"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, there is, in strict prosaic truth, a relentless venom in ignoble minds, when the self-love is wounded, which poisons friendship and destroys all gratitude. It was not enough for the Frau von Stein that he so many years had loved her with a rare devotion; it was not enough that he had been more to her boy than its own father was; it was not enough that now the inevitable change had come, he still felt tenderness and affection for her, grateful for what she had been to him; the one fact, that he had ceased to love her, expunged the whole past. A nature with any nobleness never forgets that once it loved, and once was happy in that love; the generous heart is grateful in its memories. The heart of the Frau von Stein had no memory but for its wounds. She spoke with petty malice of the "low person" who had usurped her place; rejected Goethe's friendship; affected to pity him; and circulated gossip about his wife. They were forced to meet; but they met no longer as before. To the last he thought and spoke of her tenderly; and when there was anything appetizing brought to table which he thought would please her, he always said, "Send some of this to the Frau von Stein." find There is a letter of her's extant which shows what was the state of her feelings after a lapse of twelve years. It may a place here as a conclusive document with which to wind up the strange episode of their history. It is addressed to her Three passages are italicized by way of emphasis, to call attention to the spirit animating the writer. son. "I did not know that our former friend, Goethe, was still so dear to me, that a severe illness, from which he has been suffering for nine days, would so deeply affect me. VOL. II. It is a 7 convulsive cough accompanied with erysipelas; he can lie in no bed, and is obliged always to be kept in a standing posture, otherwise he would be choked. His neck, as well as his face, is swollen and full of internal blisters, his left eye stands out like a great nut, and discharges blood and matter; he is often delirious, inflammation of the brain was feared, so he was bled, and had mustard foot-baths, which made his feet swell, and seemed to do him some good; but last night the convulsive cough returned, I fear from his having been shaved yesterday; my letter will tell you either of his being better or of his death-I shall not send it before. The Schillers and I have already shed many tears over him in the last few days; I deeply regret now that when he wished to visit me on New Year's Day, I, alas ! because I lay ill with headache, excused myself, and now I shall perhaps never see him again. "14th. Goethe is better, but the twenty-first day must be got over; between this and then something else might happen to him, because the inflammation has injured something in his head and his diaphragm. Yesterday he ate with great appetite some soup which I had sent him; his eye, too, is better, but he is very melancholy, and they say he wept for three hours; especially he weeps when he sees August, who has in the meantime taken refuge with me: I am sorry for the poor boy, he was dreadfully distressed, but he is already accustomed to drink away his troubles; he lately, in a club belonging to his mother's class, drank seventeen glasses of champagne, and I had the greatest difficulty in keeping him from wine when he was with me. "15th. Goethe sent to me to-day, thanked me for my sympathy, and hoped he should soon be better; the doctors consider him out of danger, but his recovery will take a long time yet." Who could believe that this was written by one passionately loved for ten years, and written of one who was thought to be dying? Even here her hatred to Christiane cannot restrain itself. CHAPTER IX. TASSO. WHAT Johnson said of Comus may be equally applied to Tasso, that it is a series of faultless lines, but no drama. For the full enjoyment of this exquisite work, it is necessary we should approach it with no expectation of finding the qualities demanded from a drama. It has its charm, which few will resist; but it is, with the exception of Die Natürliche Tochter, the weakest of Goethe's serious dramatic efforts. There is a calm broad effulgence of light in it very different from the concentrated lights of effect, which we are accustomed to find in modern works, and which are inseparable from the true dramatic form. It has the clearness, unity, and matchless grace of a Raphael, not the lustrous warmth of a Titian, or the crowded gorgeousness of Paul Veronese. There is scarcely any action, and that action is only the vehicle of an internal struggle in the mind of Tasso, whose love and madness are felt to be constantly present, but are not seen flaming into dramatic effect. The tragedy is purely psychological the fluctuation of feelings, and the quiet development of character. And this is represented through dialogue, not through action. Hence the beauty of this work lies solely in its poetry. Unless we can feel the magic of the form, we have no more chance of being moved by it, than by a bad copy of a fine statue. Translation, however meritorious, cannot reproduce this magic; although the magic tempts translators to essay their skill. The latest and best translation is that by Miss Swanwick ;* but how inadequately even that, notwithstanding its great elegance, represents the original, may be seen in the following examples. Here is a couplet, often quoted because it so finely expresses an old truth: Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, Sich ein Charakter in dem Strom der Welt. When Miss Swanwick translates it— Talents are nurtured best in solitude, But character on life's tempestuous sea the reader has no objection to make to the translation, except that he feels the whole charm of the original has vanished. Again: Willst du genau erfahren was sich ziemt; So frage nur bei edlen Frauen an— is scarcely recognizable in Wouldst thou define exactly what is fitting, Thou shouldst apply methinks to noble women. And, to conclude: Nach Freiheit strebt der Mann, das Weib nach Sitte— is not felicitously rendered by 'Tis order woman seeketh, freedom man. I have purposely selected passages which, containing plain and * In Bohn's Standard Library, vol. LII. |