The Autobiography of Goethe

Frau von Laroche had married her eldest daughter at Frankfort, and often came to visit her, but could not reconcile herself to the position which she herself had chosen. Instead of feeling comfortable, or endeavouring to make any alteration, she indulged in lamentations, so that one was really forced to think that her daughter was unhappy; although, as she wanted nothing, and her husband denied her nothing, one could not well see in what her unhappiness properly consisted. In the meanwhile I was well received in the house, and came into contact with the whole circle, which consisted of persons who had partly contributed to the marriage, partly wished for it a happy result. The Dean of St. Leonhard, Dumeitz, conceived a confidence, nay, a friendship for me. He was the first Catholic clergyman with whom I had come into close contact, and who, because he was a clear-sighted man, gave me beautiful and sufficient explanations of the faith, usages, and external and internal relations of the oldest church. The figure of a well-formed though not young lady, named Servières, I still accurately remember. I likewise came into contact with the Alossina-Schweizer, and other families, forming a connexion with the sons, which long continued in the most friendly manner, and all at once found myself domesticated in a strange circle, in the occupations, pleasures, and even religious exercises of winch I was induced, nay, compelled to take part. My former relation to the young wife, which was, properly speaking, only that of a brother to a sister, was continued after marriage; my age was suitable to her own; I was the only one in the whole circle in whom she heard an echo of those intellectual tones to which she had been accustomed from her youth. We lived on together in a childish confidence, and although there was nothing impassioned in our intercourse, it was tormenting enough, because she also could not reconcile herself to her new circumstances, and although blessed with the goods of fortune, had to act as the mother of several step-children, being moreover transplanted from the cheerful vale of Ehrenbreitstein and a joyous state of youth into a gloomily-situated mercantile house. Amid so many new family connexions was I hemmed in, without any real participation or co-operation. If they were satisfied with each other, all seemed to go on as a matter of course; but most of the parties concerned turned to me in cases of vexation, which by my lively sympathy I generally rendered worse rather than better. In a short time this situation became quite insupportable to me; all the disgust at life which usually springs from such half-connexions, seemed to burden me with double and three-fold weight, and a new strong resolution was necessary to free myself from it.

Jerusalem's death, which was occasioned by his unhappy attachment to the wife of his friend, shook me out of the dream, and, because I not only visibly contemplated that which had occurred to him and me, but something similar which befel me at the moment, also stirred me to passionate emotion, I could not do otherwise than breathe into that production, which I had just undertaken, all that warmth which leaves no distinction between the poetical and the actual. I had completely isolated myself, nay, prohibited the visits of my friends, and internally also I put everything aside that did not immediately belong to the subject. On the other hand, I embraced everything that had any relation to my design, and repeated to myself my nearest life, of the contents of which I had as yet made no practical use. Under such circumstances, after such long and so many preparations in secret, I wrote Werther in four weeks without any scheme of the whole, or treatment of any part, being previously put on paper.

Werther.

The manuscript, which was now finished, lay before me as a rough draught, with few corrections and alterations. It was stitched at once, for the binding is to a written work of about the same use as the frame is to a picture; one can much better see whether there is really anything in it. Since I had written thus much, almost unconsciously, like a somnambulist, I was myself astonished, now I went through it, that I might alter and improve it in some respects. But in the expectation that after some time, when I had seen it at a certain distance, much would occur to me that would turn to the advantage of the work, I gave it to my younger friends to read, upon whom it produced an effect so much the greater, as, contrary to my usual custom, I had told no one of it, nor discovered my design beforehand. Yet here again it was the subject-matter which really produced the effect, and in this respect they were in a frame of mind precisely the reverse of my own; for by this composition, more than by any other, I had freed myself from that stormy element, upon which, through my own fault and that of others, through a mode of life both accidental and chosen, through design and thoughtless precipitation, through obstinacy and pliability, I had been driven about in the most violent manner. I felt, as if after a general confession, once more happy and free, and justified in beginning a new life.

The old nostrum had been of excellent service to me on this occasion. But while I felt myself eased and enlightened by having turned reality into poetry, my friends were led astray by my work, for they thought that poetry ought to be turned into reality, that such a moral was to be imitated, and that at any rate one ought to shoot oneself. What had first happened here among a few, afterwards took place among the larger public, and this little book, which had been so beneficial to me, was decried as extremely injurious.

But all the evils and misfortunes which it may have produced were nearly prevented by an accident, since even after its production it ran the risk of being destroyed. The matter stood thus: – Merck had lately returned from Petersburg; I had spoken to him but little, because he was always occupied, and only told him, in the most general terms, of that Werther which lay next my heart. He once called upon me, and as he did not seem very talkative, I asked him to listen to me. He seated himself on the sofa, and I began to read the tale, letter by letter. After I had gone on thus for a while, without gaining from him any sign of admiration, I adopted a more pathetic strain, – but what were my feelings, when at a pause which I made, he struck me down in the most frightful manner, with "Good! that's very pretty," and withdrew without adding anything more. I was quite beside myself, for, as I took great pleasure in my works, but at first passed no judgment on them, I here firmly believed that I had made a mistake in subject, tone, and style – all of which were doubtful – and had produced something quite inadmissible. Had a fire been at hand, I should at once have thrown in the work; but I again plucked up courage, and passed many painful days, until he at last assured me in confidence, that at that moment he had been in the most frightful situation in which a man can be placed. On this account, he said, he had neither seen nor heard anything, and did not even know what the manuscript was about. In the meanwhile the matter had been set right, as far as was possible, and Merck, in the times of his energy, was just the man to accommodate himself to anything monstrous; his humour returned, only it had grown still more bitter than before. He blamed my design of rewriting Werther, with the same expressions which he had used on a former occasion, and desired to see it printed just as it was. A fair copy was made, which did not remain long in my hands, for on the very day on which my sister was married to George Schlosser, a letter from Weygand, of Leipzig, chanced to arrive, in which he asked me for a manuscript; such a coincidence I looked upon as a favourable omen. I sent off Werther, and was very well satisfied, when the remuneration I received for it was not entirely swallowed up by the debts which I had been forced to contract on account of Götz von Berlichingen.

Effect of Werther.

The effect of this little book was great, nay immense, and chiefly because it exactly hit the temper of the times. For as it requires but a little match to blow up an immense mine, so the explosion which followed my publication was mighty, from the circumstance that the youthful world had already undermined itself; and the shock was great, because all extravagant demands, unsatisfied passions, and imaginary wrongs, were suddenly brought to an eruption. It cannot be expected of the public that it should receive an intellectual work intellectually. In fact, it was only the subject, the material part, that was considered, as I had already found to be the case among my own friends; while at the same time arose that old prejudice, associated with the dignity of a printed book, – that it ought to have a moral aim. But a true picture of life has none. It neither approves nor censures, but developes sentiments and actions in their consequences, and thereby enlightens and instructs.

Of the reviews I took little notice. I had completely washed my hands of the matter, and the good folks might now try what they could make of it. Yet my friends did not fail to collect these things, and as they were already initiated into my views, to make merry with them. The Joys of Young Werther, with which Nicolai came forth, gave us occasion for many a jest. This otherwise excellent, meritorious, and well-informed man, had already begun to depreciate and oppose everything that did not accord with his own way of thinking, which, as he was of a very narrow mind, he held to be the only correct way. Against me, too, he must needs try his strength, and his pamphlet was soon in our hands. The very delicate vignette, by Chodowiecki, gave me much delight; as at that time I admired this artist extravagantly. The jumbling medley itself was cut out of that rough household stuff, which the human understanding, in its homely limits, takes especial pains to make sufficiently coarse. Without perceiving that there was nothing here to qualify, that Werther's youthful bloom, from the very first, appears gnawed by the deadly worm, Nicolai allows my treatment to pass current up to the two hundred and fourteenth page, and then, when the desolate mortal is preparing for the fatal step, the acute psychological physician contrives to palm upon his patient a pistol, loaded with chickens' blood, from which a filthy spectacle, but happily no mischief, arises. Charlotte becomes the wife of Werther, and the whole affair ends to the satisfaction of everybody.

So much I can recall to memory, for the book never came before my eyes again. I had cut out the vignette, and placed it among my most favourite engravings. I then, by way of quiet, innocent revenge, composed a little burlesque poem, "Nicolai at the grave of Werther: " which, however, cannot be communicated. On this occasion, too, the pleasure of giving everything a dramatic shape, was again predominant. I wrote a prose dialogue between Charlotte and Werther, which was tolerably comical; Werther bitterly complains that his deliverance by chickens' blood has turned out so badly. His life is saved, it is true, but he has shot his eyes out. He is now in despair at being her husband, without being able to see her; for the complete view of her person would to him be much dearer than all those pretty details of which he could assure himself by the touch. Charlotte, as may be imagined, has no great catch in a blind husband, and thus occasion is given to abuse Nicolai pretty roundly, for interfering unasked in other people's affairs. The whole was written in a good-natured spirit, and painted, with prophetic forebodings, that unhappy, conceited humour of Nicolai's, which led him to meddle with things beyond his compass, which gave great annoyance both to himself and others, and by which, eventually, in spite of his undoubted merits, he entirely destroyed his literary reputation. The original of this jeu d'esprit was never copied, and has been lost sight of for years. I had a special predilection for the little production. The pure ardent attachment of the two young persons, was rather heightened than diminished by the comico-tragic situation into which they were thus transposed. The greatest tenderness prevailed throughout; and even my adversary was not treated illnaturedly, but only humourously. I did not, however, let the book itself speak quite so politely; in imitation of an old rhyme it expressed itself thus: —

"By that conceited man – by himI'm dangerous declar'd,The heavy man, who cannot swim,Is by the water scar'd,That Berlin pack, priest-ridden lot —Their ban I do not heed,And those who understand me notShould better learn to read."

Effect of Werther.

Being prepared for all that might be alleged against Werther, I found those attacks, numerous as they were, by no means annoying; but I had no anticipation of the intolerable torment provided for me by sympathizers and well-wishers. These, instead of saying anything civil to me about my book just as it was, wished to know, one and all, what was really true in it; at which I grew very angry, and often expressed myself with great discourtesy. To answer this question, I should have been obliged to pull to pieces and destroy the form of a work on which I had so long pondered, with the view of giving a poetical unity to its many elements; and in this operation, if the essential parts were not destroyed, they would, at least, have been scattered and dispersed. However, upon a closer consideration of the matter, I could not take the public inquisitiveness in ill part. Jerusalem's fate had excited great attention. An educated, amiable, blameless young man, the son of one of the first theologians and authors, healthy and opulent, had at once, without any known cause, destroyed himself. Every one asked how this was possible, and when they heard of an unfortunate love affair, the whole youth were excited, and as soon as it transpired that some little annoyances had occurred to him in the higher circles, the middle classes also became excited; indeed every one was anxious to learn further particulars. Now Werther appeared an exact delineation, as it was thought, of the life and character of that young man. The locality and person tallied, and the narrative was so very natural, that they considered themselves fully informed and satisfied. But, on the other hand, on closer examination, there was so much that did not fit, that there arose, for those who sought the truth, an unmanageable business, because a critical investigation must necessarily produce a hundred doubts. The real groundwork of the affair was, however, not to be fathomed, for all that I had interwoven of my own life and suffering could not be deciphered, because, as an unobserved young man, I had secretly, though not silently, pursued my course.

While engaged in my work, I was fully aware how highly that artist was favoured who had an opportunity of composing a Venus from the study of a variety of beauties. Accordingly I took leave to model my Charlotte according to the shape and qualities of several pretty girls, although the chief characteristics were taken from the one I loved best. The inquisitive public could therefore discover similarities in various ladies; and even to the ladies themselves it was not quite indifferent to be taken for the right one. But these several Charlottes caused me infinite trouble, because every one who only looked at me seemed determined to know where the proper one really resided. I endeavoured to save myself, like Nathan65 with the three rings, by an expedient, which, though it might suit higher beings, would not satisfy either the believing or the reading public. I hoped after a time to be freed from such tormenting inquiries, but they pursued me through my whole life. I sought, on my travels, to escape them, by assuming an incognito, but even this remedy was, to my disappointment, unavailing, and thus the author of the little work, had he even done anything wrong and mischievous, was sufficiently, I may say disproportionately, punished by such unavoidable importunities.

Subjected to this kind of infliction, I was taught but too unequivocally, that authors and their public are separated by an immense gulf, of which, happily, neither of them have any conception. The uselessness, therefore, of all prefaces I had long ago seen; for the more pains a writer takes to render his views clear, the more occasion he gives for embarrassment. Besides, an author may preface as elaborately as he will, the public will always go on making precisely those demands which he has endeavoured to avoid. With a kindred peculiarity of readers, which (particularly with those who print their judgments) seems remarkably comical, I was likewise soon acquainted. They live, for instance, in the delusion that an author, in producing anything, becomes their debtor; and he always falls short of what they wished and expected of him, although before they had seen our work, they had not the least notion that anything of the kind existed, or was even possible. Independent of all this, it was now the greatest fortune, or misfortune, that every one wished to make the acquaintance of this strange young author, who had stepped forward so unexpectedly and so boldly. They desired to see him, to speak to him, and, even at a distance, to hear something from him; thus he had to undergo a very considerable crowd, sometimes pleasant, sometimes disagreeable, but always distracting. For enough works already begun lay before him, nay, and would have given him abundance of work for some years, if he could have kept to them with his old fervour; but he was drawn forth from the quiet, the twilight, the obscurity, which alone can favour pure creation, into the noise of daylight, where one is lost in others, where one is led astray, alike by sympathy and by coldness, by praise and by blame, because outward contact never accords with the epoch of our inner culture, and therefore, as it cannot further us, must necessarily injure us.

Dramatic Tendency.

Yet more than by all the distractions of the day, the author was kept from the elaboration and completion of greater works by the taste then prevalent in this society for dramatizing everything of importance which occurred in actual life. What that technical expression (for such it was in our inventive society) really meant, shall here be explained. Excited by intellectual meetings on days of hilarity, we were accustomed, in short extemporary performances, to communicate, in fragments, all the materials we had collected towards the formation of larger compositions. One single simple incident, a pleasantly naïve or even silly word, a blunder, a paradox, a clever remark, personal singularities or habits, nay, a peculiar expression, and whatever else would occur in a gay and bustling life – took the form of a dialogue, a catechism, a passing scene, or a drama, – often in prose, but oftener in verse.

By this practice, carried on with genial passion, the really poetic mode of thought was established. We allowed objects, events, persons, to stand for themselves in all their bearings, our only endeavour being to comprehend them clearly, and exhibit them vividly. Every expression of approbation or disapprobation was to pass in living forms before the eyes of the spectator. These productions might be called animated epigrams, which, though without edges or points, were richly furnished with marked and striking features. The Jahrmarktsfest (Fair-festival) is an epigram of this kind, or rather a collection of such epigrams. All the characters there introduced are meant for actual living members of that society, or for persons at least connected and in some degree known to it; but the meaning of the riddle remained concealed to the greater part; all laughed and few knew that their own marked peculiarities served as the jest. The prologue to Bahrdt's Newest Revelations may be looked upon as a document of another kind; the smallest pieces are among the miscellaneous poems, a great many have been destroyed or lost, and some that still exist do not admit of being published. Those which appeared in print only increased the excitement of the public, and curiosity about the author; those which were handed about in manuscript entertained the immediate circle, which was continually increasing. Doctor Bahrdt, then at Giessen, paid me a visit, apparently courteous and confiding; he laughed over the prologue, and wished to be placed on a friendly footing. But we young people still continued to omit no opportunity at social festivals, of sporting, in a malicious vein, at the peculiarities which we had remarked in others, and successfully exhibited.

If now it was by no means displeasing to the young author to be stared at as a literary meteor, he nevertheless sought, with glad modesty, to testify his esteem for the most deserving men of his country, among whom, before all others, the admirable Justus Möser claims especial mention. The little essays on political subjects by this incomparable man, had been printed some years before in the Osnabrück Intelligenzblätter, and made known to me through Herder, who overlooked nothing of worth that appeared in his time, especially if in print. Moser's daughter, Frau von Voigt, was occupied in collecting these scattered papers. We had scarcely patience to wait for their publication, and I placed myself in communication with her, to assure her, with sincere interest, that the essays, which, both in matter and form, had been addressed only to a limited circle, would be useful and beneficial everywhere. She and her father received these assurances from a stranger, not altogether unknown, in the kindest manner, since an anxiety which they had felt, was thus preliminarily removed.

What is in the highest degree remarkable and commendable in these little essays, all of which being composed in one spirit, form together a perfect whole, is the very intimate knowledge they display of the whole civil state of man. We see a system resting upon the past, and still in vigorous existence. On the one hand there is a firm adherence to tradition, on the other, movement and change which cannot be prevented. Here alarm is felt at a useful novelty, there pleasure in what is new, although it be useless, or even injurious. With what freedom from prejudice the author explains the relative position of different ranks, and the connexion in which cities, towns, and villages mutually stand! We learn their prerogatives, together with the legal grounds of them; we are told where the main capital of the state is invested, and what interest it yields. We see property and its advantages on the one hand, on the other, taxes and disadvantages of various kinds; and then the numerous branches of industry; and in all this past and present times are contrasted.

Osnaburg, as a member of the Hanseatic League, we are told, had in the earlier periods an extensive and active commerce. According to the circumstances of those times, it had a remarkable and fine situation; it could receive the produce of the country, and was not too far removed from the sea to transport it in its own ships. But now, in later times, it lies deep in the interior, and is gradually removed and shut out from the sea trade. How this has occurred, is explained in all its bearings. The conflict between England and the coasts, and of the havens with the interior, is mentioned; here are set forth the great advantages of those who live on the sea-side, and deliberate plans are proposed for enabling the inhabitants of the interior to obtain similar advantages. We then learn a great deal about trades and handicrafts, and how these have been outstripped by manufactures, and undermined by shop-keeping; decline is pointed out as the result of various causes, and this result, in its turn, as the cause of a further decline, in an endless circle, which it is difficult to unravel; yet it is so clearly set forth by the vigilant citizen, that one fancies one can see the way to escape from it. The author throughout displays the clearest insight into the most minute circumstances. His proposals, his counsel – nothing is drawn from the air, and yet they are often impracticable; on which account he calls his collection "patriotic fancies," although everything in it is based on the actual and the possible.

Justus Moeser.

But as everything in public life is influenced by domestic condition, this especially engages his attention. As objects both of his serious and sportive reflections, we find the changes in manners and customs, dress, diet, domestic life, and education. It would be necessary to indicate everything which exists in the civil and social world, to exhaust the list of subjects which he discusses. And his treatment of them is admirable. A thorough man of business discourses with the people in weekly papers, respecting whatever a wise and beneficent government undertakes or carries out, that he may bring it to their comprehension in its true light. This is by no means done in a learned manner, but in those varied forms which may be called poetic, and which, in the best sense of the word, must certainly be considered rhetorical. He is always elevated above his subject, and understands how to give a cheerful view of the most serious subjects; now half-concealed behind this or that mask, now speaking in his own person, always complete and exhausting his subject, – at the same time always in good humour; more or less ironical, thoroughly to the purpose, honest, well-meaning, sometimes rough and vehement; – and all this so well regulated, that the spirit, understanding, facility, skill, taste, and character of the author cannot but be admired. In the choice of subjects of general utility, deep insight, enlarged views, happy treatment, profound yet cheerful humour, I know no one to whom I can compare him but Franklin.