, where it does not ignore the 
 wonderful, treats it as the enthusiastic extravagance 
 of youth. Artistic atheism, he thinks, is the spirit 
 of the book. In order to enter his protest against 
 these pernicious teachings he determines to write a 
 romance which shall express the very opposite senti- 
 ments. A theme well adapted to embody his own 
 poetic creed he had discovered some time before in 
 the history of the minnesinger Heinrich von Of- 
 terdingen. He communicated his plan to Tieck, 
 whose sympathetic interest stimulated his mind to 
 increased activity, in spite of the growing weakness 
 of his body. In his predilection for the Middle Ages 
 Tieck had himself been Novalis's predecessor, and 
 to him belongs, next to Goethe, the honor of having 
 directed a nation, whose literature had long fed on 
 foreign spoils, to its own historic past as a source 
 of poetic inspiration. Mediaeval life, with its sharp 
 distinctions of caste, and, moreover, lacking many of
 
 NOVALIS AND THE BLUE FLOWER $21 
 
 the levelling find equalizing agencies of our own 
 age, offered larger types of men, a bolder grouping 
 of scenes, aiid a wider scope to a picturesque fancj'. 
 That childlike trust in a Divine Father, that sublime 
 disregard of the world with all its allurements, that 
 strong religious fervor which stirred with one grand 
 impulse the hearts of the mightiest king and the 
 lowliest beggar, and drove great nations away from 
 their hearths to perish in the unknown deserts of 
 the Orient traits like these, with all the imposing 
 historic drama which they brought into action, will 
 always have the power to set the poet's pulses throb- 
 bing. It had been the custom during the period of 
 the Enlightenment, as it is largely at the present 
 day, to sneer at the religious rapture of the Crusades 
 and call it morbid, theatrical, etc. ; to scoff at the 
 naive directness of mediaeval art, and to regard the 
 few monuments of Old German literature which 
 time has spared as the rude stammerings of a bar- 
 barous age. The mistake which every century has 
 made, that of judging its predecessors by its own 
 standard, was at that time the more to be regretted, 
 because undoubtedly it occasioned the final loss 
 of many valuable manuscripts which perhaps a 
 little antiquarian skill or curiosity might have pre- 
 served. The opinion of Frederick the Great con- 
 cerning the " Niebelungenlied," that it was not worth 
 a pinch of snuff, and that he would not tolerate such 
 stuff in his library, is well known ; but that the 
 king, both in his ignorance and in his ill-nature, 
 fairly represented the attitude of his time toward
 
 322 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 the Middle Ages ought by no means to be regarded 
 as a daring assertion. Not long ago M. Taine ex- 
 emplified the same tendency in his brilliant lectures 
 on "The Philosophy of Art," and the reader hardly 
 knows which ought to surprise him the more, the 
 total inability of the Gaul to comprehend the Gothic 
 character, or the complacent arrogance with which 
 the nineteenth century behaves toward its less en- 
 lightened precursors. 
 
 The Romantic poets, with Tieck and Novalis in 
 their van, erred on the very opposite side. Guided 
 not by the light of reason, but by a dim poetic in- 
 stinct, they groped their way in the twilight through 
 the " corridors of time," and, rummaging about 
 in the lumber-rooms of the past, they discovered, 
 among much that was of value, a good deal of rub- 
 bish which might as well have remained in obscur- 
 ity. They admired not only the picturesque pomp 
 and splendor of feudalism, but also its system of 
 caste, its club law, and its oppression of the lower 
 classes ; not only the primitive simplicity of faith 
 and the intensity of emotional life in the early Cath- 
 olic Church, but also its intolerance, its hostility to 
 liberty, and its idolatrous Madonna worship. The 
 paradisiacal state of the world, according to them, 
 lay in the past ; -since the Crusades mankind had 
 been steadily degenerating. They accordingly de- 
 manded of their own nation a return to this ideal 
 state, and upbraided it because it could no more feel 
 and think and believe as it had done in its child- 
 hood. As Heine says, they resembled the aged
 
 NOVALIS AND THE BLUE FLOWER 
 
 chambermaid in the fairy tale, who, having discov- 
 ered that her mistress renewed her youth by means 
 of an elixir, put the flagon to her mouth and emp- 
 tied the whole contents. She not only regained her 
 youth, but became an infant in the cradle. If the 
 Eulighteners had erred in despising their medi- 
 aeval ancestors because, judged by the standard of 
 the eighteenth century, they were rude and igno- 
 rant, the Romanticists committed a no less griev- 
 ous error in measuring their contemporaries by the 
 long disused standards of the past. 
 
 Novalis's romance, "Heinrich von Ofterdingen," 
 being a true product of the Romantic soil, shares the 
 extravagances and imperfections which characterize 
 Tieck's early works, and indeed all works of a similar 
 nature within the school. It teems with sub-plots and 
 allegories within allegories, and at times, it must be 
 confessed, tasks the reader's patience to the utmost ; 
 for the very moment he imagines that he has caught 
 hold of a tangible thread and is determined to keep 
 it, it somehow slips out of his fingers, and he is 
 again lost in a dimly lighted labyrinth, filled, it is 
 true, with many beautiful things, but leading no- 
 where, without end and without beginning. As has 
 already been remarked, the book was written as a 
 protest against " Wilhelm Meister," and as the latter, 
 according to Novalis, was a glorification of the prose 
 of life, so "Heinrich von Ofterdingen" should be 
 an apotheosis of its poetry. But poetry the Roman- 
 ticists conceived to be of a vague, ethereal, and im- 
 palpable essence, which impressed the sense not
 
 324 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 throiigh the grosser faculty of understanding, but 
 according to some mysterious law appealing directly 
 to the deepest emotions of the heart. This theory, 
 which the author shared with Schlegel and Tieck, 
 is no doubt largely responsible for the confusion 
 which reigns in his tale. Singular enough, and ap- 
 parently conflicting with the above theory, is the 
 fact that the lyrical poems which are found scattered 
 through the story are by far the clearest and most 
 intelligible part of it ; but Novalis was primarily a 
 lyric poet, and nature will not fail to assert itself in 
 spite of all theories. 
 
 To unravel the many allegorical complications of 
 the plot is no easy task. Novalis has, however, given 
 us a clew. In the first part, he says, the hero is ma- 
 tured as a poet, and in the second (which was left 
 incomplete at the author's death) he is glorified as a 
 poet. In the very first chapter we meet with all the 
 conventional machinery of Romantic fiction : night, 
 moonlight, dreams, and the longing for the blue 
 flower. This blue flower is the watchword and the 
 sacred symbol of the school. It is meant to symbol- 
 ize the deep and nameless longings of a poet's soul. 
 Romantic poetry invariably deals with longing ; not 
 a definite, formulated desire for some attainable ob- 
 ject, but a dim, mysterious aspiration, a trembling 
 unrest, a vague sense of kinship with the infinite, 
 and a consequent dissatisfaction with every form of 
 happiness which the world has to offer. The object 
 of the Romantic longing, therefore, so far as it has 
 any object, is the ideal the ideal of happiness, the
 
 NOVA LI S AND THE BLUE FLOWER $2$ 
 
 ideal of womanhood, the ideal of social perfec- 
 tion, etc. The blue flower, like the absolute ideal, 
 is never found in this world ; poets may at times 
 dimly feel its nearness, and perhaps even catch a 
 brief glimpse of it in some lonely forest glade, far 
 from the haunts of men, but it is vain to try to 
 pluck it. If for a moment its perfume fills the air, 
 the senses are intoxicated, and the soul swells with 
 poetic rapture. 
 
 In "Heinrichvon Ofterdingen " the presence of 
 this wondrous flower is felt on every page, and quite 
 unawares one may catch a glimpse of its fragile 
 chalice. "I long to see the blue flower," are the 
 very first words which the hero utters ; " it is con- 
 tinually in my mind, and I can think of nothing 
 else." He falls asleep and has a strange dream, 
 also of the blue flower, the significance of which is 
 heightened by the fact that his father had dreamed 
 something similar as he was about to take the most 
 important step of his life. Heinrich starts with his 
 mother and a company of merchants for Augsburg, 
 where he is to visit his maternal grandfather. Every 
 new object which meets his eye fills him with won- 
 der. The conversation of his companions, in which 
 he himself eagerly participates, is intended to en- 
 large his views of life and mature him for his future 
 calling. It strikes one, however, as singular that 
 mediaeval merchants should be constantly talking 
 about art and poetry, and it seems as if the author 
 had wilfully violated reality when, for instance, he 
 makes them speak in chorus. Historical truth
 
 326 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 and local coloring are of course out of the ques- 
 tion. The miner, the hermit, Zulma, Klingsohr, 
 etc., are all bloodless and sexless abstractions, and 
 are probably intended by the author as poetic per- 
 sonifications of certain forces of nature or of his- 
 tory. Zulma is the spirit of the Orient, the miner 
 represents the poetry of nature, the hermit that of 
 history, and in Klingsohr we meet the embodi- 
 ment of the ideal, fully developed poet. In spite of 
 his professed dislike of " Wilhelm Meister," Novalis 
 has, perhaps unconsciously, echoed Goethe's senti- 
 ments in the aesthetic discourses of this ideal poet. 
 The spiritual supremacy of " the great Pagan " 
 makes itself felt even in a work whose purpose it 
 was to protest against it. At the sight of Kling- 
 sohr's daughter, Mathilde, Heinrich has the same 
 sensation as he had had in the dream when he saw 
 the blue flower. He loves her, and his love is re- 
 turned ; but at the very moment when the mysteri- 
 ous flower seems to be within the reach of his hand, 
 it is lost to him. Mathilde is drowned in the river 
 an event which Heinrich had anticipated in his 
 dreams ; and stunned with grief and despairing of 
 his own future, he leaves Augsburg to seek the im- 
 perial court. And now the author unfolds his 
 transcendental wings and henceforth disdains to 
 preserve even the semblance of probability. The 
 hero hears voices of song coming apparently from a 
 tree growing at the road-side. He recognizes the 
 voice of Mathilde, who promises to send him an- 
 other maiden, Cyane, to comfort him. Then he has
 
 NOVA US AND THE BLUE FLOWER 327 
 
 a strange allegorical vision, and the mysterious 
 maiden suddenly stands before him, and imme- 
 diately gains his love. Whether this Cyane really 
 is Mathilde, or only a phantom representing her, or 
 an altogether independent individuality, is a point 
 which we are unable to settle. There are passages 
 in the story which seem to prove that each of these 
 assumptions is equally probable. In a cave, called 
 the Cave of the Count of Hohenzollern, Heinrich 
 sees wonderful signs and symbols which are sup- 
 posed to hide the secrets of his fate, and in a mon- 
 astery, the inhabitants of which are not living men, 
 but spirits whose vocation it is "to preserve the 
 sacred fire in young minds," he receives instruction 
 concerning the mysteries of life and death. The 
 rest of the tale is only lightly sketched and abounds 
 in mysteries, allegories, and metamorphoses, com- 
 pared with which Sindbad the Sailor or The Forty 
 Thieves appear as reasonable as an algebraic prob- 
 lem. Heinrich plucks the blue flower, and in the 
 end is united with Mathilde. The boundary be- 
 tween this world and the world to come vanishes ; 
 time, space, logic, all disappear under the magic 
 wand of the poet; all are but relative existences 
 which are absorbed in the one absolute existence 
 poetry. 
 
 Considered as a story this romance of Novalis 
 may have very little importance, but regarded as a 
 phenomenon in literature, containing the germs of 
 various tendencies of a school which during the 
 present century has spread throughout Europe, it
 
 328 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 is well worthy of the attention we have given it. 
 That "Heinrich von Ofterdingen," in spite of its 
 mystic coloring and its visionary extravagances, is 
 largely autobiographical, is easily seen ; the charac- 
 ter of the hero, being so nearly identical with that 
 of the author himself, the death of his first beloved, 
 the vision at the road-side, the vague, restless long- 
 ing for the blue flower, the second betrothal, etc., 
 belong as much to the history of the modern poet 
 Novalis as to that of the mediaeval hero of the ro- 
 mance. The poets of the eighteenth centmy, having 
 seldom any practical aim to distract them from the 
 contemplation of their own inner life, have more 
 frequently than the poets of other ages apotheosized 
 themselves in the persons of their heroes. The 
 contempt of life and the disgust with the world 
 ( Weltschmerz, as the Germans call it) which directly 
 result from morbid self-analyses are not yet devel- 
 oped in Novalis. On the contrary, he studies nature 
 with real affection, and takes a sincere interest in 
 his fellow-men. But as a Romantic poet he is an 
 absolute sovereign who brooks no Jaw above him, 
 and the laws of reality have no validity to him ex- 
 cept as symbols of a higher order of creation which 
 the poet, in moments of inspiration, may behold. 
 
 This exaltation of the poet above the rest of his 
 kind, this assumption of the office of a prophet, 
 priest, and inspired seer, and the kindred claims to 
 exemption from the rules of morals which govern 
 ordinary men, are dominant features of the Roman- 
 tic School.
 
 NOVA LI S AND THE BLUE FLOWER 329 
 
 The religious mysticism and the consequent pre- 
 dilection for the Catholic Church which so strikingly 
 characterized the later phases of Eomantic develop- 
 ment received its first impulse from Tieck's friend, 
 Wackenroder, but was hardly recognized as a dis- 
 tinct feature of the school until the days of Novalis. 
 With Wackenroder the interest had been chiefly an 
 artistic one ; with Novalis it sprang from a real, 
 deeply felt want of the heart. His fervid spirit de- 
 manded a warmer, intenser, and more picturesque 
 faith than the rationalistic Lutheranism of his times 
 afforded. The reading of Schleiermacher's famous 
 " Orations on Religion " awakened in him a desire to 
 serve the same good cause ; he accordingly wrote an 
 essay on " Europe and Christianity," which he read 
 in manuscript to an enthusiastic circle of friends in 
 Jena. Tieck and Friedrich Schlegel were delighted, 
 but Dorothea had her misgivings as to its merits. 
 " Christianity is ct I'ordre du jour here," she writes. 
 " The gentlemen are a little cracked ; Tieck carries 
 religion to the same length as Schiller does fate." 
 
 In fact this attempt of Novalis to glorify the " only 
 saving Church " is one of the most paradoxical doc- 
 uments which the Romantic literature has to show. 
 It was accepted by Schlegel for The Athenaeum, but 
 Goethe, from a sincere friendship for the author, 
 prevented its publication. It was not until several 
 years after Novalis's death that it was given to the _ 
 public. The essay represents the Reformation as an 
 unqualified evil, because it destroyed the unity of 
 the Church ; it also justifies the Madonna worship
 
 33 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 by the conscious craving in every human heart for a 
 female ideal of Divinity, a theme which receives 
 frequent attention in the " Spiritual Songs " and the 
 "Fragments." The homage, however, which he pays 
 " the divine Virgin and Mother " seems to be the 
 adoration of a lover rather than that of a religious 
 votary. 
 
 "Ich selie dich in tausend Bildern 
 Maria, lieblich ansgedriickt, 
 Doch kerns von alien kann dich schildern 
 Wie meiue Seele dicli erblickt. 
 Icli weisz nur dasz der Welt Getiimmel 
 Seitdem mir wie ein Traum verweht 
 Und ein unnennbar siiszer Himm&l 
 Mir ewig im Gemiithe steht. 1 * 
 
 Among the works of Novalis there still remains a 
 fragment of a romance, entitled " The Disciples at 
 Sais." It was written before " Heinrich von Ofter- 
 dingen," with which it has much in common, being a 
 most curious medley of theosophic, metaphysical, 
 and scientfic reveries. 
 
 Novalis never lost his faith in life ; even when the 
 physicians had given him up, and death stared him 
 in the face, he continued to busy himself with ambi- 
 tious literary projects. He ate nothing but vegeta- 
 bles, which, according to Tieck, agreed well with 
 him. His early love of metaphysics had now alto- 
 gether deserted him. " Philosophy,'' he writes, 
 " now rests on my book-shelves. I am glad that I 
 am done with this arctic region of pure reason."
 
 NOVALIS AND THE BLUE FLOWER 331 
 
 He died March 25, 1801, in the twenty-ninth year 
 of his age. If we judge his writings by their bulk 
 and their paradoxical character, the fame which 
 he enjoys even at this day might seem inexplicable ; 
 but looking more closely at these disjecta membra 
 poeloe we find that they possess a potent charm and 
 even a kind of unity of their own. They reveal a 
 quaint, lovable, and eminently poetic personality, and 
 watching their chronological succession we may read 
 an interesting record of psychological evolution. His 
 early death shed a romantic halo over the incidents 
 of his life, which were in themselves sufficiently 
 pathetic ; his works became a sacred legacy to his 
 friends, and their author the patron saint of German 
 Romanticism.
 
 XIII. 
 
 LITERARY ASPECTS OF THE RO- 
 MANTIC SCHOOL 
 
 T UDWIG TIECK was born in Berlin in the 
 J ^ year 1773, and his boyhood and youth conse- 
 quently fell at a time when the Aufklcirung was in its 
 fullest bloom. His father was strongly influenced 
 by the barren philosophy of the worthy Nicolai, and 
 the school in which young Tieck received his early 
 education was a very hot-bed of utilitarian enlight- 
 enment. But almost simultaneously the first pro- 
 ductions of the Storm and Stress period began to 
 attract attention. The translations of Shakespeare, 
 Goethe's "Gotz," and Schiller's "Bobbers" had 
 called into being a dramatic literature, the chief 
 characteristic of which was strength, that is, primi- 
 tively direct expressions of passion, unrefined by 
 taste, culture, or even common decency. It was the 
 old protest against the artificial order of society to 
 which Bousseau had given so powerful an utterance 
 in "Le Contrat Social" and "La Nouvelle Helo'ise," 
 and before him, in a somewhat gentler form, Ber- 
 nardin de St. Pierre, in his "Paul and Virginia." 
 But to the Teutons this protest was yet comparative-
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 333 
 
 ly new, and men like Klinger, Lenz, and the painter 
 Mtiller continued in the last decades of the eigh- 
 teenth century to repeat the world-old declamations 
 about nature, deeming their approach to nature 
 always in direct proportion to their removal from ac- 
 cepted propriety. The boldly unconventional char- 
 acter of these declamations may be fairly judged by 
 the notorious remark of the second trooper in the 
 third act of " Gotz von Berlichingen." 
 
 A youth so sensitive as Tieck could not escape re- 
 ceiving a reflex tinge from a school so aggressive, 
 and moreover so positive in its color, as the Storm 
 and Stress ; and his youthful dramas, " The Part- 
 ing " and " Karl von Berneck," rival in noisy decla- 
 mation and violence the works of the professed ad- 
 herents of the school. 
 
 There is, in spite of beauties of detail, a horribly 
 damp and sultry atmosphere pervading these effu- 
 sions of Tieck's youthful muse ; he revels in blood 
 and atrocities of every description, and the whole 
 imaginary scene hangs heavy as a nightmare upon 
 the reader's vision, attracting him by an uncomfort- 
 able fascination, and compelling him to gaze at the 
 ghastly spectacle to the bitter end ; and the end is 
 universally tragic. In " The Parting," for instance, 
 there is hardly a single survivor. The dramatis per- 
 sonce have apparently no power of self-determina- 
 tion ; they are the tools of certain mysterious pow- 
 ers outside and above them ; they go about as in a 
 trance, murdering those who are dearest to them, 
 and from beginning to end acting and talking in the
 
 334 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 most irresponsible fashion. The fatalism of Greek 
 tragedy, although entailing sorrow and suffering 
 upon the innocent, was a clear, rational, and almost 
 cheerful affair compared to the groping horror of 
 these dark and unaccountable deeds. 
 
 A short drama, " Almansur," full of fatalistic phi- 
 losophy and strongly tinctured with Rousseau, and 
 a long Oriental tale, " Abdallah," are monuments of 
 precocity and industry, rather than of genius. 
 
 The work which first brought Tieck into public 
 notice was "William Lovell,"a two-volume romance, 
 suggested by the " Pay sail Pervert! " of Retif de la 
 Bretouue. The ostensible purpose of this book is to 
 trace the downward career of a sensitive, passionate, 
 and uncorrupted youth. The author was then only 
 twenty-two years old, and happily had not yet pierced 
 to those deepest depths of human misery and sin 
 which he is here pretending to sound. The de- 
 scriptions have the vividness and oppressiveness of 
 a fever vision. They are full of vehement rhetoric, 
 which is a poor substitute for passion, and where 
 the genuine vital force is lacking you cannot make 
 up for its loss, as Tieck has attempted to do, by an 
 excess of analysis. In " William Lovell " we are 
 rather astounded and bewildered than really inter- 
 ested. The hero becomes at last too vile to deserve 
 any sympathy, and moreover we have a haunting 
 sense of the unreality of his crimes as well as his 
 sufferings, and wait with calm resignation for the 
 moment when we as well as he shall wake up to 
 find that all these horrors were merely the vanish-
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 335 
 
 ing phantasms of a dream. Thus in spite of all the 
 ingenuity which the author has expended upon the 
 outfit of his hero, the reader can hardly suppress a 
 sigh of relief, when finally he has left Lovell dead 
 on the Roman Cainpagna, where at last he reaps the 
 fruit of his numerous misdoings. 
 
 After having spent a few years at the universities 
 of Halle and Gottingen, where he had devoted him- 
 self with enthusiastic zeal to the study of Shake- 
 speare and the older English dramatists, Tieck re- 
 turned, in 1794, to Berlin, rented a summer-house 
 outside of the gates, and soon gathered about him a 
 congenial circle of admirers and friends. Among 
 these the gentle and lovable Wackenroder has left a 
 brief and pathetic record behind him. From their 
 earliest school-days Tieck and he had felt drawn 
 toward each other, and while the former rapidly de- 
 veloped the resources of his mind, the latter, 
 checked in his progress by the blight of a deadly 
 disease, clung with a touching, almost maidenly, 
 devotion to his stronger friend, entering with ar- 
 dent faith and sympathy into all his hopes of lit- 
 erary greatnesa 
 
 In the meanwhile the ancient Nicolai, ever active 
 and full of enterprise for the advancement of his 
 utilitarian cause, had made the acquaintance of " Wil- 
 liam Lovell's " author, and had, with a view to mutual 
 benefit, proposed to him a kind of literary copart- 
 nership ; and Tieck, with whom the need of a mar- 
 ket for his productions was imperative, had con- 
 sented to overlook the divergence of their views and
 
 336 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 to grind off at a fixed rate " enlightened " and in- 
 structive tales for the edification of the bellelettris- 
 tic public of the capital. It was indeed a novel po- 
 sition for the future chief of Romanticism to find 
 himself thus in the hire of the very party against 
 which he was soon to direct the arrows of his criti- 
 cism. But Tieck, conscious only of his inward 
 wealth, and as yet unhampered by any fixed theories 
 of art, was well content to yield to the momentary 
 joy of creating, heedless as to the name of the cause 
 which he indirectly served. Nicolai had for several 
 years past been publishing a kind of treasury of 
 novels, entitled Ostrich Feathers (Strauszfedern), 
 mostly free adaptations of second-rate French sto- 
 ries, which with a slight admixture of moralizing 
 and " enlightened sentiment " had found favor with 
 the constituents of circulating libraries. Tieck was 
 now intrusted with the continuation of this enter- 
 prise, and in his first efforts even exceeded the ex- 
 pectations of his employer. But soon his rebellious 
 fancy refused to submit to the bondage of inferior 
 spirits. The French models were thrown aside, and 
 one original tale followed another with amazing ra- 
 pidity. Nicolai was enchanted. The very titles of 
 these tales show how well the fertile scribbler knew 
 what was demanded of him ; here we, have, for in- 
 stance, "The Sensitive Ulrich," "The Talented Fer- 
 mer," " The Friend of Nature," etc. Presently, 
 however, some playful sprite began to whisper 
 mischievous suggestions into Tieck's ear ; it would 
 be capital sport if he could smuggle in his own sen-
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 337 
 
 timents in a sufficiently deceptive disguise, and thus 
 beguile the old Philistine into publishing veiled sat- 
 ires and ridicule of himself and all his rationalistic 
 sophistry. Nicolai ran into the snare, but at length 
 began to suspect mischief, and the unnatural part- 
 nership came to an end. It seems, however, that 
 the " enlightened " impetus which the Romanticist 
 bad received from his publisher must have carried 
 him somewhat beyond his original intention ; for in 
 his next romance, " Peter Lebrecht," he still occupies 
 the same position as in the first Ostrich Feathers, 
 turns his weapons against himself, and ridicules the 
 gratuitous horrors with which but a short time be- 
 fore he had regaled his readers in " William Lovell " 
 and " Abdullah." 
 
 After all these youthful vagaries and aimless wan- 
 derings between the various literary camps, Tieck 
 seems at last to have found his true self. That en- 
 chanted wonder-world which lies glimmering in the 
 old German mdrchens, ballads, and folk-lore had long 
 beckoned to him from afar, and he was now ready to 
 cast aside all wasteful trifling and obey the call. 
 Wackenroder had been the first to call his attention 
 to those old, poorly-printed Volksbttcher, with the 
 coarse wood-cuts, which had for centuries been cir- 
 culating among the peasantry, and which may still 
 be picked up at the bookstalls of the Leipsic fairs. 
 But Tieck was then deep in Shakespeare and Ben 
 Jonson, and had no time to listen to nursery tales. 
 Before long, however, Wackeuroder prevailed ; his 
 friend began to look more favorably upon the old
 
 338 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 legends, and after the reading of " St. Genevieve " 
 and " The Children of Heymon " his enthusiasm broke 
 into full blaze. Space will not permit me to give 
 even a brief outline of the numerous dramatic 
 and novelistic adaptations of the national legends 
 with which he flooded the market and the stage dur- 
 ing the next twenty years. Among the dramas " The 
 Life and Death of St. Genevieve " has been accorded 
 a foremost place, and among his many tales the pref- 
 erence is given to "The Blonde Eckbert," " Tann- 
 haiiser," "The Faithful Eckart," and "The Eunen- 
 berg," all of which are included in the collection of 
 " Phantasies." 
 
 Tieck's manner of treating the old stories seems to 
 depend greatly upon the mood in which they hap- 
 pen to find him. Sometimes, as in "The Children 
 of Heymon," he strives to reproduce in himself that 
 simple primitive credulity for which no absurdity is 
 too startling, no miracle too great for belief. It is 
 the mood in which a nurse with an accompaniment 
 of vivid gestures tells a child about " Jack the Giant- 
 killer," and " Puss in Boots," and it presupposes in 
 the child an uncritical acceptance of the most in- 
 credible statement. It was in the childhood of na- 
 tions that these legends came into being, and it is to 
 the still existing reminiscences of the primitive 
 state that you must appeal for interest in tales of 
 this order. Even the prosiest Philistine has some 
 recollection of the startled wonder and delight with 
 which he once gazed into the enchanted world of 
 the "Arabian Nights," and, if gently and skilfully
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 339 
 
 touched, those tuneless strings may once more be 
 made to vibrate. Tieck was such a magician, who 
 touched the Philistine with his wand and awoke the 
 slumbering echoes. 
 
 This primitive method, however, involved great 
 self-abnegation on the author's part ; and just at this 
 time he longed to give vent to the enthusiasm which 
 labored within him. Thus in his next marchens we 
 detect something of the mood with which Ave have 
 been made familiar in "Lovell" and "Abdallah;" 
 the tale is now no longer its own object and end it 
 is merely the vehicle of some individual sentiment, 
 mood, or passion. It is a responsive instrument, 
 through which the poet may give utterance to his 
 sorrow and yearning and doubt. Most clumsily and 
 inartistically has Tieck done this in his love-story of 
 the beautiful Mageloue and the Count Peter of Pro- 
 vence, where the hero philosophizes over his love in 
 a feeble lyrical strain, loses himself in rapturous 
 contemplations of nature, sings jingling and mean- 
 ingless love-songs, and strikes tragic attitudes, all in 
 the latest improved Romantic fashion. Much better 
 is the style of " The Runenberg " and "The Blonde 
 Eckbert ; " here Tieck is trying to find an embodi- 
 ment for those unutterable emotions which are toa 
 fleeting for words, but still are more or less con- 
 sciously present with all of us. These "anonymous 
 feelings of the soul," as Novalis calls them, can be 
 made intelligible only by being brought into action ; 
 you cannot explain them except by describing or 
 producing that combination of circumstances which
 
 340 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 will arouse them. That mysterious shudder which 
 seizes one in reading these apparently harmless tales, 
 whence does it arise if not from some half-conscious 
 under-current of our being, to which an indefinable 
 element in this author appeals ? And here we have 
 at last arrived at the new element in Tieck. Notice, 
 in perusing Heine's description of these mdrchens, 
 if you do not feel, as it were, a faint touch of that 
 awe and mysterious intensity of which he speaks. 
 Although of course the effect must be greatly weak- 
 ened in translation, we are still conscious that some- 
 thing of the mystery remains. " In these tales there 
 reigns a mysterious intensity," says Heine, " a 
 strange intimacy with nature, especially with plants 
 and stones. The reader feels as if he were in an en- 
 chanted forest ; he listens to the melodious rush of 
 subterranean fountains ; he imagines many a time 
 amid the whispering of the trees that he hears his 
 own name called ; the broad-leaved vines often wind 
 themselves perilously about his feet ; strange magic 
 flowers gaze at him with their many-colored, yearn- 
 ing eyes ; invisible lips kiss his cheeks with delusive 
 tenderness ; tall fungi like golden bells stand ring- 
 ing at the foot of the trees ; large, silent birds sit 
 rocking upon the boughs and nod with their long, 
 wise-looking bills ; all is breathing, listening, shud- 
 deringly expectant; then suddenly a soft bugle is 
 heard, and upon a white palfrey a beautiful maiden 
 rushes past you, with waving plumes on her hat, and 
 a falcon upon her hand. And this beautiful maiden 
 is so very beautiful, so blond, with eyes like violets,
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 341 
 
 so smiling and still so grave, so true and still so 
 roguish, so chaste and yet so passionate, like the 
 fancy of our excellent Ludwig Tieck. Yes, his fancy 
 is a gracious mediaeval maiden who hunts fabulous 
 beasts in a magic forest ; hunts, perhaps, that rare 
 unicorn which can be caught only by a pure virgin." 
 
 This is not criticism, but it is better than criti- 
 cism ; it is not negatively analytical, but conveys by 
 a certain happy choice of adjectives some of the 
 more positive qualities of the poet, and indeed those 
 very qualities which are surest to escape analysis. 
 
 We fondly believe that in an enlightened age like 
 ours, when science mercilessly penetrates to the 
 causes of every cherished mystery, the range of the 
 terrible is gradually reduced to a mere vanishing 
 quantity ; but no amount of scientific reasoning can 
 conquer the tremor which a timid person feels in a 
 dark hall or in an empty church at midnight. The 
 small territory of clear daylight fact which we have 
 conquered for ourselves is on all sides surrounded 
 by a far vaster realm of mystery, and whenever the 
 gates are opened to this realm, our reason refuses to 
 do our bidding, and we are on the verge of insanity. 
 It is on the boundary between these two realms of 
 reason and mystery that Tieck ha.s laid the scene of his 
 fairy-tales ; he is perpetually setting the gates ajar, 
 and while we dwell on situations which on the sur- 
 face appear only grotesque and comical, we involun- 
 tarily shudder. He knows exactly where to touch 
 us to find our reason weak and our sense of mystery 
 the more active. Vulgar ghost-stories he seldom
 
 342 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 deals with, but frequently with those situations in 
 which some undeniably real but unexplained psy- 
 chological element overmasters the will and urges it 
 on to deeds for which the individual is hardly him- 
 self responsible. According to Tieck, the ghost of 
 insanity is lurking in us all, and the moment we 
 become conscious of its presence, we are all already 
 half-way under its sway. 
 
 Forest solitude, churchyards at midnight, ruins 
 of convents and baronial castles, in fact all the 
 things which we are now apt to call romantic, are 
 the favorite haunts of Tieck's muse. It is he and 
 his school who have the "doubtful merit of having 
 introduced all these sepulchral situations into litera- 
 ture ; and the romanticists of other lands Walter 
 Scott in the British Isles, Victor Hugo in France, 
 and Ingemann in Denmark have enlarged the orig- 
 inal repertoire until at present we are almost able to 
 draw a distinct line between that order of natural 
 phenomena and human emotions which is romantic 
 and that which is not. Tieck was excessively fond 
 of moonlight, and literally flooded his tales with its 
 soft, dim splendor ; therefore moonlight is now ro- 
 mantic. He never allows a hero to make a declara- 
 tion of love without a near or distant accompani- 
 ment of a bugle (Schalmei or Waldhorn) ; accord- 
 ingly, the bugle is called a romantic instrument. 
 He showed a great preference for the Middle Ages, 
 and revived the interest in mediaeval history and 
 literature ; therefore the Middle Ages are to-day 
 regarded as the most romantic period of history,
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 343 
 
 and their literature is par excellence the romantic 
 literature ; and so on in infinitum. 
 
 Happily, Tieck wrote his best tales and dramas 
 before A. T. Hoffmann, Achim von Arnim, and the 
 other so-called late romanticists (Spiitromantiker) 
 had yet reduced the art of arousing sensations of 
 horror to a system and thereby vulgarized it. In 
 the productions belonging to his best period, at 
 least, he refrains from those violent and purely me- 
 chanical effects which in these latter days have 
 made the romantic name synonymous with literary 
 clap-trap and charlatanism ; and when men of Hoff- 
 mann's and Brentano's calibre had brought the 
 school into disrepute, he gradually withdrew from 
 it and joined the ranks of its opponents. This 
 argues, indeed, a considerable versatility, but also a 
 lack of that artistic sincerity which we have a right 
 to expect in so prominent a man of letters. 
 
 As a poet in the more specific sense of a writer of 
 verse, Tieck holds a position peculiarly Lis own 
 within the German literature. His prose writings 
 are abundantly sprinkled with verse, some mere 
 musical jingle, and some rare expressions of rare 
 moods, deficient in passion, but charged with color 
 and melody. In fact, at no time of his life does he 
 appear to have harbored strong convictions ; he had 
 likes and dislikes, but his hostility to one idea and 
 his preference for another were seldom or never the 
 results of reasoning. In his verse it is exceedingly 
 difficult to lay hold of a single definitely expressed 
 proposition to which you may confidently assent, or
 
 344 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 which you may combat. The rhythmical flow of 
 words, the cadence of the melody, the soothing, 
 luring, coaxing, caressing concord of sweet sounds 
 charm the ear and lull the reason into slumber. It 
 is all so delicious, so rich, and soft, you ask nothing 
 more. Tieck was himself well aware of these quali- 
 ties in his songs, and like a genuine romanticist he 
 immediately established the doctrine that in poetry 
 sense should be secondary to sound. It was Wack- 
 enroder who had first caught the musical mania, and 
 Tieck systematized his friend's dithyrambic utter- 
 ances and raised them to the dignity of doctrine. 
 The more exalted the sentiment of a poem is, the more 
 it is apt to rise above the region where articulation is 
 possible, and approach the disembodied, inarticulate 
 sound. Music i.e., inarticulate harmony existed 
 before the spoken language, that is, at least, Tieck's 
 postulate ; poetry is a return to primitive utterance, 
 and appeals directly to the deepest emotions, and 
 more by its music than by its meaning. Love, the 
 most primitive of all emotions, has hardly any need 
 of language. 
 
 " Liebe denkt in siassen Tonen, 
 Derm Gedanken steh'n zu fern, 
 Nur in Tonen mag sie gern 
 Alles, was sie will, verschonen. 
 Drum ist ewig uns zugegen, 
 Wenn Musik mit Klangen spricht, 
 Ihr die Sprache nicht gebricht, 
 Holde Lieb' auf alien Wegen ; 
 Liebe kann sich nicht bewegen, 
 Leihet sie den Athem nicht."
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 345 
 
 Wackenroder, in the meanwhile, had begun to 
 give vent to the fulness of his heart, not only di- 
 rectly through his influence on his friend, but also 
 in independent productions. In the summer of 
 1796 he had with Tieck made a pilgrimage to Dres- 
 den, where the Madonnas of Raphael and Holbein 
 had unsealed his lips and enabled him to find a fit- 
 ting expression for his rapturous worship and enthu- 
 siasm. The tongue of flame had descended upon 
 him, and he began to speak in strange languages. 
 In his "Heart Effusions of an Art-Loving Friar" (a 
 most discouraging title) he gives the first impetus 
 to that extravagant Madonna- worship which, in con- 
 nection *with mediaeval yearnings, at last assumed 
 the phase of " artistic Catholicism," and ended with 
 sending more than half of the prominent romanti- 
 cists to the bosom of the "only saving Church." 
 With Wackenroder this Catholic tendency sprung 
 from a sincere, child-like faith, which willingly re- 
 posed in authority, and to which miracles were not 
 only no stumbling-blocks, but, on the contrary, the 
 most beautiful and most natural revelation of the 
 divine. But it will always remain a matter of sur- 
 prise that Tieck, with his " enlightened " reminis- 
 cences and his naturally sceptical temperament, could 
 have entered with such vehemence into the relig- 
 ious ecstasies of his companion. Again, as in the 
 case of his connection with Nicolai, we see him as- 
 sume the cloak of another, and wear it with even 
 more grace than the real owner. And still this 
 ready adaptability on his part was not hypocrisy ; it
 
 346 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 was rather that sort of aesthetic belief which enthu- 
 siastic men are very apt to contract during some 
 period of their lives ; they desire so ardently to be- 
 lieve, that at length they persuade themselves that 
 belief is theirs. 
 
 Wackenroder's religious reverence, not only for 
 art in the abstract, bat also for the individual works 
 of art, is mirrored on every page of those of Tieck's 
 writings which date back to this period, and espe- 
 cially in the romance " Sternbald's Wanderings," a 
 book written under Wackenroder's inspiration, and 
 as a tribute to his and the author's friendship. 
 This "Sternbald," with the subtitle "An Old German 
 Story," like half the romances of that day, seems a 
 feeble echo of " Wilhelm Meister." In sentiment it is 
 as widely removed from Goethe as the dim romantic 
 moonlight is from the daylight of pagan, rational- 
 istic Weimar. Nevertheless " Sternbald " could never 
 have been if "Meister" had not been. Who knows 
 if (like Novalis's" Ofterdingen ") it was not written as 
 a protest against the cheerful paganism of Goethe ? 
 
 Franz Sternbald, a young German painter and a 
 pupil of Albrecht Diirer, starts out from Nuremberg 
 on his way to Italy. While wandering on he falls 
 in with a great many people who invariably sing 
 a song, weep, and tell him their history. An auto- 
 biographial mania seems to possess everybody ; no 
 man thinks of withholding the deepest secrets of his 
 heart for more than five minutes ; then usually a 
 bugle comes in very conveniently, and either the 
 tale or the bugle moves both parties to tears, where-
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 347 
 
 upon they sing another song and exchange opinions 
 regarding art, the one topic with which high and 
 low are familiar, and touching which they have in- 
 genious theories. Everybody's birth is wrapped in 
 mystery, which gives a charming uncertainty to the 
 family relations of the hero and those of the poetic 
 adventurers with whom he consorts. Unfortunately, 
 the book was never finished, and to clear up the 
 numerous entanglements of kinship the author is 
 obliged to sum up the unwritten portion in an epi- 
 logue, in which he explains who were in parental 
 and who in fraternal relations, etc., and assures the 
 reader that in the end they were all happy. 
 
 It is difficult to read a novel of the eighteenth 
 century without feeling what great strides we have 
 made in that branch of writing during the last 
 ninety years. How much more entertaining, how 
 much truer, stronger, and more artistic is the work 
 of those whom we call the average writers of the 
 present day, than were those clumsily moral or 
 lasciviously virtuous romances in which our slim- 
 waisted grandmothers delighted ! In the course of 
 one's reading one is constantly astonished to see 
 what an amount of space the literary histories de- 
 vote to books which, if they had been written to- 
 day, would hardly have been honored with a notice 
 in the monthly reviews. Characterization of the 
 kind which we find even in the minor novelists of 
 our day is seldom attempted in these romantic ex- 
 travaganzas. Everybody moves about as in a fever- 
 dream, the most unheard-of things are continually
 
 348 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 happening, and nobody is really responsible either 
 for himself or for anybody else. The fact that a 
 man determines to do something is no reason why 
 he should do it ; it is rather a reason why he should 
 leave it undone or do the very opposite. Human 
 will is at the mercy of mysterious powers, which 
 thwart it, play with it, and urge it on to the most 
 arbitrary acts. This is the tendency in most of 
 Tieck's novels, as in those of Brentano, von Ai'nim, 
 Hoffmann, and his other successors. And even at 
 the present day the tendency survives. It is not 
 many years since a legitimate heir of romanticism, 
 Hermann Grimm, published a two-volume novel, 
 entitled " Invincible Forces," in which the philos- 
 ophy of the school is once more revived. 
 
 Daring the later years of his life Tieck lived in 
 Dresden, where he chiefly interested himself in the 
 affairs of the theatre. To quote Heine once more, 
 "He who in his earlier writings had constantly satir- 
 ized the court counsellors as the type of everything 
 ridiculous became himself a royal Saxon court coun- 
 sellor. The Almighty is, after all, a greater satirist 
 than Mr. Tieck." The Napoleonic wars had devas- 
 tated Germany and reduced it to a state of political 
 nullity ; therefore public men, being forbidden to in- 
 terfere in public affairs, were obliged to take refuge 
 in the imaginary world of the stage, where they 
 could mould the destinies of nations according to 
 their sovereign will And Tieck, like so many 
 others, sought this refuge. The dearest friends of 
 his youth were dead, and the school he had helped
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 349 
 
 to found bad fallen into disrepute. As early as 
 1798 that gentle enthusiast, Wackenroder, liad 
 ended his pathetic strivings for the ideal, to con- 
 tinue them where, perhaps, the ideal no longer 
 seems so hopelessly beyond one's reach. Three 
 years later his other bosom friend, Novalis, had 
 quitted this life which he loved so well. Friedrich. 
 Schlegel, whose friendship Tieck had once prized so 
 highly, had, after his many vagaries, married his 
 Dorothea, become respectable, conservative, and a 
 Catholic, and had established himself as a literary 
 grand inquisitor in Vienna. There, with a cynical 
 disregard of his past, he sued successfully for Met- 
 ternich's favor, and lectured in an ultra-reactionary 
 spirit on "The Philosophy of Life," "The Philoso- 
 phy of History," and '' The History of Ancient and 
 Modern Literature." We all know that conserva- 
 tism, as a mere investment, is more profitable than 
 radicalism, and if there was a time when the choice 
 between prosperity and martyrdom was most obvi- 
 ously involved in the political antithesis, it was in the 
 days of the Holy Alliance. Friedrich Schlegel, hav- 
 ing tasted the hardships of the desert, had now a 
 pardonable longing for the flesh-pots of Egypt. 
 And so he forswore all his obnoxious sentiments, 
 ran the errands of the chief of Europe's spiritual 
 police, and as a reward for his services was made 
 Austrian Counsellor of Legation, and bade fair to 
 become a dignitary of the first water. His work on 
 " The Language and Wisdom of the Hindoos," by 
 which he virtually made a science of comparative
 
 350 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 philology possible, had gained him a strong position 
 among the savants of the day. But just as he had 
 turned the first bright page in the tragic history of 
 his life, he died suddenly (1829) from the effects 
 of roast goose, and evil tongues once more revived 
 the scandal of his youth. To die from roast goose 
 what an end for an idealist ! 
 
 Of the early romanticists, then, Tieck was the 
 only survivor, unless, indeed, Augustus Wilhelm 
 Schlegel could still be said to be alive ; he who, 
 after his various tragic marriages and his fierce war- 
 fare agaiust the literary coryphaei of France, now lan- 
 guished in a comfortable professorship at the Uni- 
 versity of Bonn. This elder Schlegel had, with his 
 brother Friedrich, founded The Athenaeum, and had, 
 through the columns of that journal, developed a 
 great critical activity, until his quarrel with Schiller 
 and Goethe, and his friendship for Madame de Staiil, 
 for a time removed him from the romantic arena. 
 In spite of all the obloquy, however, which has been 
 heaped upon him by Heine and other unscrupulous 
 revilers, his labors are of too solid a character to be 
 left unnoticed in a review of the school for whose 
 advancement he worked with such indefatigable 
 zeal. It is to him that the Germans owe their first 
 complete translation of Shakespeare * a translation 
 the merit of which is not generally acknowledged. 
 Though not enough of a poet to produce any origi- 
 
 * Schlegel translated personally only seventeen plays, and 
 merely superintended and revised the translation of the 
 rest.
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 35! 
 
 nal work of real worth,* lie had still a sufficiently 
 tuneful ear to enable him to appreciate and to ren- 
 der rhythmical effects with great nicety. After 
 having exhausted the dramatic treasures of English 
 literature, Schlegel turned to those of Spain, and 
 began an excellent translation of Calderon's trage- 
 dies. On all sides he opened avenues through 
 which foreign culture could flow into the Father- 
 land. Friedrich Schlegel and Tieck had labored in 
 the same direction, and it is no vain boast when 
 the romantic school claims the merit of having 
 widened the national horizon and enabled the Ger- 
 man scholar of to-day to approach that cosmopoli- 
 tan type of manhood which Goethe foreshadowed in 
 the second part of his " Faust." August Wilhelm 
 Schlegel died as professor at the University of Bonn 
 (1845). His "Lectures on Dramatic Art and Litera- 
 ture" (1809-1811) have been translated into many 
 languages, and, though not free from caprices of 
 judgment, enjoy a certain authority even at the 
 present day. 
 
 Another member of The Athenceum circle, the 
 preacher Schleiermacher, of whose personal history 
 we have communicated some fragments, had in the 
 year 1802 left Berlin and his Henrietta, and was 
 seeking consolation in his Platonic studies for the 
 privations which fate had inflicted upon him. But 
 before retiring to his rural solitude at Stolpe, he 
 had startled the theological world by a series of 
 
 * He was the author of a stilted and artificial classical 
 drama named Ion.
 
 352 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 literary performances which bore on their face the 
 mark of romantic origin. His "Discourses on Re- 
 ligion " (1799) is a remarkable document. Each dis- 
 course is clear in spite of its abstruseness, large in 
 its conception, and in its spirit broad and catho- 
 lic. There is a healthy, warm-blooded, and broad- 
 breasted humanity about all that Schleiermacher 
 writes, and even if this were his only merit, it would 
 still suffice to make him a phenomenon among theo- 
 logians. As sound in sentiment he will hardly be 
 regai'ded by orthodox or by freethinker. But if he 
 errs, he does so in a large, free fashion, which wins 
 one's heart and makes his error more lovable than 
 the same amount of unquestioned doctrine clothed 
 in the severe garb of the Lutheran pulpit. As soon 
 as a chapter was finished, he sent the manuscript to 
 Henrietta, and they criticised and discussed the 
 contents together. 
 
 Schleiermacher's religion is chiefly an aesthetic 
 one. "Humanity," he says, "is not the universe; 
 it is only a single form of it, an embodiment of a 
 single modification of its elements ; ... it is 
 an intermediate link between the individual and 
 God [zwischen dem Einzelnen und dem Eineri] ; a 
 resting-place on the way to the infinite. Man 
 would have to possess some still higher element 
 of character than his humanity if he were to refer 
 himself and his existence directly to the universe. 
 This presentiment of something outside and above 
 humanity is the object of all religion." This may, 
 perhaps, not appear especially clear, but German
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 353 
 
 philosophy has never been remarkable for lucidity 
 of expression. In other passages the thought, al- 
 though still abstruse, is more easily seized. When, 
 for instance, he speaks of " contemplation of the 
 universe " as " the highest formula of religion," he 
 has thereby felicitously expressed the passively aes- 
 thetic nature of his faith. Morality is active and 
 finds its expression in the objective deed ; religion 
 is a pious exaltation, a state of the mind, and there- 
 fore subjective. But this universal contemplation 
 does not only include self and pious abstractions ; 
 it embraces all humanity, and, although in itself 
 passive, is actively fostering feelings of compas- 
 sion, humility, love, gratitude, etc. These religious 
 feelings must accompany all the deeds of man, 
 " like sacred music ; " he must do everything with 
 religion, everything from religion. Thus in the end 
 morality is not separable from religion ; it is, how- 
 ever, not an aim and end, but an attendant circum- 
 stance. 
 
 Schleiermacher's object is to prove that dogmatic 
 theology is not per se religion, and that religion in 
 the higher and wider sense is not only not at vari- 
 ance with advanced culture, but that no real culture 
 can exist without it. It is essentially the same posi- 
 tion which Chateaubriand was to take in his "Genie 
 du Christianisme " (1802), that much -lauded and 
 much-abused book which suddenly made Christian- 
 ity fashionable, and reconciled France (i.e., Paris) to 
 the Napoleonic Concordat. The objects of both 
 were identical, but how different their methods!
 
 354 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 The Gaul undertakes with much elaborate rhetoric 
 to show that Christianity is sensuously attractive, 
 picturesque, and poetic. The Teutou appeals to 
 the deeper needs of the soul, and deduces religion 
 from the fact that man is so constructed that he 
 cannot reach the full completion of his being with- 
 out it. 
 
 Friedrich Schlegel, who excelled in inventing 
 formulas for everything, had, naturally enough, also 
 found a formula for religion. According to him, 
 religion is the synthesis of art and philosophy ; the 
 former strives to give an outward form to the ob- 
 jects in accordance with their inner being, the lat- 
 ter seeks to explore their inmost essence ; the two 
 united make religiou. " Religion," he says again, 
 "is the all-animating universal soul of culture. 
 Only he can be an artist who has a religion of his 
 own, who has an original view of the infinite. . . . 
 The only opposition which we may expect to the 
 everywhere germinating religion will come from the 
 few real Christians still remaining" 
 
 In sharp contrast to this, Schleiermacher mnin- 
 tains that Christianity in its spirit, independent of 
 the dogmatic differences of sects, alone can satisfy 
 the cultivated intellect as well as the deeper, more 
 primitive needs of the human heart. Chateaubri- 
 and had emphatically declared Christianity to mean 
 Catholicism ; Schleiermacher ignored sectarian par- 
 tisanship, and strove to rise above the letter, which 
 killeth, strove to find the spirit, which giveth life. 
 
 Schlegel very naturally felt dissatisfied with the
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 355 
 
 position of bis friend ; he felt that they were di- 
 vided, and he expressed in a sonnet his judgment 
 of his solution of the religious problem ; Schleier- 
 nuicher stands at the door of a stately temple of 
 wondrous beauty ; he opens the door ; a solemn, 
 sacred symphony fills the air with sweet, soul- stir- 
 ring sound ; a curtain is drawn aside, and behold, 
 the old Sphnix. The riddle is still unsolved. 
 
 And it may be well that neither Schleiermacher 
 nor anyone else has as yet definitely solved the 
 riddle. In the strife and infinite divergence fos- 
 tered by our aspiration for truth lies our surest 
 promise of spiritual progress. The romantic school, 
 through its various representatives, strove to re- 
 claim a nation which was thought to be drifting 
 into artistic paganism. Through Tieclc, "VVacken- 
 roder, and Novalis it introduced Christianity into 
 literature ; through Schleiermacher it endeavored to 
 humanize religion. And even if the truth which 
 these men saw was more than half error, they still 
 labored bravely, and surely have not lived in vain. 
 
 Except as regards its impatience with what ia 
 called the prose of life and a reactionary tendency 
 which exalts the past over the present, German ro- 
 manticism has few features in common with the 
 group of authors which in England and France we 
 are accustomed to style romantic. If we include 
 Byron in the school, of which Scott is the most 
 illustrious name, a general characterization becomes 
 still more difficult ; for Byron, though there was a 
 deposit of feudal sentiment in his mind, professed
 
 356 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 the most radical opinions and posed as the champion 
 of liberty. However, as it is a question whether he 
 took himself seriously, and, moreover, as most of 
 his sentiments were held for their picturesqueness, 
 his refusal to conform to our classification need not 
 disturb us. As a radical romanticist, or a romantic 
 radical, he is the solitary instance of any note that 
 English literary history records. He had, to be 
 sure, imitators in other lauds who endeavored 
 to combine his libertinism, his world-woe, and his 
 Promethean defiance of authority. Alfred de Mus- 
 set, who is usually regarded as Byron's counter- 
 part in France, exhibits but a faiut resemblance, 
 and Pushkin in Russia is likewise a somewhat 
 feeble copy. Victor Hugo, the leader of the French 
 romanticists, managed also to combine an advanced 
 radicalism in politics with a literary medisevalism, 
 and represents a new modification of the romantic 
 physiognomy. His " Notre Dame de Paris " is a 
 perfect museum of mediaeval sentiments and feudal 
 antiquities, while his "Legende des Siecles " with 
 the trumpet-note of prophecy heralds the dawn of a 
 new age that is already flushing the horizon of the 
 dying century. But though romanticism, as a con- 
 venient name, has been attached to the school of 
 which he was the founder, the national transforma- 
 tion which the term undergoes in crossing the Rhine 
 is so great as to endanger its identity. There is, as 
 it appears to us, but one fundamental note which 
 all romanticism, whether it be radical or reactionary, 
 has in common, and that is a deep disgust with the
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL 357 
 
 world as it is and a desire to depict in literature 
 something that is claimed to be nobler and better. 
 
 The German romanticists, because they found 
 the reality which surrounded them highly unpoetic, 
 turned toward the Middle Ages and believed that 
 they had there found the lost paradise of poets. 
 The French romanticists, being equally discon- 
 tented with the present, resolved to improve it. 
 Instead of holding up a lost ideal for contemplation, 
 several of them entered, like Victor Hugo, upon a 
 public career, protested against usurpation, and suf- 
 fered exile and persecution in their endeavors to re- 
 mould reality in accordance with the fervid visions 
 of their souls. It is, after all, a question of national 
 temperament whether romanticism assumes the form 
 of a poetic regret and passive retrospection, or an 
 active revolt against the hard prose represented by 
 kings and governments. 
 
 A further modifying circumstance which is apt to 
 confuse the reader is the fact that romanticism not 
 only means different things in different countries, 
 but it means different things at different times, in ac- 
 cordance with the school or tendency with which it 
 comes into collision. In Germany it was, as we have 
 seen, on the one hand, the utilitarianism of the pe- 
 riod and enlightenment which drove the school into 
 an idealism, scorning all the servile morality of the 
 Philistine ; and, on the other hand, it was the pagan 
 classicism of Goethe and Schiller which impelled it, 
 by the impetus of opposition, toward patriotism, 
 mediaeval enthusiasm, and Catholicism.
 
 358 GERMAN LITERATURE 
 
 In modern times romanticism, typifying a per- 
 manent tendency of the human mind, has been 
 placed in opposition to what is called realism, and 
 has thereby undergone a fresh modification. If 
 realism means insistence upon a life-like art, based 
 upon experience, true to the logic and beating with 
 the pulse-beat of reality, romanticism, in its latest 
 combative attitude, has no choice but to mean 
 sovereign art, dwelling in an ideal realm of fancy, 
 scorning subserviency to the truth of life. Such a 
 tendency we see exemplified in the brilliant carica- 
 ture of Dickens, the lurid and unwholesome fictions 
 of Wilkie Collins, and the mediaeval heroic juveniles 
 of Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
 But in making up the final account, let us not 
 wink at the fact that this perennial quarrel involves 
 a question of degree rather than of kind. No art can 
 reproduce life with absolute fidelity, nor is it desir- 
 able that it should. A vast deal must be omitted in 
 the novel, which, for instance, a painter would be 
 obliged to depict. The painter, making the same 
 selection of essentials, would omit much which a 
 photograph would reproduce, and the photograph, in 
 its inability to render color and the minutest detail, 
 would omit much which a naturalist would discover. 
 If the novelist, in describing a scene, were to insist 
 upon rendering everything, accidentals as well as es- 
 sentials, with the fidelity of a photograph, he would 
 produce a jumbled and meaningless chapter and be 
 unfaithful because of over-fidelity. But to the laws 
 of life, in so far as they are ascertainable the logic
 
 ASPECTS OF THE ROMANTIC SCffOOL 359 
 
 of its sequence and development lie must adhere 
 with the utmost fidelity that he can command. 
 
 But, as we have endeavored to point out in the es- 
 say on " The Evolution of the German Novel," the 
 intellectual progress of the world asserts itself in a 
 progressive demand for verisimilitude in the arts. 
 The childlike wonder-loving epics and legends of 
 the Middle Ages reflected as truly the intellectual 
 condition of the " cultivated classes " of the twelfth 
 and thirteenth centuries as Tolstoi, Howells, and 
 James represent the vanguard of culture to-duy. 
 The romantic rear-guard is represented by the 
 lovers of Dickens, Scott, Victor Hugo, and Steven- 
 son. There will always be those who pander to 
 the crude delight in marvels, and there will always 
 be people ready to consume their wares. But let 
 not these people fancy that their delight in these 
 modified fairy tales is an intellectual enjoyment 
 which argues " literary tastes." It was not suspect- 
 ed, even a hundred years ago, except in the most 
 general way, how human fates were determined by 
 heredity and environment ; and the romances of 
 that day were therefore excusable fora degree of ar- 
 bitrai'iness which in a novelist of to-day would be 
 unpardonable. A higher degree of fidelity, a deeper 
 inward truth, as regards motives, impulses, causes, 
 and effects, is demanded by realism ; while roman- 
 ticism (using nature as a painter does his colors, for 
 purposes of mixture and arbitrary composition) gives 
 yet a tolerably free rein to fancy and refuses alle- 
 giance to the logic of life.
 
 ESSAYS 
 
 STEVENSON 
 SIR E. ARNOLD 
 
 BlRRELL 
 
 LANG 
 HOLLAND 
 H. ADAMS 
 BROWNELL 
 R. GRANT 
 MAX MLLLER 
 GEORGE MOORE 
 AND 
 
 BY 
 
 CARLYLE 
 
 FROUDE 
 
 GLADSTONE 
 
 HENLEY 
 
 IK MARVEL 
 
 MATTHEWS 
 
 BOYESEN 
 
 FINCK 
 
 LANIER 
 
 T. N. PAGE 
 
 OTHERS 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers 
 743-745 Broadway, New York
 
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