Goethe's literary essays — Themes and Context

or intellectual, as well as pleasurable and stimulating, conversation.

Some one may say that the best literature of a nation cannot be discovered or recognized, unless one brings home to one’s mind the whole complex of its circumstances and social conditions. Something of all this can be obtained from the papers, which give us enough detailed information of public affairs. But this is not enough; we must add to it what foreigners in their critical journals and reviews are accustomed to say about themselves and about other nations, particularly the Germans,--their ideas and opinions, their interest in and reception of our productions. If one wishes, for instance, to acquaint oneself with modern French literature, one should study the lectures which have been given for the last two years and are now appearing in print,--lectures such as Guizot’s _Cours d’histoire moderne_, Villemain’s _Cours de littérature française_, and Cousin’s _Cours de l’histoire de la philosophie_. The significance they have both at home and for us comes out thus in the clearest fashion. Still more effective and interesting are perhaps the frequent numbers and volumes of _Le Globe_, _La Revue française_, and the daily, _Le Temps_. None of these can be spared, if we are to keep vividly before our eyes both sides of these great movements in France and all the subsidiary currents that spring from them.

French poetry, like French literature, is not distinct in spirit from the life and passions of the nation as a whole. In recent times it appears naturally always as the “Opposition,” and summons every genius to make the most of his talent in resisting the “powers that be,” which since they are endowed with force do not need to be intellectual or spiritual.

If we follow this verse, which reveals so much, we see deep down into the soul of the nation, and from the way in which they judge us, more or less favorably, we can at the same time learn to judge ourselves. And it can do no harm to have some one make us think about ourselves.

Whoever follows the course proposed above will very quickly become completely informed of all public affairs and semi-public affairs. In our present admirably managed book-trade it is possible to obtain books speedily, instead of waiting, as has often been my experience, until the author takes occasion to send his work as a gift, so that I have often read the book long before I received it from him.

From all this it is evident that it is no light task to keep in touch with all the literature of the present day. Of the English, as well as the Italian, I shall have to speak again more particularly, for there is much more to be said.

There has been talk for some time of a general world-literature, and indeed not without justice. For the nations, after they had been shaken into confusion and mutual conflict by the terrible wars, could not return to their settled and independent life again without noticing that they had learned many foreign ideas and ways, which they had unconsciously adopted, and had come to feel here and there previously unrecognized spiritual and intellectual needs. Out of this arose the feeling of neighborly relations, and, instead of shutting themselves up as before, they gradually came to desire the adoption of some sort of more or less free spiritual intercourse.

This movement, it is true, has lasted only a short time, but still long enough to start considerable speculation, and to acquire from it, as one must always from any kind of foreign trade, both profit and enjoyment.

ON EPIC AND DRAMATIC POETRY[6]

The epic and the dramatic writer are both subject to the universal poetic laws, especially the law of unity and the law of progressive development. Furthermore they both deal with similar subjects and both can use a great variety of motives. The essential difference consists in this, that an epic poet narrates an event as completely past, while the dramatist presents it as completely present. If one wished to develop in detail from the nature of man these laws which both have to follow, one would continually have to keep before his mind a rhapsodist and an actor, each in the character of a poet, the former surrounded by a circle of listeners quietly following with rapt attention, the latter by an impatient throng who have come simply to see and to hear. It would then not be difficult to deduce what is most advantageous to either of these two forms of poetry, what subjects either will choose preëminently, nor what motives either will make use of most frequently; as I remarked in the beginning, neither can lay claim to any one thing exclusively.

The subject of the epic as well as of tragedy should be based on the purely human, it should be vital, and it should make an appeal to one’s feelings. The best effect is produced when the characters stand upon a certain plane of cultural advancement, so that their actions are purely the expression of their personality and are not influenced by moral, political or mechanical considerations. The myths of the heroic times were especially useful to the poets on these grounds.

The epic poem represents more especially action restricted to individuals; tragedy, suffering restricted to individuals. The epic poem represents man as an external agent, engaged in battles, journeys, in fact in every possible kind of undertaking, and so demands a certain elaborateness of treatment. Tragedy, on the other hand, represents man as an internal agent, and the action, therefore, requires but little space in a genuine tragedy.

There are five kinds of motives:

(1) Progressive, which advance the action. These the drama uses preëminently.

(2) Retrogressive, which draw the action away from its goal. These the epic poem uses almost exclusively.

(3) Retarding, which delay the progress of the action or lengthen its course. Both epic and tragic poetry use these to very great advantage.

(4) Retrospective, which introduce into the poem events which happened before the time of the poem.

(5) Prospective, which anticipate what will happen after the time of the poem. The epic as well as the dramatic poet uses the last two kinds of motives to make his poem complete.

The worlds which are to be represented are common to both, namely:--

(1) The physical world, which consists first of all of the immediate world to which the persons represented belong and which surrounds them. In it the dramatist limits himself mostly to one locality, while the epic poet moves about with greater freedom and in a larger sphere. Secondly, the physical world, containing the more remote world in which all of nature is included. This world the epic poet, who appeals exclusively to the imagination, makes more intelligible through the use of similes and metaphors, which figures of speech are employed more sparingly by the dramatist.

(2) The moral world, which is absolutely common to both, and, whether normal or pathological, is best represented in its simplicity.

(3) The world of fancies, forebodings, apparitions, chance and fate. This is available to both, only it must of course be approximated to the world of the senses. In this world there arises a special difficulty for us moderns, because we cannot easily find substitutes for the fabulous creatures, gods, soothsayers and oracles of the ancients, however much we may desire to.

If we consider the manner of treatment as a whole, we shall find the rhapsodist, who recites what is completely past, appearing as a wise man, with calm deliberation surveying the events. It will be the purpose of his recital to get his hearers into an even frame of mind, so that they will listen to him long and willingly. He will divide the interest evenly, because it is impossible for him to counteract quickly a too vivid impression. He will, according to his pleasure, go back in point of time or anticipate what is to come. We may follow him everywhere, for he makes his appeal only to the imagination, which originates its own images and which is to a certain extent indifferent as to which images are called up. The rhapsodist as a higher being ought not to appear himself in his poem; he would read best of all behind a curtain, so that we may separate everything personal from his work, and may believe we are hearing only the voice of the Muses.

The actor represents the very reverse of this. He presents himself as a definite individuality. It is his desire to have us take interest exclusively in him and in his immediate surroundings, so that we may feel with him the sufferings of his soul and of his body, may share his embarrassments and forget ourselves in him. To be sure he, too, will proceed by degrees, but he can risk far more vivid effects, because by his actual presence before the eyes of the audience he can neutralize a stronger impression even by a weaker one. The senses of spectators and listeners must be constantly stimulated. They must not rise to a contemplative frame of mind, but must follow eagerly; their imagination must be completely suppressed; no demands must be made upon it; and even what is narrated must be vividly brought before their vision, as it were, in terms of action.

[6] By Goethe and Schiller.

SUPPLEMENT TO ARISTOTLE’S _POETICS_[7]

Every one who has concerned himself at all about the theory of poetic art--and of tragedy in particular--will remember a passage in Aristotle which has caused the commentators much difficulty, without their ever having been able to convince themselves wholly of its meaning. In his definition of tragedy this great writer seems to demand of it that, through the representation of stirring deeds and events, which should arouse pity and fear, the soul of the spectator should be purified of these passions.

My thoughts and convictions in regard to this passage I can best impart by a translation of it:--

“Tragedy is the imitation of a significant and complete action, which has a certain extension in time and is portrayed in beautiful language by separate individuals, each of whom plays a rôle, instead of having all represented by one person as in the narration of a story or epic. After a course of events arousing pity and fear, the action closes with the equilibration of these passions.”

In the foregoing translation, I believe I have made this hitherto dubious passage clear; it will only be necessary to add the following remarks: Could Aristotle, notwithstanding his always objective manner,--as, for instance, here, where he seems to be speaking exclusively of the technique of tragedy,--be really thinking of the effect, indeed the distant effect, upon the _spectator_? By no means! He speaks clearly and definitely: When the course of action is one arousing pity and fear, the tragedy must close _on the stage_ with an equilibration, a reconciliation, of these emotions.

By “catharsis,” he understands this reconciling culmination, which is demanded of all drama, indeed of all poetical works.

This occurs in the tragedy through a kind of human sacrifice, whether it be rigidly worked out with the death of the victim, or, under the influence of a favoring divinity, be satisfied by a substitute, as in the case of Abraham and Agamemnon. But this reconciliation, this release, is necessary at the end if the tragedy is to be a perfect work of art. This release, on the other hand, when effected through a favorable or desirable outcome, rather makes the work resemble an intermediate species of art, as in the return of Alcestis. In comedy, on the contrary, for the clearing up of all complications, which in themselves are of little significance from the point of view of arousing fear and hope, a marriage is usually introduced; and this, even if it does not end life completely, does make in it an important and serious break. Nobody wants to die, everybody to marry; and in this lies the half-jocose, half-serious difference between tragedy and comedy in practical æsthetics.

We shall perceive further that the Greeks did make use of their “trilogy” for such a purpose; for there is no loftier “catharsis” than the _Œdipus of Kolonus_, where a half-guilty delinquent,--a man who, through a demonic strain in his nature, through the sombre vehemence as well as greatness of his character, and through a headstrong course of action, puts himself at the mercy of the ever-inscrutable, unalterable powers,--plunges himself and his family into the deepest, irreparable misery, and yet finally, after having made atonement and reparation, is raised to the company of the gods, as the auspicious protecting spirit of a region, revered with special sacrifices and services.

Here we find the principle of the great master, that the hero of a tragedy must be regarded and represented neither as wholly guilty nor as wholly innocent. In the first case the catharsis would merely result from the nature of the story, and the murdered wretch would appear only to have escaped the common justice which would have fallen upon him anyway by law. In the second case, it is not feasible either; for then there would seem to fall on human power or fate the weight of an all too heavy burden of injustice.

But on this subject I do not wish to wax polemical, any more than on any other; I have only to point out here how up to the present time people have been inclined to put up with a dubious interpretation of this passage. Aristotle had said in the _Politics_ that music could be made use of in education for ethical purposes, since by means of the sacred melodies the minds of those raised to frenzy by the orgies were quieted and soothed again; thus he thought other emotions and passions could be calmed and equilibrated. That the argument here is from analogous cases we cannot deny; yet we think they are not identical. The effect of music depends on its particular character, as Handel has worked out in his “Alexander’s Feast,” and as we can see evidenced at every ball, where perhaps after a chaste and dignified polonaise, a waltz is played and whirls the whole company of young people away in a bacchic frenzy.

For music, like all the arts, has little power directly to influence morality, and it is always wrong to demand such results from them. Philosophy and Religion alone can accomplish this. If piety and duty must be stimulated, the arts can only casually effect this stimulation. What they can accomplish, however, is a softening of crude manners and morals; yet even this may, on the other hand, soon degenerate into effeminacy.

Whoever is on the path of a truly moral and spiritual self-cultivation, will feel and acknowledge that tragedy and tragic romance do not quiet and satisfy the mind, but rather tend to unsettle the emotions and what we call the heart, and induce a vague, unquiet mood. Youth is apt to love this mood and is for that reason passionately devoted to such productions.

We now return to our original point, and repeat: Aristotle speaks of the _technique_ of tragedy, in the sense that the poet, making it the object of his attention, contrives to create something pleasing to eye and ear in a course of a completed action.

If the poet has fulfilled this purpose and his duty on his side, tying together his knots of meaning and unraveling them again, the same process will pass before the mind of the spectator; the complications will perplex him, the solution enlighten him, but he will not go home any the better for it all. He will be inclined perhaps, if he is given to reflection, to be amazed at the state of mind in which he finds himself at home again--just as frivolous, as obstinate, as zealous, as weak, as tender or as cynical as he was when he went out. On this point we believe we have said all we can until a further working out of the whole subject makes it possible to understand it more clearly.

[7] “I have just re-read the _Poetics_ of Aristotle with the greatest pleasure; intelligence in its highest manifestation is a fine thing. It is really remarkable how Aristotle limits himself entirely to experience, and so appears, if perhaps somewhat material, for the most part all the more solid. It was also stimulating to me to see with what liberality he always shields the poet against the fault-finders and the hypercritical, how he always insists on essentials, and in everything else is so lax that in more than one place I was simply amazed. It is this that makes his whole view of poetry, and especially of his favorite forms, so vivifying that I shall soon take up the book again, especially in regard to some important passages which are not quite clear and the meaning of which I wish to investigate further.”--Goethe to Schiller, April 28, 1797.

ON THE GERMAN THEATRE

Now that the German stage, as one of our best national institutions, is emerging from an unfortunate narrowness and seclusion into freedom and vitality, wise directors are exerting themselves to produce an effect on a wide public, and not to confine themselves, however earnestly, to any single institution. Poets, actors, managers, and public will come to a better and better’ mutual understanding, but in the gratification of the moment they must not forget what their predecessors accomplished. Only upon a repertory which includes older plays can a national theatre be founded. I hope that the following words will have a favorable reception, so that the author’s courage will be stimulated and he will come forward from time to time with similar suggestions.

_A Plan of Schiller’s, and What Came of It_

When the lamented Schiller, through the influence of the court, the solicitations of society, and the inclinations of his friends, was moved to change his place of residence from Jena to Weimar, and to renounce that seclusion in which until then he had wrapt himself, he had the theatre at Weimar particularly in his mind, and he decided to devote his attention carefully and closely to the productions there.

And such a narrowing of his field the poet needed, for his extraordinary genius from his youth up had sought the heights and the depths. The power of his imagination, his poetical activity, had led him over a great range; but in spite of the ardor with which his mind traversed this broad range, with further experience it could not escape his clear insight that these qualities must necessarily lead him astray in the field of the theatre.

At Jena his friends had been witness to the perseverance and resolute determination with which he occupied himself with “Wallenstein.” This subject, which kept expanding at the hands of his genius, was worked out, knit together, revised, in numerous ways, until he saw at last that it would be necessary to divide the piece into three parts, as was thereupon done. And afterwards he did not cease to make alterations, in order that the principal scenes might acquire all the effect that was possible. The result was, however, that the _Death of Wallenstein_ was given oftener on all stages than the _Camp_ and the _Piccolomini_.

_Don Carlos_ had been condensed still earlier for the stage; and whoever will compare this play, as it is produced, with the earlier printed edition, will recognize the same laborious changes. For though Schiller in sketching out the plan of his work felt bound by no limitations, in a later revision for theatrical purposes he had the courage, as a result of his convictions, to adapt it stringently, yes even mercilessly, to the practical exigencies of the situation. These meant a definite limitation of time; all the principal scenes had to pass before the eyes of the audience in a certain period of time. All the other scenes he omitted, and yet he could never really confine himself to the space of three hours.

_The Robbers_, _Intrigue and Love_, _Fiesco_, productions of an aggressive youthful impatience and indignation at a severe and confining training, had to undergo many alterations for the stage-production which was eagerly demanded by the public and especially the young men. About them all he would speculate whether it was not possible to assimilate them to a more refined taste, a taste such as he had trained himself since to feel. On this point he was accustomed to take long and detailed counsel with himself, in long sleepless nights, and sometimes on pleasant evenings in talks with his friends.