“Le Baron de J——, pour présenter feu Monsieur le Capitaine de M——, jadis au service de plusieurs membres de la Confédération du Rhin.”
September, 14th.
This evening I paid my visit to Göthe. He received me in a dimly lighted room, whose ‘clair obscure’ was arranged with some ‘coquetterie’; and truly, the aspect of the beautiful old man, with his Jove-like countenance, was most stately. Age has changed, but scarcely enfeebled him: he is perhaps somewhat less vivacious than formerly, but so much the more equable and mild; and his conversation is rather pervaded by a sublime serenity, than by that dazzling fire which used occasionally to surprise him, even in the midst of his highest ‘grandezza.’ I rejoiced heartily at the good health in which I found him, and said with a smile, how happy it made me to find our spiritual King in undiminished majesty and vigour. “Oh, you are too gracious,” said he, (with the yet uneffaced traces of his South German manner, accompanied by the satirical smile of a North German,[2]) “to give me such a title.” “No,” replied I, truly from my very heart, “not only king, but despot, for you have subjugated all Europe.” He bowed courteously, and questioned me concerning things which related to my former visit to Weimar; then expressed himself very kindly with regard to M——, and my efforts to improve it, gently remarking, how meritorious he ever thought it to awaken a sense of beauty, be it of what kind it may, since the Good and the Noble unfolded themselves in manifold ways out of the Beautiful. Lastly, he gave me some gleam of hope that he might comply with my earnest request that he would visit us there. Imagine, dearest, with what ‘empressment’ I caught at this, though perhaps but a ‘façon de parler.’
In the course of our conversation we came to Sir Walter Scott. Göthe was not very enthusiastic about the Great Unknown. He said he doubted not that he wrote his novels in the[3] same sort of partnership as existed between the old painters and their scholars; that he furnished the plot, the leading thoughts, and skeleton of the scenes, that he then let his pupils fill them up, and retouched them at the last. It seemed almost to be his opinion, that it was not worth the while of a man of Sir Walter Scott’s eminence to give himself up to such a number of minute and tedious details. “Had I,” added he, “been able to lend myself to the idea of mere gain, I could formerly have sent such things anonymously into the world, with the aid of Lenz and others—nay, I could still—as would astonish people not a little, and make them puzzle their brains to find out the author; but after all they would be but manufactured wares.” I afterwards observed, that it was gratifying to Germans to see what victories our literature was achieving in other countries; “And,” added I, “our Napoleon has no Waterloo to dread.”
“Certainly,” replied he, disregarding my ‘fade’ compliment, “setting aside all our original productions, we now stand on a very high step of culture, by the adoption and complete appropriation of those of foreign growth. Other nations will soon learn German, from the conviction that they may thus, to a certain extent, dispense with the learning of all other languages; for of which do we not possess all the most valuable works in admirable translations?—The ancient classics, the master-works of modern Europe, the literature of India and other eastern lands,—have not the richness and the many-sidedness[4] of the German tongue, the sincere, faithful German industry, and deep-searching German genius, reproduced them all more perfectly than is the case in any other language?”
“France,” continued he, “owed much of her former preponderance in literature to the circumstance of her being the first to give to the world tolerable versions from the Greek and Latin: but how entirely has Germany since surpassed her!”
On the field of politics, he did not appear to me to give into the favourite constitutional theories very heartily. I defended my own opinions with some warmth. He reverted to his darling idea, which he several times repeated;—that every man should trouble himself only thus far,—in his own peculiar sphere, be it great or small, to labour on faithfully, honestly, and lovingly; and that thus under no form of government would universal well being and felicity long be wanting:—that, for his own part he had followed no other course; and that I had also adopted it in M—— (as he kindly added), untroubled as to what other interests might demand. I replied frankly, but in all humility, that however true and noble this principle were, I must yet think that a constitutional form of government was first necessary to call it fully into life, since it afforded to every individual the conviction of greater security for his person and property, and consequently gave rise to the most cheerful energy, and the most steady trust-worthy patriotism, and that a far more solid universal basis would thus be laid for the quiet activity of each individual in his own circle: I concluded by adducing,—perhaps unwisely,—England in support of my argument. He immediately replied, that the, choice of the example was not happy, for that in no country was selfishness more omnipotent; that no people were perhaps essentially less humane in their political or in their private relations;[5] that salvation came not from without, by means of forms of government, but from within, by the wise moderation and humble activity of each man in his own circle; that this must ever be the main thing for human felicity, while it was the easiest and the simplest to attain.
He afterwards spoke of Lord Byron with great affection, almost as a father would of a son, which was extremely grateful to my enthusiastic feelings for this great poet. He contradicted the silly assertion that Manfred was only an echo of his Faust. He confessed, however, that it was interesting to him to see that Byron had unconsciously employed the same mask of Mephistophiles as he himself had used, although, indeed, Byron had produced a totally different effect with it. He extremely regretted that he had never become personally acquainted with Lord Byron, and severely and justly reproached the English nation for having judged their illustrious countryman so pettily, and understood him so ill. But, on this subject, Göthe has spoken so satisfactorily and so beautifully in print, that I can add nothing to it. I mentioned the representation of Faust in a private theatre at Berlin, with music by Prince Radzivil, and spoke with admiration of the powerful effect of some part of the performance.—“Well,” said Göthe gravely, “it is a strange undertaking; but all endeavours and experiments are to be honoured.”
I am angry with my vile memory that I cannot now recollect more of our conversation, which was very animated. With sentiments of the highest veneration and love, I took my leave of the great man,—the third in the great triumvirate with Homer and Shakspeare,—whose name will beam with immortal glory as long as the German tongue endures; and had I had anything of Mephistophiles in me, I should certainly have exclaimed on the step of his door,
“Es ist doch schön von einem grossen Herrn
Mit einem armen Teufel so human zu sprechen.”[6]