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The Novel in Germany

J. W. VON GOETHE

The Sorrows Of Werther Book I Book II

The Editor To The Reader

GOTTFRIED KELLER

Biographical Note

The Banner Of The Upright Seven

THEODOR STORM

Biographical Note

The Rider On The White Horse

THEODOR FONTANE

Biographical Note

THE NOVEL IN GERMANY

The fact that newspaper reporters commonly call their articles "stories" points to a certain analogy between the novel and the newspaper. Even when prose fiction aims to be a fine art, it readily takes on a journalistic character; it is usually designed for immediate effect--at the concomitant risk of producing no other--and it easily passes from hand to hand or from country to country. In our day prose fiction is almost an international phenomenon: novels of a high degree of popularity are immediately translated and promptly imitated in the most distant quarters of the globe.

In the universal give and take of literary commodities Germany has played her part and, from time to time at least, has been in no wise a debtor nation; but she has more often followed than led along new paths, making up in thoroughness what she lacked in originality, and a superficial history of the German novel would be little more than a record of how successive foreign influences were turned to account in domestic production. Thus, in the eighteenth century such sorrows as those of Werther would doubtless have found some form of expression, but Goethe could not have expressed them as he did without the example of Rousseau and Richardson. Wieland and Jean Paul Richter are inconceivable without Fielding and Sterne. In the nineteenth century the epochs of German novel-writing are marked by the times when Scott, Dickens, Balzac, Dumas, Sue, George Sand, Tolstoy, Ibsen, Bj?rnson, Turgenev, Zola, or some other foreigner, happened for the moment to be most conspicuous on the literary horizon. During the century that lies between Goethe and Hauptmann there is hardly a German novelist who has invited imitation abroad. It is in the lyric poem that the Germans have excelled, and in the drama and the opera that they have scored their international successes.

The history of the German novel would have, however, also to record that those writers have secured the most permanent distinction who have most significantly modified in their own way the suggestions which foreign examples gave them, and that the greatest distinction of all belongs to writers whom we can, if we will, associate with one or another of the main currents, but who are by no means carried away by it. In the work of these men the national character of the German novel, if it has a national character, ought to be discoverable.

It was Goethe's opinion that the hero of a novel should be passive, and so eminently dramatic a genius as Hebbel declared that the important thing for us to observe in any individual is not how he makes his mark in the world, but how the world makes its marks upon him. These views, synonymous in meaning, but uttered by men as different, one from the other, as two Germans could very well be, may suffice as an indication of the common quality for which we are seeking: it is the metaphysical cast of the German mind. When Goethe contemplated the transitoriness of conditions, and in all his work endeavored to catch and preserve these fleeting phenomena, or when Hebbel defined man as the resultant of conflicting forces rather than as an effective force in himself, both evidently thought of life as a product, not as a producer, and sought the meaning of life in personal reaction rather than in personal action. The life of which the German desires abundance is the inner life. Character is to him a greater good than conduct.

Accordingly, German literature is not rich in tales of adventurous activity--indeed, it affords few examples of pure narrative, that is, of stories told chiefly for the sake of chronicling events. When such a master narrator as Heinrich von Kleist tells a tale, he presents the facts objectively--no judicial referee could be more circumstantial; but in the case on which he reports the author sees the impersonation of a problem, and the data which really concern him are the perturbed emotions of a man or woman. The same is true of Kleist's contemporary, Ludwig Tieck, of the amiable Theodor Storm, and of the prolific Paul Heyse. The character, in its peculiar makeup and its peculiar circumstances, presents a problem, and the most significant evidence that its experiences furnish is its reaction upon the outside world. An author who treats this character will, then, dwell fondly upon psychological analysis and upon the atmosphere in which the character lives and moves and has its being.

These facts account for certain peculiarities of form in German fiction which to us seem like defects. It generally takes a German novelist a long while to get under way, and he generally appears to move in spirals. He invites us to tarry and survey the scenery--to which his hero is wont to be more sensitive than we are--and he tends to elaborate episodes, which serve indeed to bring out qualities in his persons, but which, an impatient reader would say, delay the action. Evidently, it is not the action about which the author primarily cares. But the German novelist has the merits of his defects: if he does not touch lightly, he does probe deeply, and if his characters cannot manage to get things done and over, their impediment is an excess of those personal endowments which have after all to be reckoned among the positive values of life. It is better to be sentimental or even whimsical than to have neither sentiments nor ideas.

Probably the most pitiful failures in German fiction have attended those imitators of foreign models who mistook for "modern" what is simply shallow and frivolous, and, trying to be smart, proved themselves merely clumsy. Freytag, call him a Philistine if you will, is preferable, with his gospel of toil for one's daily bread, to those who would hold the dissolute idlers of the great cities to be typical representatives of modern life. Fontane, on the other hand, as "modern" as any, shows how an intelligent and cultivated man can assimilate foreign suggestions, remain himself, and treat the actualities of life with a matter-of-factness as far from cynicism as it is from prudery.

The German novel after Goethe followed his lead. The idea of education by experience, and the idea of the symbolical presentation of the inexplicable background of life, give to some of the greatest examples of prose fiction of the nineteenth century--such as M?rike's "Maler Nolten," Keller's "Gr?ner Heinrich," and Spielhagen's "Problematische Naturen"--this Goethean, Romantic picturesqueness. If the heroes are seldom great public characters and the background of their lives does not always suggest relations with illimitable space, these facts find their explanation in the German proneness to particularism.

To this particularism the short story would seem to be especially adapted. In fact, the Germans--again following Goethe's lead--have probably attained to a higher excellence in the short story than in the novel. It is to their advantage that in the narrow limits of this form they have no opportunity to philosophize; they must relate how something happened of which their auditors have not heard, or must depict a situation as it discloses itself to a passing glance. The Swiss Keller and Meyer and many Germans, Austrians, and Swiss of our own time have attained considerable virtuosity in this form; but many of their products would have to be called little novels rather than short stories in the technical sense.

There are, then, some national traits in German prose fiction taken by and large. The Germans cannot vie with the English as writers of stories long or short. They have, however, much more to offer than has yet been widely circulated. During the past forty years the world has marveled at their achievements is the multifarious departments of active life. Nevertheless, their highest ideal is not doing, but being; and this being is faithfully reflected in their novels and tales.

W. G. H.

THE SORROWS OF WERTHER

BY J. W. VON GOETHE

TRANSLATED BY BAYARD TAYLOR

CRITICISM AND INTERPRETATION

The works just mentioned, though noble specimens of youthful talent, are still not so much distinguished by their intrinsic merits, as by their splendid fortune. It would be difficult to name two books which have exercised a deeper influence on the subsequent literature of Europe than these two performances of a young author; his first fruits, the produce of his twenty-fourth year. "Werther" appeared to seize the hearts of men in all quarters of the world, and to utter for them the word which they had long been waiting to hear. As usually happens, too, this same word once uttered was soon abundantly repeated; spoken in all dialects, and chanted through all the notes of the gamut, till at length the sound of it had grown a weariness rather than a pleasure. Sceptical sentimentality, view-hunting, love, friendship, suicide, and desperation, became the staple of literary ware; and though the epidemic, after a long course of years, subsided in Germany, it reappeared with t various modifications in other countries; and everywhere abundant traces of its good and bad effects are still to be discerned....

But overlooking these spiritual genealogies, which bring little certainty and little profit, it may be sufficient to observe of "Berlichingen" and "Werther," that they stand prominent among the causes, or, at the very least, among the signals, of a great change in modern Literature. The former directed men's attention with a new force to the picturesque effects of the Past; and the latter, for the first time, attempted the more accurate delineation of a class of feelings, deeply important to modern minds; but for which our elder poetry offered no exponent, and perhaps could offer none, because they are feelings that arise from passion incapable of being converted into action, and belong chiefly to an age as indolent, cultivated, and unbelieving, as our own. This, notwithstanding the dash of falsehood which may exist in "Werter" itself, and the boundless delirium of extravagance which it called forth in others, is a high praise which cannot justly be denied it.--From "German Romance" .

THE SORROWS OF WERTHER

BOOK I

May 4.

How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom I love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me. Have not other attachments been specially appointed by fate to torment a head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet I was not to blame. Was it my fault, that, whilst the peculiar charms of her sister afforded me an agreeable entertainment, a passion for me was engendered in her feeble heart? And yet am I wholly blameless? Did I not encourage her emotions? Did I not feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature, which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us? Did I not--but oh! what is man, that he dares so to accuse himself? My dear friend, I promise you I will improve; I will no longer, as has ever been my habit, continue to ruminate on every petty vexation which fortune may dispense; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be for me the past. No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men--and God knows why they are so fashioned--did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity.

Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to her business to the best of my ability, and shall give her the earliest information about it. I have seen my aunt, and find that she is very far from being the disagreeable person our friends allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerful woman, with the best of hearts. I explained to her my mother's wrongs with regard to that part of her portion which has been withheld from her. She told me the motives and reasons of her own conduct, and the terms on which she is willing to give up the whole, and to do more than we have asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject at present; only assure my mother that all will go on well. And I have again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling affair, that misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world than even malice and wickedness. At all events, the two latter are of less frequent occurrence.

In other respects I am very well off here. Solitude in this terrestrial paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and the young spring cheers with its bounteous promises my oftentimes misgiving heart. Every tree, every bush, is full of flowers; and one might wish himself transformed into a butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole existence in it.

May 10.

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than now. When, while the lovely valley teems with vapour around me, and the meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, I throw myself down among the tall grass by the trickling stream; and as I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noticed by me: when I hear the buzz of the little world among the stalks, and grow familiar with the countless indescribable forms of the insects and flies, then I feel the presence of the Almighty, who formed us in his own image, and the breath of that universal love which bears and sustains us, as it floats around us in an eternity of bliss; and then, my friend, when darkness overspreads my eyes, and heaven and earth seem to dwell in my soul and absorb its power, like the form of a beloved mistress,--then I often think with longing, Oh, would I could describe these conceptions, could impress upon paper all that is living so full and warm within me, that it might be the mirror of my soul, as my soul is the mirror of the infinite God! O my friend--but it is too much for my strength--I sink under the weight of the splendour of these visions!

May 12.

I know not whether some deceitful spirits haunt this spot, or whether it be the warm, celestial fancy in my own heart which makes everything around me seem like paradise. In front of the house is a fountain,--a fountain to which I am bound by a charm like Melusina and her sisters. Descending a gentle slope, you come to an arch, where, some twenty steps lower down, water of the clearest crystal gushes from the marble rock. The narrow wall which encloses it above, the tall trees which encircle the spot, and the coolness of the place itself,--everything imparts a pleasant but sublime impression. Not a day passes on which I do not spend an hour there. The young maidens come from the town to fetch water,--innocent and necessary employment, and formerly the occupation of the daughters of kings. As I take my rest there, the idea of the old patriarchal life is awakened around me. I see them, our old ancestors, how they formed their friendships and contracted alliances at the fountain-side; and I feel how fountains and streams were guarded by beneficent spirits. He who is a stranger to these sensations has never really enjoyed cool repose at the side of a fountain after the fatigue of a weary summer day.

May 13.

You ask if you shall send me books. My dear friend, I beseech you, for the love of God, relieve me from such a yoke! I need no more to be guided, agitated, heated. My heart ferments sufficiently of itself. I want strains to lull me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer. Often do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart. But need I confess this to you, my dear friend, who have so often endured the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sorrow to immoderate joy, and from sweet melancholy to violent passions? I treat my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy. Do not mention this again: there are people who would censure me for it.

May 15.

The common people of the place know me already, and love me, particularly the children. When at first I associated with them, and inquired in a friendly tone about their various trifles, some fancied that I wished to ridicule them, and turned from me in exceeding ill-humour. I did not allow that circumstance to grieve me: I only felt most keenly what I have often before observed. Persons who can claim a certain rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the common people, as though they feared to lose their importance by the contact; whilst wanton idlers, and such as arc prone to bad joking, affect to descend to their level, only to make the poor people feel their impertinence all the more keenly.

I know very well that we are not all equal, nor can be so; but it is my opinion that he who avoids the common people, in order not to lose their respect, is as much to blame as a coward who hides himself from his enemy because he fears defeat.

May 17.

I have made all sorts of acquaintances, but have as yet found no society. I know not what attraction I possess for the people, so many of them like me, and attach themselves to me; and then I feel sorry when the road we pursue together goes only a short distance. If you inquire what the people are like here, I must answer, "The same as everywhere." The human race is but a monotonous affair. Most of them labour the greater part of their time for mere subsistence; and the scanty portion of freedom which remains to them so troubles them that they use every exertion to get rid of it. Oh, the destiny of man!

But they are a right good sort of people. If I occasionally forget myself, and take part in the innocent pleasures which are not yet forbidden to the peasantry, and enjoy myself, for instance, with genuine freedom and sincerity, round a well-covered table, or arrange an excursion or a dance opportunely, and so forth, all this produces a good effect upon my disposition; only I must forget that there lie dormant within me so many other qualities which moulder uselessly, and which I am obliged to keep carefully concealed. Ah! this thought affects my spirits fearfully. And yet to be misunderstood is the fate of the like of us.

Alas, that the friend of my youth is gone! Alas, that I ever knew her! I might say to myself, "You are a dreamer to seek what is not to be found here below." But she has been mine. I have possessed that heart, that noble soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more than I really was, because I was all that I could be. Good heavens! did then a single power of my soul remain unexercised? In her presence could I not display, to its full extent, that mysterious feeling with which my heart embraces Nature? Was not our intercourse a perpetual web of the finest emotions, of the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in their very eccentricity, bore the stamp of genius? Alas! the few years by which she was my senior brought her to the grave before me. Never can I forget her firm mind or her heavenly patience.

I have become acquainted, also, with a very worthy person, the district judge, a frank and open-hearted man. I am told it is a most delightful thing to see him in the midst of his children, of whom he has nine. His eldest daughter especially is highly spoken of. He has invited me to go and see him, and I intend to do so on the first opportunity. He lives at one of the royal hunting-lodges, which can be reached from here in an hour and a half by walking, and which he obtained leave to inhabit after the loss of his wife, as it is so painful to him to reside in town and at the court.

There have also come in my way a few other originals of a questionable sort, who are in all respects undesirable, and most intolerable in their demonstrations of friendship. Good-by. This letter will please you; it is quite historical.

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