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Ida Pfeiffer - "A Visit to the Holy Land"

Various - "The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction."

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Various - "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, May 28, 1919."

Gray Gets New Ingram Role; Lovett Heading Ingram Digital
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The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. II by Editor in Chief: Kuno Francke

E >> Editor in Chief: Kuno Francke >> The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. II



VOLUME II


JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE



THE GERMAN CLASSICS


MASTERPIECES OF GERMAN LITERATURE

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH



IN TWENTY VOLUMES

ILLUSTRATED




1914





VOLUME II



CONTENTS OF VOLUME II


INTRODUCTION TO THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
By Calvin Thomas

THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES.
Translated by James Anthony Froude and R. Dillon Boylan

SHAKESPEARE AND AGAIN SHAKESPEARE.
Translated by Julia Franklin

ORATION ON WIELAND.
Translated by Louis H. Gray

THE PEDAGOGIC PROVINCE (from "Wilhelm Meister's Travels").
Translated by R. Dillon Boylan

WINCKELMANN AND HIS AGE.
Translated by George Krielin

MAXIMS AND REFLECTIONS.
Translated by Bailey Saunders

ECKERMANN'S CONVERSATION WITH GOETHE.
Translated by John Oxenford

GOETHE'S CORRESPONDENCE WITH WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT AND HIS WIFE.
Translated by Louis H. Gray

GOETHE'S CORRESPONDENCE WITH K. F. ZELTER.
Translated by Frances H. King




ILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME II

Capri

Edward reading aloud to Charlotte and the Captain

Charlotte receives Ottilie. By P. Grotjohann

Edward and Ottilie. By P. Grotjohann

Edward, Charlotte, Ottilie and the Captain discuss
the new plan of the house. By Franz Simm

Ottilie examines Edward's Presents. By P Grotjohann

Luciana posing as Queen Artemisia. By P. Grotjohann

Ottilie. By Wilhelm von Kaulbach

The Old Theatre, Weimar. By Peter Woltze

Martin Wieland. By E. Hader

Princess Amalia

Winckelmann

Weimar seen from the North

Goethe and his Secretary. By Johann Josef Schmeller

Goethe's Study

The Garden at Goethe's City House, Weimar. By Peter Woltze

Schiller's Garden House at Jena. Drawing by Goethe

The float at Jena. Drawing by Goethe

View into the Saale Valley near Jena. Drawing by Goethe

K.F. Zelter


INTRODUCTION TO THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES


In the spring of the year 1807 Goethe began work on the second part of
_Wilhelm Meister_. He had no very definite plot in view, but proposed to
make room for a number of short stories, all relating to the subject of
renunciation, which was to be the central theme of the _Wanderjahre_. In
the course of the summer, while he was taking the waters at Karlsbad,
two or three of the stories were written. The following spring he set
about elaborating another tale of renunciation, the idea of which had
occurred to him some time before. But somehow it refused to be confined
within the limits of a novelette. As he proceeded the matter grew apace,
until it finally developed into the novel which was given to the world
in 1809 under the title of _The Elective Affinities_.

When that which should be a short story is expanded into a novel one can
usually detect the padding and the embroidery. So it is certainly in
this case. Those long descriptions of landscape-gardening; the copious
extracts from Ottilie's diary, containing many thoughts which would
hardly have entered the head of such a girl; the pages given to
subordinate characters, whose comings and goings have no very obvious
connection with the story,--all these retard the narrative and tend to
hide the essential idea. The strange title, too, has served to divert
attention from the real centre of gravity. Had the tale been called,
say, "Ottilie's Expiation," there would have been less room for
misunderstanding and irrelevant criticism; there would have been less
concern over the moral, and more over the artistic, aspect of the story.

What then was the essential idea? Simply to describe a peculiar tragedy
resulting from the invasion of the marriage relation by lawless passion.
As for the title, it should be remembered that there was just then a
tendency to look for curious analogies between physical law and the
operations of the human mind. Great interest was felt in suggestion,
occult influence, and all that sort of thing. Goethe himself had lately
been lecturing on magnetism. He had also observed, as no one can fail to
observe, that the sexual attraction sometimes seems to act like chemical
affinity: it breaks up old unions, forms new combinations, destroys
pre-existing bodies, as if it were a law that _must_ work itself out,
whatever the consequences. Such a process will now and then defy
prudence, self-respect, duty, even religion,--going its way like a blind
and ruthless law of physics. But if this is to happen the recombining
elements must, of course, have each its specific character; else there
is no affinity and no tragedy.

It is no part of the analogy that the pressure of sex is always and by
its very nature like the attraction of atoms. Aside from the fact that
character consists largely in the steady inhibition of instinct and
passion by the will, there is this momentous difference between atoms or
molecules, on the one hand, and souls on the other: the character of the
atom or molecule is constant, that of the soul is highly variable. There
is no room here for remarks on free will and determinism; suffice it to
say that Goethe does not preach any doctrine of mechanical determinism
in human relations. The scientific analogy must not be pressed too hard.
It is really not important, since after all nothing turns on it.
Whatever interest the novel has it would have if all reference to
chemistry had been omitted. Goethe's thesis, if he can be said to have
one, is simply that character is fate.

He imagines a middle-aged man and woman, Edward and Charlotte, who are,
to all seeming, happily united in marriage. Each has been married before
to an unloved mate who has conveniently died, leaving them both free to
yield to the gentle pull of long-past youthful attachment. Their feeling
for each other is only a mild friendship, but that does not appear to
augur ill, since they are well-to-do, and their fine estate offers them
both a plenty of interesting work. Edward has a highly esteemed friend
called the Captain, who is for the moment without suitable employment
for his ability and energy. Edward can give him just the needed work,
with great advantage to the property, and would like to do so. Charlotte
fears that the presence of the Captain may disturb their pleasant idyl,
but finally yields. She herself has a niece, Ottilie, a beautiful girl
whom no one understands and who is not doing well at her
boarding-school. Charlotte would like to have the girl under her own
care. After much debate the pair take both the Captain and Ottilie into
their spacious castle.

And now the elective affinity begins to do its disastrous work. Edward,
who has always indulged himself in every whim and has no other standard
of conduct, falls madly in love with the charming Ottilie, who has a
passion for making herself useful and serving everybody. She adapts
herself to Edward, fails to see what a shabby specimen of a man he
really is, humors his whims, and worships him--at first in an innocent
girlish way. Charlotte is not long in discovering that the Captain is a
much better man than her husband; she loves him, but within the limits
of wifely duty. In the vulgar world of prose such a tangle could be most
easily straightened out by divorce and remarriage. This is what Edward
proposes and tries to bring about. The others are almost won over to
this solution when the event happens that precipitates the tragedy: the
child of Edward and Charlotte is accidentally drowned by Ottilie's
carelessness.

It is a very dubious link in Goethe's fiction that this child, while the
genuine offspring of Edward and Charlotte, has the features of Ottilie
and the Captain. From the moment of the drowning Ottilie is a changed
being. Her character quickly matures; like a wakened sleep-walker she
sees what a dangerous path she has been treading. She feels that
marriage with Edward would be a crime. She resists his passionate
appeals, and her remorse takes on a morbid tinge. It becomes a fixed
idea. Happiness is not for her. She must renounce it all. She must
atone--atone--for her awful sin. For a moment they plan to send her back
to school, but she cannot tear herself away from Edward's sinister
presence. At last she refuses food and gradually starves herself to
death. The wretched Edward does likewise.

Any just appreciation of Goethe's art in _The Elective Affinities_ must
begin by recognizing that it is about Ottilie. For her sake the book was
written. It is a study of a delicately organized virgin soul caught in
the meshes of an ignoble fate and beating its wings in hopeless misery
until death ends the struggle. The other characters are ordinary people:
Charlotte and the Captain ordinary in their good sense and self-control,
Edward ordinary in his moral flabbiness and his foolish infatuation. His
death, to be sure, is unthinkable for such a man and does but testify to
the unearthly attraction with which the girl is invested by Goethe's
art. The figure of Ottilie, like that of her spiritual sister Mignon, is
irradiated by a light that never was on sea or land. She is a creature
of romance, and we learn without much surprise that her dead body
performs miracles. One is reminded of that medieval lady who is doomed
to eat the heart of her crusading lover and then refuses all other food
and dies. That Edward is quite unworthy of the girl's love, that the
death of the child is no sufficient reason for her morbid remorse, is
quite immaterial, since at the end of the tale we are no longer in the
realm of normal psychology. A season of dreamy happiness, as she moves
about in a world unrealized; then a terrible shock, and after that,
remorse, renunciation, hopelessness, the will to die. Such is the logic
of the tale.




THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES


TRANSLATED BY JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE AND R. DILLON BOYLAN


PART I


CHAPTER I


Edward--so we shall call a wealthy nobleman in the prime of life--had
been spending several hours of a fine April morning in his
nursery-garden, budding the stems of some young trees with cuttings
which had been recently sent to him.

He had finished what he was about, and having laid his tools together in
their box, was complacently surveying his work, when the gardener came
up and complimented his master on his industry.

"Have you seen my wife anywhere?" inquired Edward, as he moved to go
away.

"My lady is alone yonder in the new grounds," said the man; "the
summer-house which she has been making on the rock over against the
castle is finished today, and really it is beautiful. It cannot fail to
please your grace. The view from it is perfect:--the village at your
feet; a little to your right the church, with its tower, which you can
just see over; and directly opposite you, the castle and the garden."

"Quite true," replied Edward; "I can see the people at work a few steps
from where I am standing."

"And then, to the right of the church again," continued the gardener,
"is the opening of the valley; and you look along over a range of wood
and meadow far into the distance. The steps up the rock, too, are
excellently arranged. My gracious lady understands these things; it is a
pleasure to work under her."

"Go to her," said Edward, "and desire her to be so good as to wait for
me there. Tell her I wish to see this new creation of hers, and enjoy it
with her."

The gardener went rapidly off, and Edward soon followed. Descending the
terrace, and stopping as he passed to look into the hot-houses and the
forcing-pits, he came presently to the stream, and thence, over a narrow
bridge, to a place where the walk leading to the summer-house branched
off in two directions. One path led across the churchyard, immediately
up the face of the rock. The other, into which he struck, wound away to
the left, with a more gradual ascent, through a pretty shrubbery. Where
the two paths joined again, a seat had been made, where he stopped a few
moments to rest; and then, following the now single road, he found
himself, after scrambling along among steps and slopes of all sorts and
kinds, conducted at last through a narrow more or less steep outlet to
the summer-house.

Charlotte was standing at the door to receive her husband. She made him
sit down where, without moving, he could command a view of the different
landscapes through the door and window--these serving as frames, in
which they were set like pictures. Spring was coming on; a rich,
beautiful life would soon everywhere be bursting; and Edward spoke of it
with delight.

"There is only one thing which I should observe," he added, "the
summer-house itself is rather small."

"It is large enough for you and me, at any rate," answered Charlotte.

"Certainly," said Edward; "there is room for a third, too, easily."

"Of course; and for a fourth also," replied Charlotte. "For larger
parties we can contrive other places."

"Now that we are here by ourselves, with no one to disturb us, and in
such a pleasant mood," said Edward, "it is a good opportunity for me to
tell you that I have for some time had something on my mind, about which
I have wished to speak to you, but have never been able to muster up my
courage."

"I have observed that there has been something of the sort," said
Charlotte.

"And even now," Edward went on, "if it were not for a letter which the
post brought me this morning, and which obliges me to come to some
resolution today, I should very likely have still kept it to myself."

"What is it, then" asked Charlotte, turning affectionately toward him.

"It concerns our friend the Captain," answered Edward; "you know the
unfortunate position in which he, like many others, is placed. It is
through no fault of his own; but you may imagine how painful it must be
for a person with his knowledge and talents and accomplishments, to find
himself without employment. I--I will not hesitate any longer with what
I am wishing for him. I should like to have him here with us for a
time."

"We must think about that," replied Charlotte; "it should be considered
on more sides than one."

"I am quite ready to tell you what I have in view," returned Edward.
"Through his last letters there is a prevailing tone of despondency; not
that he is really in any want. He knows thoroughly well how to limit his
expenses; and I have taken care for everything absolutely necessary. It
is no distress to him to accept obligations from me; all our lives we
have been in the habit of borrowing from and lending to each other; and
we could not tell, if we would, how our debtor and creditor account
stands. It is being without occupation which is really fretting him. The
many accomplishments which he has cultivated in himself, it is his only
pleasure--indeed, it is his passion--to be daily and hourly exercising
for the benefit of others. And now, to sit still, with his arms folded;
or to go on studying, acquiring, and acquiring, when he can make no use
of what he already possesses;--my dear creature, it is a painful
situation; and alone as he is, he feels it doubly and trebly."

"But I thought," said Charlotte, "that he had had offers from many
different quarters. I myself wrote to numbers of my own friends, male
and female, for him; and, as I have reason to believe, not without
effect."

"It is true," replied Edward; "but these very offers--these various
proposals--have only caused him fresh embarrassment. Not one of them is
at all suitable to such a person as he is. He would have nothing to do;
he would have to sacrifice himself, his time, his purposes, his whole
method of life; and to that he cannot bring himself. The more I think of
it all, the more I feel about it, and the more anxious I am to see him
here with us."

"It is very beautiful and amiable in you," answered Charlotte, "to enter
with so much sympathy into your friend's position; only you must allow
me to ask you to think of yourself and of me, as well."

"I have done that," replied Edward. "For ourselves, we can have nothing
to expect from his presence with us, except pleasure and advantage. I
will say nothing of the expense. In any case, if he came to us, it would
be but small; and you know he will be of no inconvenience to us at all.
He can have his own rooms in the right wing of the castle, and
everything else can be arranged as simply as possible. What shall we not
be thus doing for him! and how agreeable and how profitable may not his
society prove to us! I have long been wishing for a plan of the property
and the grounds. He will see to it, and get it made. You intend yourself
to take the management of the estate, as soon as our present steward's
term is expired; and that, you know, is a serious thing. His various
information will be of immense benefit to us; I feel only too acutely
how much I require a person of this kind. The country people have
knowledge enough, but their way of imparting it is confused, and not
always honest. The students from the towns and universities are
sufficiently clever and orderly, but they are deficient in personal
experience. From my friend, I can promise myself both knowledge and
method, and hundreds of other circumstances I can easily conceive
arising, affecting you as well as me, and from which I can foresee
innumerable advantages. Thank you for so patiently listening to me. Now,
do you say what you think, and say it out freely and fully; I will not
interrupt you."

"Very well," replied Charlotte; "I will begin at once with a general
observation. Men think most of the immediate--the present; and rightly,
their calling being to do and to work; women, on the other hand, more of
how things hang together in life; and that rightly too, because their
destiny--the destiny of their families--is bound up in this
interdependence, and it is exactly this which it is their mission to
promote. So now let us cast a glance at our present and our past life;
and you will acknowledge that the invitation of the Captain does not
fall in so entirely with our purposes, our plans, and our arrangements.
I will go back to those happy days of our earliest intercourse. We loved
each other, young as we then were, with all our hearts. We were parted:
you from me--your father, from an insatiable desire of wealth, choosing
to marry you to an elderly and rich lady; I from you, having to give my
hand, without any especial motive, to an excellent man, whom I
respected, if I did not love. We became again free--you first, your poor
mother at the same time leaving you in possession of your large fortune;
I later, just at the time when you returned from abroad. So we met once
more. We spoke of the past; we could enjoy and love the recollection of
it; we might have been contented, in each other's society, to leave
things as they were. You were urgent for our marriage. I at first
hesitated. We were about the same age; but I as a woman had grown older
than you as a man. At last I could not refuse you what you seemed to
think the one thing you cared for. All the discomfort which you had ever
experienced, at court, in the army, or in traveling, you were to recover
from at my side; you would settle down and enjoy life; but only with me
for your companion. I settled my daughter at a school, where she could
be more completely educated than would be possible in the retirement of
the country; and I placed my niece Ottilie there with her as well, who,
perhaps, would have grown up better at home with me, under my own care.
This was done with your consent, merely that we might have our own
lives to ourselves--merely that we might enjoy undisturbed our
so-long-wished-for, so-long-delayed happiness. We came here and settled
ourselves. I undertook the domestic part of the menage, you the
out-of-doors and the general control. My own principle has been to meet
your wishes in everything, to live only for you. At least, let us give
ourselves a fair trial how far in this way we can be enough for each
other."

"Since the interdependence of things, as you call it, is your especial
element," replied Edward, "one should either never listen to any of your
trains of reasoning, or make up one's mind to allow you to be in the
right; and, indeed, you have been in the right up to the present day.
The foundation which we have hitherto been laying for ourselves, is of
the true, sound sort; only, are we to build nothing upon it? is nothing
to be developed out of it? All the work we have done--I in the garden,
you in the park--is it all only for a pair of hermits?"

"Well, well," replied Charlotte, "very well. What we have to look to is,
that we introduce no alien element, nothing which shall cross or
obstruct us. Remember, our plans, even those which only concern our
amusements, depend mainly on our being together. You were to read to me,
in consecutive order, the journal which you made when you were abroad.
You were to take the opportunity of arranging it, putting all the loose
matter connected with it in its place; and with me to work with you and
help you, out of these invaluable but chaotic leaves and sheets to put
together a complete thing, which should give pleasure to ourselves and
to others. I promised to assist you in transcribing; and we thought it
would be so pleasant, so delightful, so charming, to travel over in
recollection the world which we were unable to see together. The
beginning is already made. Then, in the evenings, you have taken up your
flute again, accompanying me on the piano, while of visits backwards and
forwards among the neighborhood, there is abundance. For my part, I
have been promising myself out of all this the first really happy summer
I have ever thought to spend in my life."

"Only I cannot see," replied Edward, rubbing his forehead, "how, through
every bit of this which you have been so sweetly and so sensibly laying
before me, the Captain's presence can be any interruption; I should
rather have thought it would give it all fresh zest and life. He was my
companion during a part of my travels. He made many observations from a
different point of view from mine. We can put it all together, and so
make a charmingly complete work of it."

"Well, then, I will acknowledge openly," answered Charlotte, with some
impatience, "my feeling is against this plan. I have an instinct which
tells me no good will come of it."

"You women are invincible in this way," replied Edward. "You are so
sensible, that there is no answering you, then so affectionate, that one
is glad to give way to you; full of feelings, which one cannot wound,
and full of forebodings, which terrify one."

"I am not superstitious," said Charlotte; "and I care nothing for these
dim sensations, merely as such; but in general they are the result of
unconscious recollections of happy or unhappy consequences, which we
have experienced as following on our own or others' actions. Nothing is
of greater moment, in any state of things, than the intervention of a
third person. I have seen friends, brothers and sisters, lovers,
husbands and wives, whose relation to each other, through the accidental
or intentional introduction of a third person, has been altogether
changed--whose whole moral condition has been inverted by it."

"That may very well be," replied Edward, "with people who live on
without looking where they are going; but not, surely, with persons whom
experience has taught to understand themselves."

"That understanding ourselves, my dearest husband," insisted Charlotte,
"is no such certain weapon. It is very often a most dangerous one for
the person who bears it. And out of all this, at least so much seems to
arise, that we should not be in too great a hurry. Let me have a few
days to think; don't decide."

"As the matter stands," returned Edward, "wait as many days as we will,
we shall still be in too great a hurry. The arguments for and against
are all before us; all we want is the conclusion, and as things are, I
think the best thing we can do is to draw lots."

"I know," said Charlotte, "that in doubtful cases it is your way to
leave them to chance. To me, in such a serious matter, this seems almost
a crime."

"Then what am I to write to the Captain?" cried Edward; "for write I
must at once."

"Write him a kind, sensible, sympathizing letter," answered Charlotte.

"That is as good as none at all," replied Edward.

"And there are many cases," answered she, "in which we are obliged, and
in which it is the real kindness, rather to write nothing than not to
write."




CHAPTER II


Edward was alone in his room. The repetition of the incidents of his
life from Charlotte's lips; the representation of their mutual
situation, their mutual purposes, had worked him, sensitive as he was,
into a very pleasant state of mind. While close to her--while in her
presence--he had felt so happy, that he had thought out a warm, kind,
but quiet and indefinite epistle which he would send to the Captain.
When, however, he had settled himself at his writing-table, and taken up
his friend's letter to read it over once more, the sad condition of this
excellent man rose again vividly before him. The feelings which had been
all day distressing him again awoke, and it appeared impossible to him
to leave one whom he called his friend in such painful embarrassment.