22 March: Boreham on Goethe

A Stained Splendour
On the anniversary of the death of Goethe, it is pleasant to recall that, in the very first conversation between Scott and Lockhart—afterwards Sir Walter's son-in-law and biographer—the two men talked of the majestic beauty of Goethe's countenance. It was, Lockhart declared, the noblest by far that he had ever seen. The extraordinary magnetism that was destined to enchain half of Europe, early asserted itself. It bound the boy's mother, hand and foot. She was only a girl when he came into her life. She worshipped him and he knew it. He painted pictures of exceptional beauty and gave the first indications of his real genius by inventing fairy tales of rare delicacy and charm for the amusement and edification of that young mother of his. "There I sat," writes that lady, in recalling those halcyon days, "and Wolfgang held me with his large dark eyes; and when the fate of one of his favourites was not according to his taste, I saw the angry veins swell on his temples and watched him as, with a brave struggle, he restrained his tears." It is a pretty picture and must be set over against some scenes in his life story that are less attractive.

The boy was only nine when, for the first time, he attended a theatre, fell under the influence of Shakespeare and recognised the possibilities of the dramatic art. Nothing would do but that he himself should write a play or two. He did so, without achieving any startling success. But, in the process, it became whispered among his youthful companions that Wolfgang could write poetry. Eager young swains engaged him to write love songs in praise of their ladies; bridal couples paid him handsomely to celebrate their nuptials in glowing verse; and desolated mourners coaxed him into penning elegant panegyrics to their dear departed. It may be that the breathing of this sentimental atmosphere prematurely developed his own romantic propensities. At any rate, he was only 14 when he became involved in his first serious love affair.

A Nation Impatiently Awaits A Poet
It happened that Goethe began to produce poetry at the identical moment at which Germany was casting about for a laureate worthy of coronation. At the age of 21 Goethe had published "Goetz von Berlichingen" and "Leiden des Werther." What more could any nation desire? Clearly the Fatherland had produced a prodigy able to rank with the French Voltaire and the English Johnson! Karl August, a lad of 18, who had recently succeeded to the throne of Saxe-Weimar, commanded the proud young poet to visit his palace. A halo was thus placed upon his brows. He was given an official position at court. The country was ringing with his fame. At the age of 26 he found it necessary to travel incognito to evade the embarrassing attentions of the crowds. This, be it noted, was in 1775. Johnson was then 66 and Voltaire 81. Johnson smiled ponderously; Voltaire sardonically; but Germany felt that it could afford to ignore their disdain. Happily, Goethe's premature coronation affected neither his genius nor his ambition; for, while his countrymen were raving over his prentice efforts, he himself was calmly pondering the scheme of Faust. Never was a monumental work more deliberately executed. He conceived the idea as a youth; he published the first part at the age of 57; he completed the entire poem a few days before his death at the age of 82.

Carlyle struggled bravely to make a hero and a saint of Goethe. In point of fact, Goethe was neither, and, in his heart of hearts, Carlyle knew it. The knowledge hampered him. When the sage sat at his desk writing "On Heroes and Hero-worship," and came, in due course, to his chapter on The Hero as Man of Letters, his fingers itched to set down the name of Goethe as the typical literary hero. He had written hundreds of pages about Goethe; was, indeed, never tired of the theme. But Goethe as hero! Goethe as saint!

Depression Generated By A Poet's Despair
In his "Life of Goethe," Abraham Howard confesses that, at times, his subject taxes all his powers of endurance. He shudders at the way in which, as a boy, Goethe tore flowers and birds to pieces in order to dissect them, and as a man, tore women's hearts to pieces in order to study their emotions. Yet it has to be recognised that, judging him by his best work, Goethe stands without a rival, or finds a rival in Shakespeare alone. Faust, his masterpiece, probably is the greatest poem of the 19th century. As a work of art, it is simply peerless; it approximates as closely to perfection as any man need wish. It is the one production in which Goethe strikes a note of stark sincerity. "It is," as one of his commentators points out, "a reflex of the struggles of his own soul. Experience had taught him the vanity of philosophy; experience had taught him to detect the corruption underlying the veneer of civilisation; and Faust is his wail of despair over the emptiness of life." The conclusion is, of course, depressing, but everything about Goethe is depressing.

Mr. Gladstone would not admit that either the man or his writings had a single virtue. We need not be as severe as that. G. E. Lewis devoted the best years of his life to the study of Goethe. Yet, with all his admiration, he sternly rebukes those who would rank Goethe with Shakespeare. Goethe thought Shakespeare sublime, and, if he had foreseen that men would one day compare his own work with that of the English bard, he would have prayed most fervently to be saved from the rash zeal of such uninstructed friends. Dr. J. A. Hutton, just before his death, visited Frankfurt. In a street that had been bombed to atoms, he found a little heap of dust and rubble. It appeared to have been raked together by pious hands, for, on the top of it, was a piece of board bearing a card. And on the card was scrawled: "This was the birthplace of Goethe!" There is something exquisitely symbolic, as well as poignantly pathetic, about that heap of ruins.

F W Boreham

Image: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe