Goethe in Love 2

In 1814 Goethe was given a copy of a collection of poems entitled, in German translation, "Der Diwan des Mohammed Schemseddin Hafis." It was a period of  great work in linguistics, in both European and non-European languages, and one of the fruits of this work was translations from the literary works of India and Persia. Goethe was personally acquainted with the Hafis' translator, Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall.

Within a few weeks Goethe was writing the first poems in what would become West-östlicher Divan. Indeed, his encounter with the poetry of the Persian master, who had lived 500 years earlier, led not only to a poetic rejuvenation. One of the first poems he composed under the inspiration of Hafis' poetry has these lines:

So sollst du, munter Greis,/ Dich nicht betrüben,/ Sind gleich die Haare weiß / Doch wirst du lieben.

(In my clunky translation: "Don't let yourself be distressed, lively old man; even if the hair is white, you will still be in love.")

Yesterday I mentioned that Marianne von Willemer, whom Goethe first met in 1814, played an important role in the genesis of West-East Divan. On his return visit to the Willemers in 1815, when he was working industriously on the Divan poems, Goethe stayed at the "Gerbermühle," the summer home of the Willemers on the Main left bank.

This happy and productive time was even memorialized by Goethe in this view of Frankfurt from the Gerbermühle (Goethe Museum, Frankfurt). In the evenings he read the poems he had written during the day, and Marianne would sing his songs. They engaged in what has been called a poetic dialogue, reflected later in the Hatem-Suleika poems in the Divan. Their mutual passion is reflected in these poems: for instance, "Nicht Gelegenheit macht Diebe" by Goethe, "Hochbeglückt in Deiner Liebe" by Marianne.

They last saw each other on September 27, 1815. That evening Goethe wrote one of the most famous Divan poems, "Gingko Biloba," which he sent to Marianne with the small leaves attached. It is reproduced above (click to enlarge); the original is in the Goethe-Museum in Düsseldorf. Three of Marianne's poems were included (with Goethe's slight revisions) in the Divan when it was published in 1819. Two were set to music by Schubert: "Was bedeutet die Bewegung" (D720, Opus 14) and "Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen (D717, Opus 31).

Goethe in Love

Goethe wrote many beautiful love poems: "Warum gabst du uns die tiefen Blicke"; the cycle West-östlicher Divan; the so-called "Trilogie der Leidenschaft." As with the greatest poets of love, passion played a large role in his compositions. Nevertheless, though Goethe is in some ways a "modern"-- you might say he "subjectivized" his passions -- the relationships with the women with whom he fell in love (with the obvious exception of Christiane) were not consummated sexually. Passion, eroticism, yes, feeling was everything, but when he had got the feeling down in words he was free of it. Among recent scholars I am familiar with only one, Waltraud Naumann-Beyer, who contends that the long relationship between Goethe and Charlotte von Stein was a physical one. In Goethe-Handbuch (4/2), she is even quite specific about when it began: March 1781.

Without Marianne von Willemer there would be no West-East Divan. Goethe was 65 when they first met, in 1814, Marianne 30.  Despite her "theatrical" background, Marianne had moved up in the world with her marriage to the older Willemer, a Goethe admirer. A year later the three of them celebrated Goethe's 66th birthday at the "Gerbermühle" on the Willemer estate near Frankfurt. Jürgen Behrens calls this summer "the summer of Hatem and Suleika," referring to the lovers in the Divan, who exchange poems with one another. Indeed, Marianne also composed poems that appeared in the published cycle in 1819. When they parted in September of 1815, it was not "farewell," but they never saw each other again. Probably Goethe could not recreate the feeling. They continued to correspond, however, and Marianne even sent artichokes, chestnuts, honey, jams, and other delicacies of the Main region for his table in Weimar.

Goethe's ambivalence about love is evident in one of his earliest poems, "Die Nacht," written in 1768 during his "Anacreontic" period. Here is the first verse:

"Gern verlass' ich diese Hütte,

Meiner Schönen Aufenthalt,

Und durchstreich mit leisem Tritte

Diesen ausgestorbnen Wald."

"Gern" -- in the first position in the poem at that! Leaving the cottage of his beloved "gladly"?With relief perhaps? Yes, Goethe always seemed happiest when he was departing from an intense situation with a woman. When the first edition of his works was published in 1789, he made some changes to the poem, and the first line now appeared as "Nun verlass' ich diese Hütte." Interesting? He seems to have been aware of the ambivalence. Here is an English version of the first four lines, following the revision:

Now I leave this cottage lowly,

Where my love hath made her home,

And with silent footsteps slowly

Through the darksome forest roam.

I have written in another connection of Goethe's fondness for the literary form known as the pastoral or idyll. The pastoral typically has shepherds (in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream), whereas the idyll can take place in a quasi-modern setting (as in Oliver Goldsmith's novel The Vicar of Wakefield). This literary form is expressive of contentment, and love is at its center. (Eric Rohmer plays with the form in his delightful Les Amours d'Astrée et Céladon. The above painting is by the pre-Raphaelite Holman Hunt.) Whenever there is an idyll in a work by Goethe, it is either destroyed or in great danger. The best example is probably The Sorrows of Young Werther. Werther first encounters Lotte, engaged in happy domesticity, cutting bread for her many siblings. He then falls in love with her while dancing, one of the most characteristic activities of pastoral shepherds. In the end he destroys the happiness that is at the center of his literary form. Another example of a domestic idyll is Goethe's small epic Hermann and Dorothea. Here the contentment is threatened by historical forces, in this case the French Revolution. And, in the final scenes of Faust, the idyll of Philomen and Baucis is destroyed because their lowly cottage blocks Faust's view.

World Trade Center, 8 Years On

"Do we really want to give a trillion dollars of taxpayer money to the guys who haven't managed to fill in this hole in the ground after eight years?" Such was Rick's wise question as we looked down at the site of the former World Trade Center. Lots of equipment and a few men working. As Rick likes to say on many an occasion: the government has a reverse Midas touch.

The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey (50% each state) owns the WTC site. Like the MTA or the Triboro Bridge and Tunnel Authority, it was set up like a corporation, but the government owns all the stock. Technically known as public operating authorities, these agencies were supposed to avoid the problems of inefficient bureaucracy associated with government administration. Thus, they float their own bonds and are supposed to take care of their own financing through fees, fares, bridge tolls, and the like.  The WTC was built with the idea that the PA could use the buildings for their own office while renting out the bulk of it, which it did until 9/11.

Whatever their efficiencies might have been in the 1920s, when these agencies were established, they now operate in sclerotic government fashion. Over the years, they have become heavily dependent on the public till because the costs of operations are unacceptably high. Who would pay $5.00 to ride the subway? Thus politicians have meddled in the workings of these agencies, whether to provide jobs in their immediate neighborhoods, to grandstand over transit fares, or to exercise similar antics. Larry Silverstein, who signed a 99-year lease on the entire WTC complex  shortly before the towers were destroyed on 9/11, would be the obvious person to redevelop the site, but there has been so much  meddling by politician who want to satisfy everyone that, after eight years, there remains that gaping hole in the ground. Michael Bloomberg might have been president today if he had shown himself able to manage these competing interests. (He would be president if he could solve New York City's traffic problems.) Instead, he has spent his time grandstanding about trans fats and smoking and turning the town into a nanny state.

The situation is different at the nearby World Financial Center, which also took quite a hit on September 11, 2001. It was a glorious, unseasonably warm day in the city this week when we biked down to the Battery and stopped at the Winter Garden. It is now restored to its pre-9/11 splendor, with its huge palms (uprooted from the Mojave Desert) and the wide arc of rose granite steps ascending up to the platform from where we looked down at the WTC construction site. It's a readymade advertisement for "Come to New York and work and play in a wonderful environment." It also seemed to be serving as "Babysitter Central."

A group called BQE Project was warming up in preparation for a 5 p.m. concert. New York and America, too, is a great place. If I had to get an office job, I'd certainly want to work downtown!

"Originality"

The first thing that caught my eye in Goethe Yearbook 15 was the section devoted to "Goethe and 20th-Century Theory," edited with Angus Nicholls. An essay in that section by Katrin Kohl is entitled "No Escape? Goethe's Strategies of Self-Projection and Their Role in German Literary Historiography." The question in the title refers to the dominant role played by the personality and work of Goethe in giving shape to German literary history. After all, whether we speak of "Weimar Classicism," "Goethe period," "Romanticism," "Storm and Stress," and so on, Goethe turns out to be not only "central to the history," as Kohl writes, but also throws all who follow him into the shade.

Such was his intention, according to Kohl, who quotes from an unpublished text from 1832 -- "Noch ein Wort für junge Dichter" -- in which Goethe speaks of himself as a liberator ("Befreyer"), insofar as young poets became aware, through his example, that "Der Künstler von innen heraus wirken müsse; indem er, gebärde er sich wie er will, immer nur sein Individuum zu Tage fördern wird," to which he adds, "nur auf diese Art ist es möglich Original zu seyn." In terms of German literary history, this view of himself as originator (expanded in his autobiography) has become a founding myth of German literary history. Before Goethe, all was darkness, when poets were unaware of the need for what Kohl calls an "individual creative impulse"; afterward, Goethe emerged "as the unique and enduring embodiment of German culture," meeting the requirements, as Kohl suggests, "of a nascent German nation that needed to construct a coherent cultural identity."

The appearance of the word "Original" in a late text surprised me, for it seemed to show, as late as the year of his death, of the persistence of a concept that I had thought was restricted to the "Genius" period, when that movement in German literature known as "Sturm und Drang" rejected the authority of poetic predecessors and instead invoked the creative power of individual subjectivity. And indeed Kohl begins her essay with a look at that period, for a look at the "origin" of Goethe's views on art, nature, and creativity.

In 1774, in a well-known letter to Fritz Jacobi, Goethe employed the metaphor of "reproduction" to describe writing:  "Sieh lieber, was doch alles schreibens anfang und Ende ist die Reproduckion der Welt um mich, durch die innre Welt die alles packet, verbindent, neuschafft, knetet und in eigner Form, Manier, wieder hinstellt ..."

The metaphor of reproduction, according to Kohl, indicates that Goethe was responding to the debate about poetic imitation in the 18th century and moving away from the neoclassical position of poetry as imitation of the best models. Instead, it is the "inner world" from which the poet "is capable of originating, fashioning, and controlling a work of art equivalent to the external world created by God and unique to the poet." In this connection, Kohl refers to a biblical passage, Job speaking to Yahweh ("Oh, remember that you fashioned me from clay!/ Will you then bring me down to dust again?"), which she juxtaposes with the fashioning by Prometheus of man from earth and water. Goethe's "Prometheus" ode, from 1773/74, in which the mythological figure emancipates himself from Jove and fashions a man in his own image, "could be understood," writes Kohl, "as a confident assertion of independence by the modern artist."

A couple of points. First, what kind of "world," really, is inside a person, be he poet or otherwise? A poet, like everyone else, has feelings, imagination, fantasy, rationality, sensibility, memory, experience, and so on, but how are these materialized into form except by words that the poet has inherited from people who spoke these words before him?

Second, the poet may have a world within that he would like to express, but creating art from himself cannot be compared to divine creation. God (in the "orthodox" view) did not create man from himself, but stood outside of his Creation. Thus, the painting by Michelangelo (who did not consider himself an "original") conveys the sense that God created a being that is separate from its creator, with an independent existence. Originals, however, drawing only on their own inner world, would only be able to "re-create" themselves. This suggests narcissism.

My point here is not to take issue with Kohl, whose analysis I find excellent. Her essay has merely allowed me to engage with the issue of "originality," a bête noire of mine.

Let me return to the "orthodox" view of Creation, according to which God created both man and woman. From them descended generations of humans and with them the products of human hand and intelligence, including art. The cultural inheritance traditionally had something biological about it, replicating the characteristics of previous generations in its transmission. For this reason, we can recognize works of art, for instance, distinguish painters by schools and trace their antecedents. I read many German writers of the "Anacreontic" persuasion when I was writing a chapter on Goethe's early poetry for my dissertation. The poems of Friedrich von Hagedorn (Des Herrn Friedrich von Hagedorns sämmtliche poetische Werke, 1775) actually include footnotes citing the poem that he is imitating in a particular instance. In other words, poets felt "legitimacy" as poets in being able to identify their poetic progenitors.

I use these biological metaphors advisedly, to draw attention to the rhetorical strategy of the 18th century "originals," a word radically at odds with its etymology. Originals, "re-producing" their inner world, have no origin, are self-created. While the literary originals assert their artistic independence and their lack of reverence for literary progenitors, this gesture mirrors a transformation going on in the social order in the 18th century, when men  (and it was men in this instance) began to be emancipated from the ties that bind.

As I have written earlier (Goethe Yearbook 10), in connection with Goethe's poem "Der Wanderer," originality or self-creation encapsulates the 21st-century terminus of a long process, during which the legitimacy of truly originating attachments -- family, the work, required to care for future generations, and so on -- has been gradually eroded. That this process was still in its infancy in the 18th century can be seen in Goethe's poem. The role of the nursing woman in that poem, in reproduction, creation, and indeed the process by which cultural products are passed on generationally, is in competition with the man, the "Wanderer," who is able to go out and create an independent existence for himself. Note the majestic gesture of independence in the painting by Caspar David Friedrich, from the year 1818. The creation of the modern world required independent souls, and artists were the first to give voice to this need.

Kohl opens her article with a quote from Harold Bloom who contends, in The Western Canon (1994), that "every Goethe text, however, divergent from the others, bears the mark of his unique and overwhelming personality, which cannot be evaded or deconstructed." Bloom also had something to say about Goethe that is relevant to the issue of originality: "Goethe, like Milton, absorbed precursors with gusto, evidently excluding anxiety." I would contend that the opposite is the case, that Goethe had "issues" with his literary forebears, and even the construction of his works often reflects his attempt to suppress or destroy them. Indeed, Arnd Bohm in his recent study of the European epic makes this point. In addressing Goethe's failure to write an epic, Bohm responds by saying that "Goethe did compose an epic poem, which has been hidden in plain view" (my italics), namely, Faust. (I love Bohm's subtitle, also relevant here: "Forgetting the Future.") Thus, the importance for Goethe of the concept of "Original," an instance of what Kohl calls Goethe's "self-projection throughout his career ... predicated on an internal, natural creative force that is independent of teachers and examples." By now, originality has become "naturalized," but it does have a history. Can its historiography be far behind?

Goethe Yearbook 15

The newest volume of the Goethe Yearbook, published by the Goethe Society of North America, arrived in the mail on Saturday. (Note the handsome logo of the Society on the cover of the Yearbook.) There are some familiar names among the contributors -- Judith Ryan on the aphorisms in Die Wahlverwandtschaften and Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre and Ellis Dye on the concept of "Sorge" in Heidegger and in Faust -- but also many new contributors. I am even represented with three book reviews.

In the next week or so I plan to comment on articles of interest to me, starting (tomorrow) with the one by Katrin Kohl on "Goethe's strategies of self-projection." Stay tuned.

Sesenheim

"We never would have gone to Sesenheim at all, if it had not been for Rhodora."

Who could resist a story that opens like one by Ford Madox Ford, recalling the visit of proper English and American gentlefolks at "Nauheim" in The Good Soldier? This opening, however, is from "Sesenheim," by an American named Bliss Perry, which appeared in the May 1889 issue of The Atlantic Monthly. I came across it the other day while looking up something on Goethe. Perry (1860-1954) was an American scholar who edited, among others, the works of Edmund Burke, Sir Walter Scott, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. He also wrote a study of the works of Thomas Carlyle. He taught at Harvard and was also Harvard lecturer at the University of Paris, in 1909-1910.

"Sesenheim" as it appears in The Atlantic Monthly, is told by a first-person narrator who calls himself "the Scribe." He has been accompanying his friend John who "was inspecting the chemical laboratories of Germany universities." Rhodora, John's wife, is an American woman familiar from much fiction, with decided opinions. According to the Scribe she is a "delicate, sensitive, highly organized American woman." (Indeed, the name Rhodora sounds like "Leonora" in The Good Soldier, which, however, was not published until 1915.)

 

While the three of them are sightseeing in Strassburg, Rhodora notices the name of the owner on a bricabrac shop: "Brion": "'Brion,' she repeated. 'Brion? It must be a French name. ... Why, of course!' exclaimed Rhodora. 'Friederike Brion, Goethe's Friederike! John, Sesenheim must be near by, and I've always wanted to go here. It's so hot and dirty here; let's go to spend the Sunday at Sesenheim.'" And that, says the Scribe, is the reason the three happened to make a pilgrimage to the quiet Alsatian village, "whose sole claim to notice is that it was once the scene of a love episode more idyllic and more tenderly told than perhaps any other that ever won its gentle way into the world's literature."

The Scribe is dispatched -- it is Saturday afternoon -- "in search of a cheap edition of Dichtung und Wahrheit," which Rhodora claims to have read in her school days. Moreover, he also finds a tiny book on Friederike by "Pastor Lucius of Sesenheim." On the train the Scribe, with Dichtung und Wahrheit in one hand and the pastor's book in the other, is "deputed to read the important passages from the pastor's loving chronicle."

There follows a long passage rendering the events of the "Sesenheim idyll" (as recounted in books 9-11 of Goethe's autobiography): the ride of the brilliant, lovable 21-year-old student to Sesenheim in the autumn of 1770; the slender, light-haired daughter of the village pastor; the bright, tender, and infinitely winning letters; the verses with all the lyric passion of the "young Goethe"; the restiveness of genius; the departure without explanation; the final letter to her and her gentle answer, which "tore his heart." And then, years later, while journeying southward with the Duke of Weimar, Goethe stops at the parsonage, "to find all its inmates unchanged toward him, and Friederike calm and affectionate as of old, so that the next morning, at sunrise, he rode away from Sesenheim 'in peace,' as he wrote Frau von Stein." In sum, Goethe rose "steadily upon his splendid and solitary path, and Friedericke Brion, spinster, growing old and dying in 1813 at her brother's house in the tiny village of Meissenheim, having lived a life of such unselfish ministration and such sweetness that an old woman who has survived into our own day tells us that when as a child she heard about angels, she 'always thought of Aunty Brion in a white dress' and that 'the sick, and children, and old people' loved her." Sounds like the shade of Otillie in Elective Affinities.

Of interest in Bliss Perry's story are descriptions of a century ago -- 1899 -- which are much closer to the Sesenheim of Goethe's day than our own, which are so much obscured by features of modern life. 

For instance, this is the scene the Scribe sees from the window of the train: "To the left were the Vosges, in a retreating blue distance, while as we rolled northward, all along on the right, beyond the Rhine, were the wooded summits of of the Black Forest, misty yet and shadow-barred in the morning sunlight. It was Trinity Sunday, and the peasant in holiday costume thronged the station platform, intent upon excursions to neighboring villages." And then, indicating a misunderstanding of the German, the Scribe writes: "After an hour, we passed Drusenheim. It was the place where Goethe changed horses, and the next village was Sesenheim." True, Goethe did change horses at the inn in Drusenheim, but, more important, he was able to exchange clothes with the son of the innkeeper, in order to rid himself of his earlier "Verkleidung."

I made a trip to Sesenheim back in 1999. It is a well-preserved town in the best European welfare state fashion, but still retaining many of the sights described the Scribe. There were the reddish-gray roof tiles and the eight-sided tower of Pastor Brion's church, although I did not see the girl "busily at work draping a white cloth about a temporary roadside shrine of the Virgin, in honor of the feast day."

  

Like the travelers from 1899 I also went to an inn near the church. The present incarnation of the Gasthaus zum Anker they visited is "Au Boeuf," where I enjoyed one of the best meals of my own trip through the Vosges region.

They too had an Alsatian country dinner, during which Rhodora and John got in a heated argument about Goethe's abandonment of Friedericke. John didn't believe "any man of genius [had] the right to break the heart of a girl like Friederike."

After lunch they went to the church at which a funeral service was being conducted, for an old woman, "born in the very year that Friederike Brion died." In the aisle was a tombstone, with the inscription half effaced, bearing the date of 1557, "over which the young Goethe's feet one stepped so lightly; and there was the pastor's pew, in which, by the side of Friederike, he found her father's sermon 'none too long.'" The seats were filled with peasant women, "in dark, immobile rows." Their dress consisted of a black alpaca gown edged with velvet ribbon and a brocaded silk cloth, and they wore on their heads, "a queer little quilted black cap, with wide stiff bows of ribbon that stood out from the head like the wings of a butterfly."

 

I didn't see anything like that in 1999, but perhaps they resembled the headdress in this charming illustration from a book on Alsace-Lorraine from 1918.

Emerging from the church they encountered a dozen boys ranged along the wall of the churchyard. "Just as if it were a New England country meeting house!" exclaimed John. They proceeded to visit "the historic barn," and John reached his long arm over the fence and plucked a blossom "from the famous jasmine bush." They encountered the new "rosy-cheeked" pastor who explained why the old parsonage had been torn down. Here is Goethe's description of the parsonage, which suggests the fairytale state in which the Sesenheim idyll hovered: "Haus und Scheune und Stall befanden sich in dem Zustande des Verfalls gerade auf dem Punkte, wo man unschlüssig, zwischen Erhalten und Neuaufrichten zweifelhaft, das eine unterläßt, ohne zu dem andern gelangen zu können."

The parson tells them he had to read Dichtung und Wahrheit in order to answer all the questions of visitors, then invites them to his library to see one of Friederike's letters, the sight of which -- "a yellowed old letter" framed and hung -- makes them conscious that antiquarianism and curiosity had breathed a spirit of prose upon their hitherto unspoiled Sesenheim idyll.

 

Nowadays there is a charming museum at "Au Boeuf," where one can wander free of charge and inspect Sesenheim memorabilia and even some authentic documents.

Toward the end of the afternoon they find the hillock "where Friederike passed many an hour in that favorite arbor of which Goethe himself had much to say." Some Goethe lovers had bought the hillock and erected a new arbor with the inscription "Friederiken Ruh. 1770-1880." Arriving at this "reinlicher Platz mit Bänken, von deren jeder man eine hübsche Aussicht in die Gegend gewann," Goethe wrote that it did not occur to him that he had come to disturb its peace: "denn eine aufkeimende Leidenschaft hat das Schöne, daß, wie sie sich ihres Ursprungs unbewußt ist, sie auch keinen Gedanken eines Endes haben kann, und wie sie sich froh und heiter fühlt, nicht ahnden kann, daß sie wohl auch Unheil stifen dürfte."

It was perhaps with something of this disturbance in mind that the Scribe and his companions retired to an adjacent meadow, where they lay under a great ash and watched the clouds drift across the heaven and "pile themselves into a huge glistening mass above the Black Forest." Their talk drifted constantly back to Goethe. At sundown they turned their steps toward the train station, and Rhodora could be seen bending in the dusk above one of the bushes near the arbor, then returning with some white primroses in her hand. The primroses of course remind us of the Primrose family in The Vicar of Wakefield, by Oliver Goldsmith, on which Goethe consciously modeled his narration of the Sesenheim idyll. Rhodora gives each of the men one and sticks a third through the buttonhole of her jacket. John takes the final one and fastens it to the lattice of Friederike's arbor. "'Why, of course, John!' said Rhodora, softly. 'The poor girl!'"

The photos of contemporary Sesenheim are by the German photographer Ivo Schweikhart, who includes many more of interest on his website, along with quotations from Dichtung und Wahrheit.

Rooms with a View

This is an often-reproduced picture of Goethe, made by Tischbein in 1787, in the quarters Goethe shared with the artist on the Corso in Rome. Nicholas Boyle, in his biography of Goethe, writes that it was one of the few streets in the city that was regularly swept. A mile long, carriages passed regularly on its raised pavements. The scene in Tischbein's drawing seems a daytime one. It was a simple room that Goethe occupied, "small and bare," according to Boyle, "with plain wood-block floors, wooden shutters on the big windows, a bed, a table for the oil lamp and some hard chairs." From his posture, Goethe would seem to be a young man, but he was already 38. It is an intimate scene, with the viewer having the impression of having caught Goethe unawares.

There are some paintings, by other German painters in the 19th century, that likewise offer similarly intimate domestic settings, usually occupied by women. Here are a couple of my favorites. The one on the left, Caroline at the Window (1822), is by Caspar David Friedrich. Though separated from it by only 20 years, the one on the right, by Adolph von Menzel, is very modern in its feeling compared to Friedrich's painting: The Balcony Room (1845). The woman seems to be here by implication. One I really like, however, is below these two, Before the Mirror, by Georg Friedrich Kersting. It was painted in 1827, which means it probably reflects domestic arrangements in the last decade of Goethe's life. Kersting was from northern Germany and, like Friedrich, he also studied painting in Denmark.

And speaking of Denmark, the longevity of this window motif can be seen in the work of a later artist, from Copenhagen, Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916).

While Goethe is alone, he does not seem as solitary as the women in the later paintings. Still, he is separate from the life on the street, which he seems to be observing, rather than participating in. This separation from the life of contemporary Rome actually characterized Goethe's behavior. He spent most of his time while in Rome with other Germans, for instance. His major literary efforts while there concerned the completion of works he had begun before coming to Rome. As Boyle writes, Rome was "no rebirth for his poetry," as he produced no lyrical poetry of note, "or indeed any substantial new literary work at all." Nevertheless, Goethe underwent a significant personal change in Rome. The distant posture in the Tischbein drawing perhaps presages the later distant, "Olympian" Goethe.