First Weimar period (1776–86) of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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In Weimar Goethe could take a role in public affairs that in Frankfurt would have been open to him only after 40 years, if then. It was soon clear that more was wanted of him than supplying a passing visit from a fashionable personality. The duke bought him a cottage and garden just outside the city walls and paid for them to be restored. Six months after his arrival, Goethe was made a member of the ruling Privy Council—there were two other members, besides himself, who advised the duke—and Herder was summoned to become the primate of the duchy’s Lutheran church. Although at first Goethe had few duties beyond accompanying Charles Augustus and arranging court entertainments, he soon began to accumulate more prosaic responsibilities and was, initially at least, motivated by the idea of a reformed principality governed, in accordance with Enlightenment principles, for the benefit of all its subjects and not just of the landowning nobility. Much depended, of course, on the little state’s finances. Weimar, which consisted mainly of large tracts of the Thuringian Forest, had almost no industry and few natural resources, but in the hills near Ilmenau there had once been a silver mine, and Charles Augustus entrusted to Goethe his ambition to get it working again. For over 20 years Goethe struggled—preparing the legal work, getting together shareholders, equipment, and expert staff, informing himself about mining and geology—only to be defeated by repeated flooding of the shafts and, most decisively, by the poor quality of the ore that was eventually recovered. In 1779 he took on the War Commission, in addition to the Mines and Highways commissions, and in 1782, when the chancellor of the duchy’s Exchequer left under a cloud, he agreed to act in his place for two and a half years. This post made him virtually—though not in fact—prime minister and the principal representative of the duchy in the increasingly complex diplomatic affairs in which Charles Augustus was at the time involving himself. It was therefore essential to raise him to the nobility, and in 1782 he became “von Goethe” and moved into the large house on the Frauenplan that, with only one interruption, was to be his home in Weimar for the rest of his life.

Goethe was attracted to the world of the court. He recognized, probably unconsciously, that the autocratic principalities represented Germany’s political future better than the middle-class free city from which he came or the empire that was the constitutional framework for its existence. He also liked the idea (which he represented in a fragmentary epic, Die Geheimnisse [“The Mysteries”], in 1784–85 and later in his Wilhelm Meister novels) of a society of noble, self-disciplined people devoting themselves to their own culture and the improvement of the world. The reality, naturally, in no way corresponded to that ideal—the Weimar court was petty, backbiting, and snobbish—but in Charlotte von Stein, the wife of the duke’s equerry, Goethe thought he saw the ideal embodied. He felt destined for her even before he met her, and, for 10 years during which they were lovers in everything except a physical sense, he allowed her to exercise over him an extraordinary fascination. In her he saw fulfilled the longing for calm after storm and stress that he expressed in his two “Wandrers Nachtlieder” (“Wanderer’s Night Songs”), the second of which—“Über allen Gipfeln” (“Over All the Peaks”), written in 1780—is probably the best-known of all his poems.

With his ennoblement Goethe might be thought to have reached the pinnacle of his career. However, his literary output had begun to suffer. Until 1780 he continued to produce original and substantial works, particularly, in 1779, a prose drama in a quite new manner, Iphigenie auf Tauris (Iphigenia in Tauris), which shows the healing process he attributed to the influence of Frau von Stein in the context of an emotionally charged brother-and-sister relationship and as a profound moral and theological reeducation. Thereafter, however, he found it increasingly difficult to complete anything, and the flow of poetry, which had been getting thinner, all but dried up. He kept himself going as a writer by forcing himself to write one book of a novel, Wilhelm Meisters theatralische Sendung (The Theatrical Mission of Wilhelm Meister), each year until 1785. In a rough-and-tumble, ironic way, reminiscent of the English novelist Henry Fielding, it tells the story of a gifted young man who aims for stardom in a reformed German national theatrical culture. At first the plot was transparently autobiographical, but Goethe’s own development gradually diverged from that of his hero, and the novel remained in manuscript during his lifetime. For 10 years Goethe turned away completely from publishing; the last lengthy work of his to be printed before the silence was Stella in 1776.

Goethe was never entirely at ease in his role of Weimar courtier and official. As an avowed non-Christian, he had no spiritual director he could consult, but on several occasions he turned to the unknown powers that he usually called “das Schicksal” (“fate” or “destiny”) and looked for a sign. In December 1777, uncertain whether staying in Weimar with increasing responsibilities was compatible with his literary vocation, he set off secretly to the Brocken, the highest summit in the Harz Mountains and the centre of much superstitious folklore, and determined that if he could climb it when it was already deep in snow—something no one had attempted in living memory—he would take this as a sign that he was on the right path. He succeeded and was rewarded with a “moment of serene splendour” and with the poem “Harzreise im Winter” (“Winter Journey in the Harz”), which expressed his newfound confidence. In 1779 he decided to mark his 30th birthday and his entry on more serious official duties with a long trip to Switzerland in the company of Charles Augustus. For a second time he came to the St. Gotthard Pass, where he once more turned away from the road to Italy so as to pursue his duty in Germany, hoping that events would show his life was coherent and he was doing the right thing.

By 1785, however, that hope had worn thin. In that year Goethe withdrew from the Privy Council and his most onerous responsibilities in the ducal Exchequer, with little to show for all his effort and with fundamental reform out of the question. His 40th birthday was coming into sight, and he was still unmarried. Worst of all, perhaps, his extra leisure seemed unable to revive his poetic vein. He had become increasingly interested in natural science: in geology, because of his work on the mines (he thought he could define the basic structure of rocks as rhomboidal and crystalline), and in anatomy, for the light it shed on the continuity between humans and other animals. From 1785 onward he was also interested in botany. But these were substitutes for his literary activity, and, though some of the professors in the local university at Jena showed a polite interest, he could not achieve in science the recognition he had won in poetry. He accepted an offer from Georg Joachim Göschen in Leipzig to publish his complete works in eight volumes, but so much was merely fragmentary that he was unsure what, if anything, he would be able to finish. In a state near to despair he decided at last to complete his father’s educational scheme and escape secretly to Italy, the land where Winckelmann had found fulfilment in the study of ancient art and architecture and which Claude Lorrain and Jacob Philipp Hackert (two artists whom he particularly admired) had depicted as an earthly paradise. He would travel incognito, breaking, if only temporarily, all his ties with Weimar—even with Frau von Stein—and taking with him only the task of preparing his eight volumes for publication.

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