I
have been reading the Miscellaneous Travels of J. W. Goethe. In these travel accounts Goethe (1749 - 1832), the
giant of German literature, portrayed himself as a singularly self-possessed
individual. In place of a strong
religious sense, he found his fullest consolation in art and Nature. Here are relevant excerpts.
“Campaign
in France,” Tréves, 25th October
A
young schoolmaster who visited me, and brought me some of the latest numbers of
the newspapers, gave me an opportunity for some pleasant conversation. He was astonished, like many others, that I
had no wish to converse about poetry, but rather seemed to throw myself with
all my energy into the study of Nature.
He knew the philosophy of Kant, and I could therefore point out to him
the path I had entered. When Kant, in
his ‘Critique of Pure Reason’ places teleologic judgment side by side with the
aesthetic, it is evident that he wishes to show that a work of art should be
treated in the same way as a work of Nature, and a work of Nature in the same
way as a work of art; and that the worth of each should be developed out of
itself, and considered by itself. About
such things I could be very eloquent; and I believe I was of some use to the
worthy young man. It is wonderful what a
mixture of truth and error every period carries and drags about with it,
inherited from days but recently passed, or even from days long gone by; whilst
enterprising spirits cut out a new path for themselves, where, for the most
part, they have to go alone, or find a companion only for some short distance of
the way.
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“Campaign
in France,” DIGRESSION
I
had got into the habit of being engrossed by the business and occurrences of
the moment, and had of late years, in particular, reason to be satisfied with
this kind of life; this led to a peculiarity in me of never forming any
conception before-hand of persons whom I expected to meet, or of places I
intended to visit, but allowed them to produce their effect upon me without
being previously prepared for them.
The
advantage that arises from this is great; one does not require to come back
from a previously-conceived idea, or to blot out a picture arbitrarily painted
by ourselves, and painfully to accept the reality in its place. The disadvantage, on the other hand, that may
arise, is, that we are unprepared in moments of importance, and are at a loss
how to act in unforeseen emergencies.
For
the same reason, too, I never paid any attention to the effect which my
presence or the temper of my mind produced upon others; for I often found,
quite unexpectedly, that I had inspired affection or repugnance, and frequently
even both at the same time.
Whatever
may be said respecting this manner of behaviour, whether, as an individual
peculiarity, it can neither be praised nor censured, it must be added, that in
the present case it produced some very curious phenomena, and these not always
of the most agreeable description.
I
had not met the friends whom I was about to visit for many years; they had kept
steadily to their old course of life; whereas it had been my strange lot to
undergo many trials, and to pass through various kinds of occupations and
endurances. Hence, although the same
person, I had become quite a different being, and almost unrecognisable to my
old friends.
It
is difficult, even in maturer years when we have a freer survey of life, to
give an accurate account of those transitions in it, which sometimes appear as
an advance, sometimes as a retrogression, but all of which, nevertheless, prove
of use and advantage to a God-fearing man.
Notwithstanding these difficulties, I will endeavour to oblige my
friends, and to note down a few points.
A
virtuous man inspires affection and love only in so far as we discover longing
in him; this expresses both possession and desire — the possession of a tender
heart, and the desire of finding the same in others; with the former we attract
others to us, with the latter we give up ourselves to them.
Whatever
of this quality lay in me, which in earlier years I had encouraged, perhaps too
much, but which as I grew older, I energetically sought to overcome, was no
longer in keeping with the man, no longer satisfied him, and he sought,
therefore, for full and final contentment.
The
object of my most ardent longing, a pain which filled my very soul, was Italy,
the image of which had floated before my mind for many years in vain, till at
length I formed the bold determination of beholding the reality face to
face. To that glorious land my friends
gladly followed me in thought, they accompanied me on my way thither, and on my
return. Would that they may
affectionately share a longer residence there with me, and accompany me back
again, for many a problem will be more intelligibly solved!
In
Italy I felt myself gradually freed from petty conception, and from false
wishes; in place of the longing for the land of fine art, there arose in me a
longing for art itself; I had beheld it, and now wished to penetrate into, and
comprehend, it.
The
study of art, like that of the ancient authors, gives us a certain stability,
as sort of satisfaction in ourselves; it fills our souls with great objects and
ideas, it takes possession of every wish that struggles outwardly, but
nourishes every worthy aspiration in the tranquil breast; the need of
communicating our thoughts to others becomes less and less; and the amateur
becomes like painter, sculptor, and architect — he works in solitude for
enjoyments which he seldom is called upon to share with others.
But
I was, at the same time, destined to be estranged from the world by another
cause, and thrown in the most emphatic way upon Nature, to which instinctively
I had a great leaning. Here I found
neither masters nor companions, and was obliged everywhere to trust to
myself. In the solitude of the woods and
gardens, in the obscurity of the dark apartments, I should have remained quite
alone, had not a happy domestic connection at this strange period of my
existence come to rescue and cheer my heart.
The “Roman Elegies,” the “Venetian Epigrams,” date from this period.
But
I was also to have a taste of warlike events; for I was ordered to be present
during the campaign in Silesia, which came to an end with the Congress of
Reichenbach, and obtained, in this new and important part of the world,
additional experience and information, and some good diversion as well. The horrors of the French Revolution, which
meanwhile spread farther and farther, drew the attention of every one, whatever
might be his thoughts or studies, to the surface of the European world, and
forced the most terrible realities upon his mind.
Then
duty called me to accompany my Prince and master, to face with him the dangers
and disasters of the day, and manfully to endure the sufferings of which I have
ventured to give the reader but a faint picture; it can easily be conceived,
that then whatever of tenderness and warmth lurked still in my inward being
vanished altogether.
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“Campaign
in France”, Duisburg, End of November 1792
Among
a host of importunities addressed to me, both by letter and in person, I
received, in the middle of the year 1777, a paper, or rather a pamphlet, dated
Wernigerode, and subscribed Plessing, the most wonderful production of the
self-torturing kind that I ever beheld.
It was plainly from a young man filled with all knowledge of school and
University; but whose learning, nevertheless, did not contribute in the least
to his own inward moral tranquility. His
handwriting was good, and pleasant to read; his style clever and flowing; and,
although a tendency to pulpit oratory could at once be perceived, still everything
seemed so fresh, and written so from the heart, that one could not help
sympathising with him But when one’s
sympathy was allowed to become active, and an endeavour was made to get a
clearer understanding of the condition of the sufferer, it seemed as if there
was in him more of wilfulness than of patience, more of obstinacy than
submission, and more of pure selfishness than of ardent longing. In accordance with the propensity of the
time, which I have described above, I felt a great desire to see the young man
face to face; but considered it inadvisable to ask him to come to me. I had already, under circumstances which are
known, burdened myself with a number of young men, who, instead of accompanying
me on my road towards a purer and higher culture, had lingered on their own
path, deriving no benefit themselves, and obstructing me in my progress. Hence I allowed the matter to rest, till some
opportunity should occur for effecting my object. Whereupon I received a second letter, short,
but more passionate than the first, in which the writer pressed for an answer
and explanation, and implore me most earnestly not to refuse them to him.
But
even this renewal of the storm did not trouble me; the second paper affected me
just as little as the first; but the habit I had acquired of assisting young
men of my own age in affairs of mind or heart, did not allow me to forget him
altogether.
…
On
arriving at the inn in Wernigerode, I entered into conversation with the
waiter, and found him a sensible person, who seemed to be pretty well
acquainted with his fellow-townsmen. I
then told him that it was custom, on arriving at a place where I had no
particular introductions, to seek out such young persons as might in any way be
distinguished for learning and science; and thereupon asked him to do me the
favour to name somebody of this description, with whom I might hope to pass the
evening pleasantly. Without hesitation
the waiter replied, that no doubt I should find what I desired in Herr
Plessing, the son of the Superintendent; that as a boy even he had been
distinguished at school, and still maintained his reputation for diligence and
ability; that people now found fault with his gloomy disposition, and did not
like him on account of unsociable behaviour which led him to shut himself out
from society. But that towards strangers
he was always polite, as examples could prove, and if I wished an introduction,
it could be got immediately.
The
waiter soon brought me word that I might pay Plessing a visit, and conducted me
to his residence. The evening had
already set in, when I entered a large room on the ground-floor, the usual
style in ecclesiastical houses, and although it was twilight I could
distinguish the young man tolerably well.
I observed some signs of the parents having hastily left the room, to
make place for the unexpected visitor.
When
the lights were brought in, I had a distinct view of the young man, and he was
exactly what his letter had led me to expect; and, like it, he excited one’s
interest without being exactly attractive.
In
order to lead to a more intimate conversation, I described myself as an artist
from Gotha, and said that, on account of some family matters, I was about to
visit a sister and brother-in-law in Brunswick at this unfavourable season.
With
great animation he thereupon exclaimed, scarcely allowing me to finish my
sentence. “As you live so near Weimar,
you have no doubt frequently visited that place, which has become so
celebrated?” I answered, with perfect
simplicity, in the affirmative, and began to speak of Counsellor Kraus, and the
Drawing Academy; of Bertuch, Counsellor of Legation, and his unwearying
assiduity; I did not omit either Masäus or Jagemann; spoke of Wolf, the
band-Master; and some ladies; described the circle in which these worthy people
moved, and said they were always glad to see strangers amongst them, who were
sure to be well received.
At
last he exclaimed, somewhat impatiently: “But why do not you mention Goethe” I replied, that I had seen him in the
aforesaid circle as a welcome guest, and had even been myself personally well
received and kindly treated by him as an artist, but that I could not say much
further about him, partly because he lived alone, and partly because he
belonged to other circles.
The
young man, who had listened with restless attention, now demanded me, with some
impetuosity, to describe this strange individual, who had created such a
sensation in the world. Whereupon, with
great ingenuity, I gave him a description, which it was not difficult to do, as
the strange person happened to be before me in the strangest of situations; and
if Nature had only favoured him with a little more sagacity of heart, he could
hardly have failed to perceive that his visitor was describing himself.
He
had walked up and down the room two or three times, when the maid-servant
entered, and placed a bottle of wine and some cold supper on the table; he
filled both our glasses, touched my glass with is, and drank it off excitedly. Scarcely had I, with somewhat less eagerness,
emptied mine, when he seized me by the arm with great vehemence, and exclaimed:
“Oh, excuse my singular behaviour! But
you have inspired me with such confidence, that I cannot help telling you
all. This man, from your description of
him, ought certainly to have answered me; I sent him a detailed, affectionate
letter, describing my condition, my sufferings, and begged him to interest
himself in me, to advise me, to help me; and now months have passed, and I have
no reply. The very least he could do,
was to have sent me a refusal, in return for such unbounded confidence.”
In
reply to this, I said that such conduct I could neither explain nor excuse; but
this much I knew from my own experience, that owing to a heavy pressure of things
both ideal and real, this, otherwise well-meaning, good-natured, and helpful
young man, was often unable to do as he pleased, much less to act for others.
“As
we have accidentally got so far,” he now added, with somewhat more composure, “I
must read the letter to you; and you can then judge whether it did not deserve
some answer, some reply.”
I
walked up and down the room waiting for him to read it, knowing, of course,
what effect it would produce, and therefore had to fear of making a false step
in so delicate an affair. He sat down
opposite to me, and began to read the papers, which I knew as well as himself;
and nothing, perhaps, ever convinced me more of the truth of the assertion made
by physiognomists: that a living being, in all its actions and conduct, is in
complete accordance with itself, and that every monad, when once it has entered
the world of reality, manifests itself in complete unity with its
characteristics. The reader was an exact
counterpart of what he read; and as the letter had not attracted me at first,
it did not attract me now in his presence.
One could not, indeed, deny the young man one’s respect, one’s sympathy;
in fact, it was this which had induced me to make this curious journey; for an
earnest will was visible in him, a noble tendency and aim; but although the
tenderest feelings were in question, his manner of reading was without grace,
and a peculiar, narrow kind of selfishness was strongly apparent
throughout. When he had finished, he
asked hastily what I now thought, and whether such a paper did not deserve,
nay, demand, an answer?
Meanwhile
I had obtained a clearer insight into the young man’s deplorable state of mind;
he had never taken cognisance of the outward world, but had, on the contrary,
cultivated his mind by multifarious reading, and directed all his powers and
interests inwards; and, not finding any productive talent in the depths of his
being, he had gone far to ruin himself altogether. And even the occupation and consolation so
gloriously offered us by a study of the ancient languages, seemed to be
completely wanting to him.
As
I had already proved, both in myself and others, that the best remedy in such
cases is to throw ourselves with energy and faith upon Nature and her infinite
variety, I made an attempt to apply it in this case also. After a little reflection I answered him in
the following way:—
“I
think I can understand why the young man, in whom you have placed so much
confidence, has remained silent towards you.
His present way of thinking is doubtless too different from yours to
allow of any hope that you could come to any agreement with each other. I have been present during some conversations
in the circle spoken of, and have heard it maintained, that the only way in
which a person can escape and save himself for a painful, self-torturing,
gloomy state of mind, is by a contemplation of Nature, and a heartfelt sympathy
with the outward world. Even a most
general acquaintance with Nature, no matter in what way, in fact any active
communication with it, either in gardening or farming, hunting or mining, draws
us out of ourselves; the employment of our mental energies upon real, actual
phenomena, affords, by degrees, the greatest satisfaction, clearness of mind,
and instruction; in the same way as the artist who keeps true to Nature, while
cultivating his mind, is certain to succeed the best.”
My
young friend appeared to get very restless and impatient at this, just as one
does when listening to some foreign or confused language, the meaning of which one
cannot understand. However, although
there seemed but little hope of a successful result, I proceeded more for the
sake of saying something, and added that: “To me, as a landscape painter, this
appeared very evident, as my particular department of art was in direct
communication with Nature. But since
that time, I have observed things with more assiduity and eagerness than I had
previously done, and not merely noted uncommon and remarkable natural objects
and phenomena, but felt myself more full of love for all things and all men.” In order not to lose myself in the abstract,
I thereupon told him that even this necessary winter excursion, instead of
being irksome, had furnished me with lasting enjoyment. I described to him the course of my journey
artistically and poetically, and yet as truly and naturally as I could; I spoke
of the snow-clouds which I had that morning seen rolling over the mountains,
and the various other appearances that had struck me during the day; I then
revealed to his imagination the curious turreted and walled fortifications of
Nordhausen, as seen in the twilight; and further, at night, the torrents
rushing down the mountain ravines, their waters lighted up now and then, and
glistening in the flickering light of the guide’s lantern; and, last of all,
the miners’ caverns.
Here
he interrupted me with warmth, and assured me that he heartily regretted the
trouble he had taken in going to see the latter, short as the distance was; it
had not at all come up to the picture he had formed of it in his
imagination. After what had passed
between us, such morbid symptoms did not annoy me; often had I seen how men
throw away the valuable possession of a clear reality for a dismal phantom of
their gloomy imaginations! Just as
little did it astonish me, when, in answer to my question,”How he had pictured
the caverns to himself?” he described them in such a way as the boldest
scene-painter would scarcely have ventured to do in depicting the fore-courts
of Pluto’s kingdom.
Upon
this I tried other propaedeutic suggestions as expedients for effecting a
cure. But these were rejected so
emphatically with the assurance that nothing in this world ever could or should
content him, that my heart closed itself against him; and I felt my conscience
completely freed from the necessity of taking any further trouble about him
considering the fatiguing journey I had undertaken on his account, and the best
intentions I had had towards him.
