“Ask me how I am pleased with a glacier, and whether I feel warm and cheerful in its vicinity. Yes, this Goethe is a glacier, grand, sublime, and radiant, like Mount Blanc, but the atmosphere that surrounds him is cold, and the little flowers of attachment that would so gladly blossom are frozen by his grandeur. To be in Goethe’s society often, would, I confess, make me unhappy. He never descends from this altitude, even when with his most intimate friends. I believe him to be egotistic in an eminent degree. He possesses the gift of enchaining men, and of placing them under obligations to himself, by little as well as great attentions, while he always manages to remain unfettered himself. He manifests his existence in a beneficent manner, but only like a god, without revealing himself—this, it seems to me, is a consistent and systematic rule of action, based on the highest enjoyment of self-love. Men should not permit such a being to spring into existence in their midst. This, I confess, makes me detest him, although I love his intellect, and have a high opinion of his ability.”[48]
“But you will yet learn to love him as a man, Frederick.”
“It is quite possible that I may,” said Schiller, thoughtfully. “He has awakened a feeling of mingled hatred and love in my bosom—a feeling, perhaps, not unlike that which Brutus and Cassius may have entertained toward Cæsar. I could murder his spirit, and yet love him dearly.”[49]
While “Brutus” was giving utterance to this feeling of mingled hatred and love, “Cæsar” was also pronouncing judgment over “Brutus;” this judgment was, however, not a combination of hatred and love, but rather of pride and contempt. The hero who had overcome all the difficulties of the road, and whose brow was already entwined with the well-deserved laurel, may have looked down, from the sublime height which he had attained, with some proud satisfaction and pitying contempt upon him who had not yet overcome these difficulties, who had not yet vanquished the demons who opposed his ascent.
“My dear Wolf,” said Madame von Stein to Goethe, while returning to Weimar, “I had hoped that you would meet Schiller in a more cordial manner. You scarcely noticed him.”
“I esteem him too highly to meet him with a pretence of cordiality when I really dislike him,” replied Goethe, emphatically. “I have an antipathy to this man that I neither can nor will overcome.”
“But Goethe is not the man to be influenced by antipathies for which he has no good reasons.”
“Well, then,” cried Goethe, with an outburst of feeling, such as he had rarely indulged in since his return from Italy, “well, then, I have good reasons. Schiller destroys what I have toiled to create; he builds up what I fancied I had overthrown—this abominable revolution in the minds of men, this heaven-storming conviviality, this wild glowing, and reeling, so very indistinct and cloudy, so replete with tears, sighs, groans, and shouts, and so antagonistic to lucid, sublime thought, and pure enthusiasm. His ‘Robbers’ I abhor—this Franz Moor is the deformed creation of powerful but immature talent. I found, on my return from Italy, that Schiller had flooded Germany with the ethic and theatrical paradoxes of which I had long been endeavoring to purify myself. The sensation which these works have excited, the universal applause given to these deformed creations of an intoxicated imagination, alarm me. It seems to me as though my poetic labors were all in vain, and had as well be discontinued at once. For, where lies the possibility of stemming the onward tide impelled by such productions—such strange combinations of genuine worth and wild form? If Germany can be inspired by the robber, Charles Moor, and can relish a monstrous caricature like the brutal Franz Moor, then it is all over with the pure conceptions of art, which I have sought to attain for myself and my poems—then my labors are useless and superfluous, and had best be discontinued.”[50]
“But you are speaking of Schiller’s first works only, my dear friend; his later writings are of a purer and nobler nature. Have you not yet read his ‘Don Carlos?’”
“I have, and I like it no better than ‘The Robbers.’ It is useless to attempt to reconcile us to each other. Intellectually, we are two antipodes, and more than one diameter of the earth lies between and separates us. Let us then be considered as the two poles that, in the nature of things, can never be united.”[51]