Goethe's Faust: Theatre of Modernity

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Author: Hans Schulte | John Noyes | Pia Kleber

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GOETHE’S FAUST

Faust has been called the fundamental icon of Western culture, and Goethe’s inexhaustible poetic drama is the centrepiece of its tradition in literature, music and art. In recent years, this play has experienced something of a renaissance, with a surge of studies, theatre productions, press coverage and public discussions. Reﬂecting this renewed interest, leading Goethe scholars in this volume explore the play’s striking modernity within its theatrical framework. The chapters present new aspects, such as the virtuality of Faust, the music drama, the modernization of evil, Faust’s blindness, the gay Mephistopheles, classical beauty and horror as phantasmagoria, and Goethe’s anticipation of modern science, economics and ecology. The book contains an illustrated section on Faust in modern performance, with contributions by renowned directors, critics and dramaturges, and a major interview with Peter Stein, director of the uncut ‘millennium production’ of Expo 2000. hans schulte was Associate Professor of German at McMaster University, Hamilton, Canada. john noyes is Professor of German at the University of Toronto. pia kleber is Professor of Drama and Comparative Literature at the University of Toronto.

GOETHE’S FAUST Theatre of Modernity edited by HANS SCHULTE, JOHN NOYES AND PIA KLEBER

cambridge university press Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo, Delhi, Tokyo, Mexico City Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge cb2 8ru, UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521194648 © Cambridge University Press 2011 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2011 Printed in the United Kingdom at the University Press, Cambridge A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication data Goethe’s Faust : Theatre of Modernity / [edited by] Hans Schulte, John Noyes, Pia Kleber. p. cm Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-521-19464-8 1. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 1749–1832. Faust. I. Schulte, Hans, 1935– II. Noyes, John (John Kenneth), 1955– III. Kleber, Pia. IV. Title. pt1925.g63 2011 8320 .6–dc22 2010042729 isbn 978-0-521-19464-8 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Contents

page vii

List of illustrations List of contributors Preface List of abbreviations

viii xi xiii

Introduction

1

Hans Schulte

part i

m odernity

15

1. Faust – today

17

Albrecht Schöne

2. Mephisto and the modernization of evil Rolf-Peter Janz

3. Mephisto is the devil – or is he?

32 40

Peter Huber

4. ‘Schwankende Gestalten’: virtuality in Goethe’s Faust Ulrich Gaier

5. Amnesia and anamnesis in Goethe’s Faust Wolf-Daniel Hartwich

6. Magicians of modernity: Cagliostro and Saint-Simon in Goethe’s Faust ii Hans-Jürgen Schings

7. The blind Faust

54 68

78 94

Eberhard Lämmert

8. From Faust to Harry Potter: discourses of the centaurs Gisela Brude-Firnau

v

113

Contents

vi

9. Mistra and the Peloponnese in Goethe’s Faust ii Wilhelm Blum

10. Goethe and the grotesque: the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ Angela C. Borchert

11. Re-deﬁning classicism: antiquity in Faust ii under the sign of the Medusa Ernst Osterkamp

12. Diabolical entrapment: Mephisto, the angels and the homoerotic in Goethe’s Faust ii W. Daniel Wilson

part ii

theatre

13. Goethe’s Faust: theatre, meta-theatre, tragedy Martin Swales

14. Faust beyond tragedy: hidden comedy, covert opera Dieter Borchmeyer

15. Theatricality and experiment: identity in Faust Jane K. Brown

16. Rhetorical action: Faust between rhetoric, poetics and music Helmut Schanze

17. Directing Faust: an interview Peter Stein

18. A contradictory whole: Peter Stein stages Faust Dirk Pilz

19. Re-thinking and staging Goethe’s Faust at the State Theatre Stuttgart 2005–6 Jörg Bochow

20. Strehler’s Faust in performance

129 138

156

174 195 197 209 235 253 267 280

293

Laura Caretti

306

Select bibliography Index

324 330

Illustrations

15.1 Bernardo Strozzi, ‘Old Woman at the Mirror’ (1615) 15.2 Cesare Ripa, ‘Prudence’ in Iconologia (1758–69) 17.1 ‘This is my wager.’ – ‘Here’s my hand.’ (Photograph from the Peter Stein production, Hanover–Berlin–Vienna, 2000–1, © Ruth Walz) 17.2 Helena and Phorkyas in Sparta. (Photograph from the Stein production, 2000–1, © Ruth Walz) 17.3 Mountain Gorges: the heavenly spiral. (Photograph from the Stein production, 2000–1, © Ruth Walz) 19.1 The three young men as Faust. (Photograph from the Stuttgart production, 2005–6, © Staatstheater Stuttgart) 19.2 Margarete’s attempt at an abortion. (Photograph from the Stuttgart production, 2005–6, © Staatstheater Stuttgart) 19.3 Mephistopheles and the Faust chorus. (Photograph from the Stuttgart production, 2005–6, © Staatstheater Stuttgart) 20.1 Prologue in Heaven. (Photograph from the Strehler production, 1989–91, © Luigi Ciminaghi, Piccolo Teatro, Milan) 20.2 Faust and Helena’s veil. (Photograph from the Strehler production, 1989–91, © Luigi Ciminaghi) 20.3 ‘My lovely young lady, may I venture . . .?’ (Photograph from the Strehler production, 1989–91, © Luigi Ciminaghi)

vii

page 245 246 269 271 276 295 298 301 308 314 319

Contributors

wilhelm blum teaches Greek, Latin and Philosophy at the MaximiliansGymnasium in Munich. jo¨ rg bochow was Professor of Theatre History and Theory at the University of Toronto 2000–5. Thereafter he was Head Dramaturge at the State Theatre Stuttgart and Professor for Dramaturgy at the Academy for Performing Arts of Baden-Württemberg. angela c. borchert is Associate Professor of German and Comparative Literature at the University of Western Ontario, London, Canada. dieter borchmeyer is Prof. Dr Dr h.c., German and Theatre Studies, at Heidelberg University and President of the Bayerische Akademie der Schönen Künste. jane k. brown is Joff Hanauer Distinguished Professor for Western Civilization at the University of Washington and former President of the Goethe Society of North America. gisela brude-firnau is Professor emeritus of German at the University of Waterloo, Canada. laura caretti is Professor of History of Theatre and the Performing Arts at the University of Siena, where she is also Director of the PhD programme in Comparative Studies (Literature, Theatre, Cinema). ulrich gaier is Professor emeritus for German Literature at the University of Konstanz, Germany, and President of the HölderlinGesellschaft. wolf-daniel hartwich was Assistant Professor of German at Heidelberg University and a Heisenberg scholar of the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft. peter huber is Assistant Professor of German at Heidelberg University. viii

List of contributors

ix

rolf-peter janz is Professor of German at the Free University, Berlin. eberhard la¨ mmert is Prof. Dr Dr h.c. (emeritus) for German and Comparative Literature. He was President of the Free University of Berlin (1976–83) and President of the Schiller-Gesellschaft (1988–2002). He was also the founder and director of the Centre for Literary Research, Berlin (1991–9). ernst osterkamp is Professor of German at the Humboldt University, Berlin. He is also co-editor of the Jahrbuch der deutschen SchillerGesellschaft. dirk pilz is a theatre critic, freelance writer and editor of Nachtkritik (the only German on-line theatre magazine). He holds lectureships in theatre criticism and literature in Munich, Berlin, Leipzig and Essen. helmut schanze is Professor of Literary and Media Studies at the University of Siegen, Germany. hans-ju¨ rgen schings is Professor of German (emeritus) at the Free University, Berlin. albrecht scho¨ ne is Dr phil. habil., Professor of German (emeritus 1990). He holds honorary doctorates in philosophy and theology, and is a member of numerous academies of science. He has been awarded the Great Cross of Merit of the German Federal Republic with star and the Order Pour le Mérite for arts and science. peter stein was a theatre director in Munich, Zurich and Bremen (1966–70) and artistic director of the Schaubühne, West Berlin (1970–85) and of the Salzburg Festival (1991–7). His credits include numerous productions of plays and operas world-wide. martin swales was Professor of German at University College, London (1976–2003). He holds the Cross of Merit of the German Federal Republic and is a Fellow of the British Academy. w. daniel wilson is Professor of German at the University of Berkeley and Vice-President of the Goethe Society of North America.

Preface

In the summer of 2000, the World Exposition in Hanover, Germany, presented visitors with an extraordinary experience: Peter Stein’s uncut production, in twenty-three hours of stage time, of one of the most massive pieces of world literature ever written. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe dedicated over sixty years of his life (1749–1832) to the composition of Faust, a Tragedy in two parts. The production, which moved on to Berlin and Vienna over the next two years, was timely indeed: many other productions followed. Faust was rediscovered not only as a vital document of Western cultural memory, but also for its unsurpassed prophetic power. A major symposium in Toronto, Canada, and the development of this book were meant to take these discussions to the next, international, stage. Obviously, there are numerous translations of Goethe’s Faust. Unless cited otherwise, our default translation is that of Stuart Atkins, Faust i and ii, Cambridge, MA: Suhrkamp, 1986. We have tried to maintain the ﬂow of the text by keeping the original German to a minimum. What we have lost in philological precision we have gained in readability. But we allowed Goethe’s full poetic text to stand in the longer, indented quotations. This poetry counts among the most sublime in the history of European literature, and the richness of its music and associations remains ultimately untranslatable. Our thanks are due to all those who invested much patience, thought and energy into making this book possible – most of all, our contributors from Europe and North America, who were more than understanding throughout the long editorial obstacle course. Sadly, Wolf-Daniel Hartwich passed away before this book could go to press; his untimely death has meant the loss of a talented scholar. We thank the team of stylists put together by John Noyes who corrected and reﬁned the English of our German authors, and Deirdre Vincent, Nina Peters and John Koster, who translated some of our most demanding essays. Our thanks go also to Peter Stein, who graciously granted a substantial xi

xii

Preface

interview, and to Samir Dobric, who took on the daunting task of transcribing a near-inaudible CD. We thank the Staatstheater Stuttgart, Luigi Ciminaghi of the Piccolo Teatro, Milan, and Ruth Walz for granting us the copyrights for the illustrations. Finally, we are grateful to Vicki Cooper and Rebecca Taylor, our editors at Cambridge University Press, for their patience and encouragement.

Abbreviations

BA FA FK FT GA GG

HA LA MA P WA

Goethe, ed. Siegfried Seidel et al., 22 vols., Berlin: Aufbau, 1965–78. Berliner Ausgabe. Sämtliche Werke, Briefe, Tagebücher und Gespräche, ed. Dieter Borchmeyer et al., 40 vols., Frankfurt: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1985–. Frankfurter Ausgabe. Faust. Kommentare, ed. Albrecht Schöne, Frankfurt: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1994. Faust. Texte, ed. Albrecht Schöne, Frankfurt: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 2005. Our default edition. Gedenkausgabe der Werke, Briefe u. Gespräche, ed. Ernst Beutler, 24 vols., Zurich: Artemis, 1948–60. Gedenkausgabe. Goethes Gespräche: Eine Sammlung zeitgenössischer Berichte aus seinem Umgang: Auf Grund der Ausgabe und des Nachlasses von Flodoard Freiherrn von Biedermann, ed. Wolfgang Herwig, 5 vols., Zurich: Artemis, 1965–87. Werke, ed. Erich Trunz, 14 vols., Hamburg: Wegner, 1948–60. Hamburger Ausgabe. Die Schriften zur Naturwissenschaft, ed. Dorothea Kuhn et al., 20 vols., Weimar: H. Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1947–. LeopoldinaAusgabe. Sämtliche Werke nach Epochen seines Schaffens, ed. Karl Richter et al., 26 vols., Munich: Hanser, 1985–. Münchner Ausgabe. Anne Bohnenkamp. ‘. . . das Hauptgeschäft nicht ausser Augen lassend’: Die Paralipomena zu Goethes Faust, Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1994. Goethes Werke, 143 vols., Weimar: H. Böhlau, 1887–1919. Weimarer Ausgabe.

xiii

Introduction Hans Schulte

People today should tremble before the relevance of this text.

Giorgio Strehler (quoted from Laura Caretti’s motto; see p. 306)

This book is an echo of the Faust renaissance currently sweeping through Germany. The past decade has seen a surge of studies, press coverage, theatre productions (most notably the twenty-three-hour uncut version by Peter Stein), and public discussions. In the summer of 2000, while Stein’s production was in full swing, I took part in such discussions of Faust and found that the participants were mostly exploring their own contemporary experience. To me, as a literary man, such a collective excitement about a full and faithful performance of the classical work was exhilarating. It was an excitement which decades of directorial experiments had failed to provoke. One of the consequences of these discussions was the Faust Festival in Toronto, a week-long extravaganza of lectures, theatre workshops, performances, concerts and exhibitions from which this book emerged. It contains the latest interpretive insights by leading Faust scholars, as well as younger authors with new and productive ideas. Most of them had presented papers at the symposium which were then thoroughly revised and expanded for publication. Albrecht Schöne, Eberhard Lämmert, Jane Brown and Dieter Borchmeyer were brought on board, and a wide-ranging interview with Peter Stein was conducted, translated and edited for the volume. The need for a book that presents the latest signiﬁcant Faust research to the English-speaking world is obvious enough. This legendary ﬁgure had matured in Goethe’s monumental work to become, according to J. B. Russell in his Mephistopheles, ‘after Christ, Mary, and the Devil . . . the single most popular character’ in Christian culture. It became a fundamental icon of Western modernity. Even so, Goethe’s opus magnum has been rather neglected by English-speaking scholars over the past decades. The present book, entitled Goethe’s Faust: Theatre of Modernity, explores the phenomenology of modernity presented by Goethe as ‘theatre’, i.e., 1

2

hans schulte

mystery, pageant, Baroque world stage, opera, spectaculum, panopticum, plays within plays, roles within roles. It is obvious that a work of such daunting complexity must be approached from new and multiple angles. Some essays investigate the modern implications of its mythology. Gisela Brude-Firnau, for example, gains new insights into the Helena ‘antecedents’ by placing them in a modern, mytho-poetic tradition. She compares the centaurs in Faust and Harry Potter (Chiron and Firenze), revealing their ‘discourses’ with each other over the centuries. In the same ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, another ‘monster of antiquity’ (according to Goethe) comes Faust’s way: the Medusa. Ernst Osterkamp analyses the symbolic image of the incessantly growing Medusa as part of Goethe’s turn to archaic-classical, non-idealized Greek mythos. Through Goethe’s poetic contextualization, though, the ancient myth becomes charged with a highly modern force of destruction, eliminating ‘not just the individual but any concept of the individual’. Another focus of scholarship is the symbolism and provenance of certain intriguing scenes and motifs. Wilhelm Blum explores the signiﬁcance and historicity of the fortress where the medieval Faust meets the Greek Helena. This ‘Arcadian’ fortress is revealed as the Frankenburg of Mistra near Sparta, built in 1249 by Wilhelm de Villehardouin – in the drama, Faust becomes a Frankish prince, and conceivably an embodiment of Friedrich II of Hohenstaufen. We can witness here, in the centre of his phantasmagoria, the acute historical conscience of Goethe’s constructive imagination. Angela Borchert focuses on the grotesque in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, where classical education is rendered absurd in a way that frightens even Mephisto. And Daniel Wilson ﬁnds new access to the play by way of a close examination of Mephisto’s homosexuality, especially in the last act. The devil’s lust and the angels’ love are both part of the ‘economy of desire’ in God’s all-embracing plan. These are essentially new perspectives and examples of the diversity of modern interpretive approaches. But all contributions are tied together by the general themes of modernity and theatre. Dividing the essays under these two titles, which are not meant to be exclusive, was an easy choice. All interpretations in the ﬁrst part are focused on the modern signiﬁcance of Faust without ignoring its theatricality. The reverse is true in the second. Here ‘theatre’ is discussed in its two dimensions: as structure and as performance. In a progressive book on Faust as theatre, performance critique must not be excluded, in spite of its quotidian nature. What is, in essence, this sixteenth-century alchemist’s ‘modernity’? Goethe creates a typological synthesis of the crisis of early modernity

Introduction

3

(the time of Faustus, Paracelsus, Machiavelli) and that of his own revolutionary era (Romanticism, early industrialism). The ﬁrst crisis becomes the mirror of the second, because Goethe makes them transparent towards the recurrent ‘ultimate formulae’ of human history. That way, Faust becomes prophetic for a third dimension of modernity: our own. The reader or spectator sees the present reﬂected in the mutually enlightening aspects of the two modern crises – from the reformation to 1830. What are the principles of this ‘modern’ phenomenology of Faust, in this comprehensive sense? Faust embodies the human spirit residing solely in itself and claiming unconditional autonomy; the need for universal knowledge (Erkenntnis) as deiﬁcation of the self; a moral indifference – that ancient principle (in Mephisto’s cosmogony) of a highly modern devil; the limitless availability of the world, of its natural, human and cultural resources – even its history – to human activism; the futile striving (Streben) for absolute joy, the joy of the absolute; the principle of impatience, which forces itself on the world with ‘magic’ strategies, short-cuts and technology; the ‘velociferous’ dynamics of eternal dissatisfaction (veloziferisch was Goethe’s clever coinage which fuses ‘speed’ and Lucifer) which will spare no human pains and sacriﬁces on the way to the elusive ‘schöne Augenblick’ (beautiful moment); and an ‘overleaping’ spiritual quest (line 1859), which keeps pressing forward towards its utopia and never looks back in sorrow. This sounds like a harsh verdict, on Goethe’s part, against both Faust and modernity, but we have to beware of imbalance and misjudgement. Faust as a whole is not a satire. Goethe himself never put a Faustian theodicy in question. In the eyes of the Lord, Faust is ‘der gute Mensch’, which can only make sense if we do not understand Goethe to be making narrowly moral judgements. From early on, Goethe had established a Faust ﬁgure of extraordinary standards and strengths, whose immortality is never in doubt. This Faust had enough positive energy (‘entelechy’) to carry the burden that the later Goethe, who became increasingly sceptical of his times, kept heaping on him. Goethe himself seemed to sense this imposition. In a letter to K. E. Schubarth (3 September 1820), his remarks concerning all those modern, ‘phantastischen Irrtümer’ (fantastic errors) which he forces ‘the poor man’ to struggle through almost sound like an apology for Faust. At the same time, Goethe does not acquit him of moral responsibility. There is a school of scholars who claim that Faust cannot be blamed for ‘experiencing’, with ever-changing identities, the shady spheres of modern politics, society and commerce. This is part of the character problem which we must deal with later. Here we should simply weigh Act 5 of Part ii – with the old autocrat at his morally lowest but at the height

4

hans schulte

of his worldly power – against the redeeming forces, throughout the drama, of love, Bildung and creative imagination, of nature, science and the better half of his Streben. Goethe’s prescience of our modern world is near-miraculous. Albrecht Schöne, in our ﬁrst essay, puts it to a simple test with the question: what did the Faust text actually ‘know’ about these last 200 years of Western society? ‘Faust – today’, therefore, is not aiming at a new interpretation of what Faust means to us today (Schöne has dealt with that in much of his previous research), but at something more concrete and surprising: Goethe’s actual anticipation of present-day discourses and discoveries, including genetic science, economics, politics and our encroachment on nature. Schöne shows us speciﬁcally how Goethe’s ‘ultimate formulae’, which make the world and its history conceivable to him, have not only caught up with present-day insights but opened windows to our future. It is obvious that the modernity discussion likes to focus on the Mephisto ﬁgure. Rolf-Peter Janz writes on ‘Mephisto and the modernization of evil’, meaning the secularization of the devil, whose phenomenology becomes inexhaustible in the process. Good and evil become inextricably intertwined, to such an extent that Mephisto himself can often play the part of good reason and fairness. More often, of course, Mephisto is the agent of modern expediency (invention of paper money, victory through violence and deceit etc.): he is the moral price the protagonist, as the man of the future, has to pay. Peter Huber (‘Mephisto is the devil – or is he?’) takes this understanding of a morally indifferent Mephisto a step further. He explains why Goethe always uses the word ‘devil’ ironically: it is a Christian concept which the play renders absurd. Huber’s mythological analysis ﬁnds the key in the Earth Spirit to whom Mephisto belongs: as a pre-Christian god and nature daemon. He enables ‘polarity’ as the agent of darkness which, together with light, produces the spectrum of life. But let us now turn to the protagonist himself. When the traditional Faust cult had run its course, the beginnings of the modernity discussion of Faust (long after the Second World War) brought a backlash: a hero who is seen as deeply problematic and defective. Four of the essays in the ﬁrst part of this book deal with this character problem. Ulrich Gaier and Wolf-Daniel Hartwich attempt to deﬂect these accusations – Gaier by way of a formal analysis which relieves Faust of the onus of a uniﬁed and therefore responsible ‘character’ altogether, and Hartwich through his understanding of a productive amnesia, which allows Faust to salvage his transcendental identity in spite of a constantly changing persona. Gaier’s contribution (‘“Schwankende Gestalten”: virtuality in Goethe’s Faust’) is as thought-provoking as it is

Introduction

5

challenging for a production of the play. In his interpretation, Faust – like Mephisto – is one of the ‘wavering shapes’ intoned by Goethe’s ‘Dedication’ (‘Zueignung’). Schwankend means ‘ungraspable’ and ‘always changing’. Post-medieval European history and culture are poured into the ‘shape’ of Faust, where they attain a ‘virtual’ oneness which, however, always remains intangible. Gaier contradicts Hartwich in this understanding of Faust’s fundamental lack of identity, or rather, of his multiple identities and allegorical roles. Understanding Faust as ‘the text with the highest calculated variability in all literature’ is a radical, but clearly productive position which should inﬂuence all future discussions. The theatre-goers, though, will insist that ‘we are Faust’, a statement which the Stuttgart production reviewed in this volume (see Chapter 19) was based on – a persona they can react to with empathy (fear and pity in the Aristotelian tradition), with admiration and disapproval. The allegorical as well as the gloriﬁed Faust precludes such a balanced experience – as does the third alternative: the negative Faust. Hans-Jürgen Schings and Eberhard Lämmert, two of our most eminent contributors, make Faust fully accountable for the trail of destruction he leaves behind. They see this destructiveness as central to his identity. No tragedy, no allegory, no divine scheme, no redeeming qualities or diabolical machinations are allowed as mitigating factors. There is a history behind this stance. One hundred and ﬁfty years of German Faust idolatry (including the East German Erbe (socialist heritage) ideology) lie behind us, and a new understanding of Faust as a social and political liability rather than a heroic incarnation of nationhood – and, in its wake, of Western culture – became overdue. Gottlieb C. L. Schuchard was a courageous but isolated early voice in 1935. He showed for the ﬁrst time how the 80-year-old author, in the last two acts, made his protagonist a leading participant in the latest political and social experiments which he despised (especially the July revolution of 1830 and the rise of SaintSimonism). Long after the war, the German theatre slowly began to topple the national monument as well, and so did a small but growing faction named ‘anti-perfectibilists’ (after the pietist Wilhelm Böhme): writers and thinkers who call the perceived perfectibility of the Faustian world a dangerous chimera. This faction is impressive enough, as Albrecht Schöne, Heinz Schlaffer, Nicholas Boyle, Jochen Schmidt and – in this volume – Hans-Jürgen Schings and Eberhard Lämmert can testify. For Hans-Jürgen Schings (‘Cagliostro and Saint-Simon in Goethe’s Faust ii’), Goethe places the Faust of Part ii next to to the magician and

6

hans schulte

swindler Cagliostro. Goethe was indeed fascinated by this famous seducer of minds, who single-handedly launched a conspiracy against the Enlightenment. To him, this self-serving trendsetter was one of the ‘modernist’ post-Enlightenment ﬁgures of which the Romantic va-banque player Euphorion was only a slightly less dubious version. Similarly, the social idealism of the Saint-Simonists (precursors of later and even more explosive social utopians) provided a model for the ﬁnal night scenes of the colonization project. Like those ‘inspired ones’, Faust resorts to his ‘inner light’ to set the stage for his project, having been blinded to its reality – both in a physical and metaphorical sense. Eberhard Lämmert (‘The blind Faust’) begins where Schings ends in applying this blindness to all of Faust’s life and career. As in Oedipus’ case, his blindness is a metaphor for a character who can only look inward, unable to consider the world outside. And in that, of course, he has Mephisto’s vigorous support. The other characters are misled, according to Lämmert, by his unconditional striving. It is their tragedy to have paved his way and paid the price. Clearly the hero’s negativity is splendidly argued in these two essays, and such thrust was undoubtedly needed to counter traditional bias and mythmaking. But the fact remains that the other contributors do not follow this path. A truly negative Faust would not be able to counter-balance the devil, let alone carry the whole play. A void would be left which no abstraction like ‘modern society’ could ﬁll. Brecht’s ‘epic theatre’ attempted exactly that: reducing the traditional hero of Shakespeare’s and Goethe’s plays (Coriolanus and Urfaust) to deadly threats to society. Both adaptations were brieﬂy famous in the post-war context, but they never really worked, and neither did the numerous directorial experiments which followed Brecht’s example. Radical deconstructions of the Faust ﬁgure, quite often exposing it to ridicule, became an unfortunate, state-subsidized fashion (see the interview with Peter Stein below). Lessing’s dramaturgy considered a certain measure of ‘admiration’ for the tragic protagonist essential, and with good reason. But how would we, after Schings, Lämmert and others, ﬁll the void and restore ‘admiration’? Jane Brown (in the second part of this book) suggests that ultimately we cannot pass judgement on moral grounds. Many of us would agree. Jaspers saw the ‘greatness’ of the tragic character in his choice to ‘take the human possibilities to their extremes, and to be knowingly ruined by them.’ Tragedy, he says, ‘shows man in his greatness beyond good and evil’.1 After Brecht, of course, and after Hegel and Nietzsche’s separation of greatness and goodness (‘great’ historical ﬁgures being free from socio-ethical concerns – with fascist consequences), we have much

Introduction

7

sympathy with Hans-Jürgen Schings, who distances himself from any ‘monumental interpretation of Faust, beyond all morality’. Goethe, however, saw no problem yet in calling Napoleon ‘great’, and Faust the great entelechy ensuring immortality. He clearly accorded his hero a positive worldly as well as spiritual power – to such a man, he tells Eckermann, he owed a higher, brighter, more digniﬁed world in Part ii, after having him toil through the small world of Part i. Faust is implicitly numbered by Panthalis (at the end of the Helena scenes) among the immortals who made a name for themselves and searched for noble truths, while all others ‘belong to the elements’. And since we are weighing his achievements: Gisela BrudeFirnau argues convincingly here that Goethe raised Faust to the status of his poetic alter ego in Acts 2 and 3 of Part ii. Faust dreams up the most beautiful story and moment (Augenblick) of his time, ﬂeeting and transitory though it may be – the marriage of modern Europe with Greek antiquity. Magic, otherwise a ‘radical evil’ in the Kantian sense, becomes a high and redeeming achievement in the poetic phantasmagoria. In short, we have to grant him, as Goethe does, the gravitas of a powerful, astonishing and engaging theatrical presence. There is no strong performance without this strength of Faust’s personal presence, as Peter Stein has emphasized once again in the interview below. As he points out, any stage production will have to make Faust the commanding ﬁgure throughout, and Gustav Gründgens’ selfserving replacement of the protagonist Faust with Mephisto has done much damage in the history of Faust production and criticism. The interpretive tradition that ﬁnds its greatest interest in Mephisto is still echoed, on occasion, in the present book (see Chapters 3 and 12). It is our difﬁcult task, therefore, to see the old chapbook’s ‘gute und böse’ Faust fused into one. We have to take into account that Faust is indeed a Renaissance man of universal activity, who is abnormally at risk because he goes out on all possible limbs. He falls deeper because he reaches higher, to reveal the often comical tragedy (Mephisto’s cicada image in the ‘Prologue’!) of the human condition. Finally, it must not be forgotten that Faust – as opposed to Mephisto – wanted the good where he achieves the bad. Both Schings and Lämmert observe his noble enthusiasm, which almost invariably goes awry where it turns to action. Faust’s spirit ‘overleaps’ the world. Hegel talked about the self-estrangement of the spirit, when the purity of the idea ﬁrst gets mired in the material, historical world – the prime source of tragic guilt. Faust rejects Hegel’s ‘synthesis’ of reconciliation. He remains in the ‘error’, ‘twilight’ and ‘confusion’ of human activity. Hegel’s analysis did not have modernity in mind. Goethe’s does: Faust ‘loses himself ’ in the ‘phantastic errors’ of modern society. Mephisto has come to throw him

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right into it, and Faust can hardly wait. ‘Stürzen wir uns in das Rauschen der Zeit’ (1754, Let’s plunge into time’s turbulence) without looking back! There is another good reason for us to withhold any ﬁnal judgement for or against the protagonist. It is very Goethean and very theatrical to keep things in suspense and maintain the force of contradiction in the leading character. Schiller had Goethe’s example in mind when he created his Wallenstein. The Faustian Streben itself is the most intriguing balancing act, and any attempt to judge it one way or another is doomed to failure. Even Faust’s utopia, the ‘paradise for millions’, is kept in such a suspense, in spite of its resulting from piracy, slavery and environmental havoc. We cannot simply take Mephistopheles at his word when he predicts that the sea will reclaim it all. Whether we side for or against, it is equally easy to ﬁnd quotations and arguments. Schings quotes Goethe’s remark, in Wilhelm Meister, that ‘unconditional activity . . . will end in bankruptcy’. This will have to be weighed against the ﬂawless credit of the seer Manto in Act 2 of Part ii who embraces the orphic enthusiast who desires the impossible. Goethe’s Ancient Greece giving the nod to this icon of Christian modernity should count for something. But then again, such impossible desires foster the demonic sub-currents of that same modernity. How far allegorical interpretations can go in acquitting him of complicity (he is, after all, Mephisto’s knowing accomplice!) will be explored, no doubt, in many future discussions. The second part of this book is devoted to an understanding of Faust as theatre – which includes opera, but also performance in the widest sense. Goethe supervised, as producer, director or dramaturge, over 600 plays and operas in twenty-six years, and this massive drama, which he deemed unperformable (see Chapter 4, p. 54), is in fact designed – to the minutest detail of stagecraft – for the eyes and ears of an audience. Albrecht Schöne has shown, in ‘Der Theatermann als Stückeschreiber’ (Programmbuch for Peter Stein’s Faust), how Goethe uses the theatre to present the world and its history as theatre, including the audience and on-stage audiences. The playful complexity of ‘self-conﬁdent illusion’, of theatre-within-theatre up to ‘the seventh power’ (Schöne), far exceeds any Brechtian experiment. The theatrical structures of Faust must inform any valid interpretation. Martin Swales (‘Goethe’s Faust: theatre, meta-theatre, tragedy’) sees Mephisto in the role, within the mystery frame, of diabolical salesman: he offers life as a theatrical extravaganza, and the radical individualist and disillusioned secular spirit cannot refuse – the illusion. Theatre becomes the key metaphor for human existence, two millennia of European history

Introduction

9

and above all modernity. Mephisto is the agent of modernity (‘to say nothing of postmodern nihilism and virtual reality’) driving Faust to dire consequences. The chapter attempts a Faust in a nutshell, and is very accessible and engaging for a non-specialist reader. Most importantly, Swales recognizes this theatre as tragedy and Faust as a tragic character. This is normally disputed nowadays. Tragedy lurks in Faustian discontent, in the will to act and in the ‘impossible’ struggle between the two souls of man (echoed in the polarities of the Earth Spirit). Dieter Borchmeyer (‘Faust beyond tragedy: hidden comedy, covert opera’) contradicts this position emphatically, arguing that there is no objectiﬁable self (see Chapter 4 and Chapter 15) and no suffering, and therefore no tragedy. Faust only causes suffering. In the case of Faust ii, where the hero seems to disappear in the spheres of his action, many agreed in our symposium discussions. But not so as regards Faust i , where his despair and suffering surge to near-suicide. More signiﬁcantly, though, Borchmeyer reveals the genres ‘hidden’ behind the so-called ‘tragedy’: a Divina Commedia (complete with mystery frame) and – opera. The operatic-musical quality of Faust has often been observed. But never has it been tested so thoroughly, scene by scene in both parts, to provide such surprising results. Theoretically, we recall, the classical Goethe shared this love of opera with Schiller: it guaranteed a ‘pure’ dramatic poetry, a symbolism unmarred by distracting illusions of reality. Jane Brown (‘Theatricality and experiment: identity in Faust’) agrees with Borchmeyer as far as the absence of tragedy is concerned. She also agrees with his and Gaier’s claim that Faust lacks an identiﬁable self. But her reasoning is different. While Gaier ﬁnds the multiplicity of character identities ‘ungraspable’ and unplayable, because they are simultaneous, Brown sees both protagonists as ideally crafted theatre ﬁgures who play their various roles on the world stage successively – Faust from lover to wise man, to poet, to imperial treasurer, to medieval prince, to Renaissance knight, to elderly landowner etc. Helmut Schanze (‘Rhetorical action: Faust between rhetoric, poetics and music’) conﬁrms Gaier’s and Brown’s analysis of Faustian roles from a rhetorical point of view. Faust displays a multiplicity of ‘rhetorical actions’, even within one scene, such as the very ﬁrst (‘Night’). Exploring Goethe’s construction of rhetorical climax, he distinguishes the rhetorics of Love, Evil, Nature, Power and Redemption, and shows us how such (normally) lyrical evocations tend to break into music. Goethe marks the musical parts (chorus and arias/madrigals/Lieder) typographically with indented text. In the Helena act, for instance, 800 out of 1,352 lines are indented. The essay complements Dieter Borchmeyer’s examination of Faust as opera. To me, it was especially interesting how

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Schanze introduced the rhetorical concept of ‘performance’ as the ‘persuasive staging’ of action and music, and referred to its rising prominence in the ‘performative turn’ of the discourse and theatrical experimentation of recent decades. It ‘announces a “performative crisis” . . . in the “production” of Goethe’s masterpiece’. The scope of his chapter did not allow the author to argue this out, but the performative crisis plays such an important role in the praxis section concluding this book that a brief excursion seems in order. Performance as persuasive staging is obviously built into Goethe’s text, while the ‘performative turn’ of the 1960s and early 1970s (part of the leftist youth movement) required the text to be dismantled. A decade or so later, ‘performatism’ became part of postmodern discourse and blossomed into astonishing theories complete with new ‘metaphysics’ (a confusing paradox, given its deconstructivist provenance). The ‘performative turn’ simply means the turn from ‘text culture’ to ‘performance culture’, from theatre studies to performance studies, from elitist, literary or ‘reactionary’ theatre to communal ritual.2 ‘Dismemberment’ as ‘sacriﬁce’ of the literary text makes an ever-changing, ever-present performance possible. Only ‘bits and pieces’ of historical texts can be productively incorporated in the performance of present culture – an excellent strategy would be the ‘parodic reusing, dismantling, and recombining of classic texts, traditions and other “found” performance idioms’.3 Interspersed political quotations and ad-lib emoting would make the dish even more palatable. The performers or their directors are the real authors, who freely weave such bits and pieces, their material, into the patchwork of an ever-new ‘event’, a communal ritual that takes place between them and the audience. Modern semiotics of theatre, directorial productions and popular performance art keep feeding on such theories. As a result, a directorial performance theatre went mainstream – especially in Germany, where it had once received world-wide acclaim for its creative renewals of classical texts. Backed by trend and theory, it turned deconstructive with a competitive and systematic force which young directors seeking success could not and cannot escape. It despises ‘literary theatre’ (see the Stein interview, Chapter 17) and instals the auctorial director over the dramatist. Critics have often exposed, through comparisons with the original texts, the loss of relevance, structure and memory culture, which may lead to the demise of such ‘emancipated’ theatre one day. There has been a reaction already: conscientious, text-based productions like Strehler’s and Stein’s turned out to be vastly more engaging, mysterious, complex and revealing than the eleven Fausts of Einar Schleef, or nihilistic reductions like the recent Berlin production by Thalheimer.

Introduction

11

It is well known how aggressively Peter Stein has always confronted this ‘performative crisis’. Stein is a passionate advocate of literary theatre, the only type of theatre that deserves, so he argues, its name as a cultural institution. In this book, the interview with Stein is positioned between studies of Faust as drama and as performance, because it embraces both. His is the rare case of a director who is a literary critic as well as a great director. Stein speaks about the productive dialogue between the text and its staging, and how they inform each other. On the one hand, Stein’s interpretation is based on solid research. The combined power of today’s scholarship and stagecraft make the text ‘shine’. Conversely, the staging itself provided new insights into the drama, insights which had not been accessible to Stein as a reader. Faust’s refusal, for example, to look back with regret revealed itself as Goethe’s own dramaturgic decision: there were to be no second thoughts about the direction of this life of action. The modern–Freudian lens would lead to the wrong conclusions. What Goethe and the theatre gained was a relentless forward thrust, the theatrical equivalent of the hero’s indefatigable Streben. This Faust’s striving is tragic, and ‘tragedy of modernity’ seems a ﬁtting label for Stein’s theatrical interpretation. He avoids it, though: his concept of tragedy, including Faust’s, is ﬁrmly rooted in Greek antiquity. Dirk Pilz (‘A contradictory whole: Peter Stein stages Faust’) gives us more insight into this production. He emphasizes the modern validity of a Faust which is pointedly staged as tragedy, a genre which has long been declared ofﬁcially dead. For Pilz, Stein presented the tragedy of a modern Everyman, an existential paradox: a man who is born to act, to his moral demise, in order to die. Pilz shows us how every detail of Stein’s direction reﬂects the narrow conﬁnes of humanity from which no transcendent longing, no ‘magic’ activity can ever escape. The heavenly spiral, lowered after his death, shows us that even then Faust cannot take a single step towards heaven (the very purpose of his journey) – heaven has to come down to him, in an act of grace. Pilz, as a literary scholar and theatre critic, contrasts the strength of this interpretation with two ‘directorial’ Faust productions of the following years. One of these productions happens to be the subject of the chapter following Pilz’s, written by its chief dramaturge. To be exact, Jörg Bochow (‘Re-thinking and staging Faust at the State Theatre Stuttgart, 2005–6’) was responsible for the staging of Faust i only, with its new narrative concocted from various strains of the original plot. The end result of this alchemistic shake-up of story lines and ﬁgures (two of three Fausts drink the fatal poison and later return to life as two Mephistos, etc.) was bafﬂing but imaginative. It was based on Goethe’s text and seems to have enjoyed a degree of success.

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That changed with the production of Faust ii by Volker Lösch, which turned ‘communal’ (citizens of Stuttgart took over the stage). It would have satisﬁed the theoreticians of theatre as ritual and ‘sacriﬁcial dismemberment’ (above). Bochow’s chapter is fascinating and uniquely informative, as it reveals the step-by-step genesis of a (post-)postmodern Faust production. We have here a good example of the ‘performative crisis’: local citizens’ discussions of politics, the economy and urban projects with ‘bits and pieces’ from Goethe’s play mixed in, all publicly funded and called Faust 21. Goethe’s life work, which had integrated 3,000 years of European culture, becomes an instrument of communal navel-gazing. It is especially ironic since this work, like no other perhaps, could have offered the Stuttgart community a powerful collective memory. Such memory alone, psychoanalysts have pointed out time and again, provides modern society with a healthy identity. Goethe knew this already all too well: the Faust drama is, in fact, a critique of self-involved modernity and also supplies its antidote – our mythic memory, which is the very content and purpose of Faustian time travel. A good theatrical interpretation is not a question of textual completeness, of course, in spite of Stein’s ‘mammoth’ uncut Faust. Stein himself highly respected Giorgio Strehler’s older production at the Teatro Piccolo, Milan, which used only about half of Goethe’s lines. Laura Caretti (‘Strehler’s Faust in performance’), who was involved in the ﬁve-year production process, shows us the very opposite of a ‘dismantling’ direction. Strehler was so obsessed with the enormity of the literary challenge that he started his directorial project with a new translation (as Stein did, by the way, with his Oresteia project). Caretti tells us that Strehler endlessly tested, ﬁne-tuned and revised this translation on stage, and that he once spent an hour trying to render in Italian the ‘ach!’ in Faust’s ﬁrst line. Strehler re-created in Faust the homo europeanus at a time when European unity was still at stake: the man possessed by the visions and problems of our common history was a bold and political, but thoroughly authentic, reading. Strehler’s Faust, like Stein’s, was an ‘event’ of modern Western culture (to parody postmodern performatism), and the following self-effacing description of directorial discipline speaks for both: ‘Ours has been a work of humility in our attempt to give real body, on the stage, to one of the greatest works of human culture’ (Strehler, from Caretti’s motto). Strehler’s Faust is proof that a bold and visionary production of the classical work can be true to its author. It also bears witness to the fact that memory, drama and theatre are intimately connected. Collective memory is stored in dramatic texts, to be unlocked and celebrated in

Introduction

13

theatres – collectively. This is responsible and, indeed, essential ‘ritual’ which subsidizing governments must focus their attention on. The conventional wisdom, therefore, that the old texts are dead is little more than a symptom of modern Vergessenszwang (compulsive oblivion). Those who cannot answer for their past 3,000 years, Goethe once said in the wisdom of his old age, ‘stay naïve in dark confusions, / Day to day live undiscerning’. Modern society has largely forgotten how to ﬁnd itself within a hermeneutic tradition. People don’t understand any more how the most constructive challenges of modern culture may be found not in striking ‘events’ but in texts like Goethe’s Faust – re-interpreted. This understanding is present in each of the contributions to this book. They are interpretations (the word and concept were conspicuously absent from Fischer-Lichte’s book on modern theatre) revealing a provocative classical text as it enters the modern horizon. At the same time, such entry – or fusion, as hermeneutic theory has it – redeﬁnes our modernity. It is of great interest to remember that once, with the experience of totalitarianism and the holocaust, any potential of a constructive presence of Goethezeit had seemingly disappeared. A cultural chasm had opened, Karl Jaspers argued at that time, which seemed to place Goethe nearer to the Middle Ages than to our postwar consciousness. But Jaspers’ cultural despair was miplaced, and this book will contribute to proving it was. not es 1. Karl Jaspers, Über das Tragische, Munich: Piper, 1952, 29. 2. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Theatre, Ritual, Sacriﬁce, New York: Routledge, 2005. 3. Shannon Jackson, Professing Performance: Theatre in the Academy from Philology to Performativity, Cambridge University Press, 2004, 268.

part i

Modernity

chapter 1

Faust – today Albrecht Schöne

‘Intimidation through Classicism’ was the heading Brecht gave to his notes on Goethe’s Faust in 1964.1 The colossal scope of this work does indeed have such an intimidating effect that many readers (and the vast majority of directors as well) content themselves with Faust i , not even daring to approach Faust ii, which is almost twice as voluminous. Furthermore, the work as a whole is burdened by 200 years of reception and interpretation, surrounded by countless scholarly interpreters, and completely armed against the curiosity of uninhibited readers with its reputation of fearsome profundity and overwhelming demands. It is easy to see why Thomas Mann wrote to Hermann Hesse that one might be ‘tempted some time to write a totally fresh, intimate commentary on Faust which would relieve people of their all too pious timidity in the face of this sublime, serene, by no means inaccessible work, exceptional and bold but humanly fallible as it is’.2 Such a ‘fresh, intimate commentary’ would also have to explain what might otherwise be misunderstood and would certainly be worth understanding correctly. Goethe himself believed that such assistance was required in the case of the great old masters: Denn bei den alten lieben Toten Braucht man Erklärung, will man Noten; Die Neuen glaubt man blank zu verstehn; Doch ohne Dolmetsch wird’s auch nicht gehn.

(BA 1, 441)

For with the old and dear departed They need explanations, they want notes; The new ones they think they can understand; Yet without interpreter they won’t succeed, either.

With this, he certainly had not least his Faust in mind, for here was a work that was meant to compel the reader ‘to dare himself to go beyond himself’, as he wrote to his friend Zelter on 26 July 1828, while working on it. ‘Even someone with a good head and good sense’, he continued, ‘has his work cut 17

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out for him if he wants to make himself the master of all the mysteries that have been tucked away there’ (WA 4:44, 226). If that was valid when the wood was green, it is much more so now that it has aged. Today’s reader needs commentaries to supply meanings that would have been evident to a contemporary. These commentaries therefore tend to explain works such as this by going back to language usage and objective knowledge from the time of writing. For them, the end of the writing (i.e., the year 1808 for Part i, and 1832 for Part ii of Faust) signals the end of their responsibilities. They leave the rest to the descriptive accounts of reception and interpretive history. ‘Modernizations’, regardless of whether they distort the text or are faithful to its own intentions, are considered unrespectable and utterly uncritical. No wonder theatre directors took and continue to take matters into their own hands. However: ‘If I read Homer today,’ Goethe wrote to Zelter (8 August 1822), ‘he looks different from ten years ago; if we could reach the age of three hundred years, he would look different again’ (WA 4:36, 111). Which does not mean, of course, that the traditional text of the Iliad or Odyssey itself would change with the times, but that it would be perceived in a different way. The reader is always a child of his own time: his perceptions are controlled by his personal experiences, interests and expectations. While the later reader may lose sight of certain meanings, he may be the ﬁrst to see new meanings. The contemporary context within which an author has composed his work will fade away with time, enabling new contexts to enrich the great old works of literature. They also enrich the Faust-drama, placing it in new relationships and moving it into a different light (‘if we could reach the age of three hundred years, [Homer] would look different again’!). That is why I did not wish to neglect, in the commentary of my Faust edition in the Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, what this mightiest, richest and most signiﬁcant work in German literature could mean speciﬁcally for our time, for our selfunderstanding and world-view. I did not wish to patronize the reader, but to make suggestions and to stimulate his own discoveries. I did not want to simply explain the historical substance stored in the treasury of this work, in the wonderful medium of poetry. Goethe wrote in the West-östlicher Divan: Wer nicht von dreitausend Jahren Sich weiß Rechenschaft zu geben, Bleibt im Dunkeln unerfahren, Mag von Tag zu Tage leben. Those who cannot draw conclusions From three thousand years of learning

(FA 1:3, 59)

Faust – today

19

Stay naïve in dark confusions, Day to day live undiscerning.3

Rather, I wanted to draw attention as well to the emerging newness inherent in this old text, feeling encouraged by the lines in the Zahme Xenien ii : Wir sind vielleicht zu antik gewesen, Nun wollen wir es moderner lesen.

(BA 1, 648)

Perhaps we were too antiquated, Let’s be more modern readers now.

This is not to justify in any way the ‘actualizations’ of the modern directorial theatre. (Gründgens was still content in 1957 to place a model resembling the Atomium of Brussels in Faust’s Gothic study and to bring an atom-bomb explosion into the ‘Walpurgis Night’. In the time since then we have become accustomed to quite different additions by our self-important directors.) Clearly and unmistakably, Goethe’s ‘let’s be more modern readers’ refers to what is written into the text itself and can be elicited from it again today. Let me offer just two examples of this for clariﬁcation: Gottfried Benn provides the ﬁrst, Paul Celan the second. In the third act of Part ii, the scene ‘Inner Courtyard of a Castle’, we hear the thunder of the canons and experience ‘powerful armed forces marching past’ (9441). In the role of supreme commander, Faust designs the strategy of an imperial war of conquest aimed at the capture of the entire Greek Peloponnese. This is truly ‘the empire’s gain’ (9465), as he himself declares. In an address to the army leaders he steels the will of his troops for battle and victory, saying: In Stahl gehüllt, vom Stahl umwittert, Die Schar die Reich um Reich zerbrach, Sie treten auf, die Erde schüttert. Sie schreiten fort, es donnert nach.

(9450–53)

Encased in steel, its armour ﬂashing, The host that crushed so many states Appears, and then the earth is shaken; They march away, the thunder is still heard.

With a keen ear and sense of style, Benn wrote in a letter of 1948 about the ‘steely romanticism’ of this commando stanza: ‘the SS-poetry in the Inner Courtyard – “encased in steel, . . .” – a highly remarkable passage!’ (to F. W. Oelze, 29 July). With the lines ‘Your golden hair Margarete, your ashen hair Sulamith,’ Paul Celan’s ‘Todesfuge’ (Death Fugue), written in 1944–5, creates a clear

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link to the Faust drama.4 And this one explicit reference draws attention, as is often the case in Celan’s work, to further hidden correspondences. Faust’s great colonization project in Act 5 of Part ii is cast in a gloomy twilight, when the elderly Philemon reports ‘daring servants dug ditches’ (11091–2). And the pious Baucis knows or senses the Mephistophelean, inhuman and criminal source which made this enormous reclamation project possible: Tags umsonst die Knechte lärmten, Hack und Schaufel, Schlag um Schlag, Wo die Flämmchen nächtig schwärmten, Stand ein Damm den andern Tag. Menschenopfer mußten bluten, Nachts erscholl des Jammers Qual.

(11123–8)

In the daytime noisy workmen Hacked and shovelled, all in vain; Where, at night, small ﬁres ﬂickered, There was a dam the following day. Human lives were sacriﬁced, Groans of torment ﬁlled the darkness.

A great drainage canal has to be dug, and Faust, stepping out of his palace, orders Mephisto (the overseer, as he calls him): ‘Get a plentiful supply of laborers, / use beneﬁts and discipline to spur them on!’ (11552, 11554). But as soon as he has given him the order to take possession of all that belongs to Philemon and Baucis – an order that is to be their death sentence – ‘Go and rid me of their presence’ (11275), this Mephistophelean overseer of the forced labour hordes gives one shrill whistle, and the guard of his unscrupulous rufﬁans goes into action. ‘A man lives in the house,’ says Celan’s poem, ‘he steps out, the stars glitter, he summons his dogs, he summons his Jews, he makes them dig a grave in the earth.’ There can scarcely be any doubt: in the lines of the pre-eminent work of all German literature, the poet of the ‘Todesfuge’ saw preﬁgured what the Germans did to the Jews – ‘Death is a master from Germany.’ Such new readings of an old text in the light of later experience defy the schoolboy questions: ‘What did the author really mean? What did he want to say there?’ They completely set aside pretentious praise of what Goethe himself already said or meant or anticipated. They certainly do not presume that the poet, as the chosen medium of a higher inspiration, can see further into the future than other mortals. This is not about the author’s prophetic potential, but about the prognostic potential of the great poetic texts themselves. They already know more or provide more knowledge than their author could possibly have held in many cases.

Faust – today

21

These are not new insights. The author of Faust himself has reﬂected on this as well: ‘Nobody understands good books, especially those of the ancients, unless he can complement them with experience of his own life and world. Someone who knows something will ﬁnd inﬁnitely more in them than someone who just wants to learn.’5 He expresses this thought repeatedly at the end of his life. Thus, to Nicolaus Borchardt (1 May 1828), regarding his own kind of ‘poetic representation’, he says that the reader may ‘ﬁnd himself reﬂected in the images and discover, with his growing experience, the most manifold results’ (WA 4:44, 79). Or to Boisserée, 8 September 1831, concerning Faust ii : ‘No one who has not learned and experienced a few things, will know how to deal with it.’ If someone, however, understands ‘gesture, hint and subtle implication’ he will ‘ﬁnd even more than I could give’ (WA 4:49, 64). This is what happened to the young Karl Marx, for instance. An image captured in four of Mephisto’s lines in the study scene provided him with the deﬁnition of capitalist private property (which therefore virtually appears as a Mephistophelean achievement, a work of the devil): Wenn ich sechs Hengste zahlen kann, Sind ihre Kräfte nicht die meine? Ich renne zu und bin ein rechter Mann, Als hätt’ ich vier und zwanzig Beine.

(1824–7)

If I can pay for six strong horses, Do I not own their power? – as if my legs were twenty-four I run about and am important.

Interpreting Faust with explicit reference to this passage, Marx says: That which exists for me through the medium of money, that which I can pay for, i.e., that which money can buy, that am I, the possessor of money. The stronger the power of my money, the stronger am I. The properties of money are my, the possessor’s, properties and essential powers. Therefore, what I am and what I can do is by no means determined by my individuality. I am ugly, but I can buy the most beautiful woman. Which means to say that I am not ugly, for the effect of ugliness, its repelling power, is destroyed by money. As an individual, I am lame, but money procures me 24 legs. Consequently, I am not lame. I am a wicked, dishonest, unscrupulous and stupid individual, but money is respected, and so also is its owner. Money is the highest good, and consequently its owner is also good. Moreover, money spares me the trouble of being dishonest, and I am therefore presumed to be honest. I am spiritless, but if money is the true spirit (Geist) of all things, how can its owner be spiritless? . . . Since money, as the existing and active concept of value, confounds and exchanges everything, it is the universal confusion

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and exchange of all things, an inverted world, the confusion and exchange of all natural and human qualities.6

If a reader sees present and future matters preﬁgured in this way, and discovers today’s concerns in things past, he certainly does not ﬁnd them presented directly, and deﬁnitely not in the way that Goethe as theatre principal criticized in the drama of his own time, which mimicked and copied everyday reality. In Zahme Xenien v he writes: ‘Wie reizt doch das die Leute so sehr? Was laufen sie wieder ins Schauspielhaus?’ Es ist doch nur etwas Weniges mehr, Als säh man grade zum Fenster hinaus.

(BA 1, 688)

‘Why do people ﬁnd that so attractive? Why do they run to the theatre again?’ It is really not much more Than looking straight out of the window.

Rather, the reader sees his present world reﬂected in the images of the old text. He sees this world at a distance, with a depth of ﬁeld, and alienated to the point of recognition, so that the old informs his new. Goethe did not conceive the history of mankind as a purposive linear progress, but (in a letter to Carl Friedrich Zelter of 11 May 1820) described the ‘Earthly happenings’ (WA 4:33, 28) as ‘A recurrent circle or spiral’. In his poetic endeavours too he became increasingly determined to focus this decidedly structuralist understanding on model constellations, i.e., on what is of necessity recurrent even under changed historical conditions, and hence too in his changing dramatic subject-matter. In the end he declared (to Boisserée, 3 November 1826): ‘As an ethical-aesthetic mathematician of advanced years I must always press on towards the ultimate formulae through which alone the world becomes conceivable and tolerable to me’ (WA 4:41, 221). But I am not going to pursue such ultimate conditions any further at this point. I would rather get my feet back on the ground and stay a while within the economic sphere which Karl Marx touched on with his reading of the Mephisto verses. In the ﬁrst act of Faust ii at the Emperor’s court, this emissary of hell promises a stabilization of the national budget through the introduction of paper money. This paper money presents itself, therefore, as a diabolical invention. And indeed, the gold reserves, which are to cover these bank notes and bonds, are not deposited in national treasuries, but buried as unrecovered treasures under the ground.

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The worldly knowledge in Faust derives from the fact that Goethe was not only a qualiﬁed lawyer, but also a natural scientist, and a politician as well (I shall refer to both later). He was also a connoisseur of art, a mining engineer, a critic of war, and more. Decidedly competent in the realm of national economics, he had forty-six books on this subject in his library. A remark he made in 1829 reveals how highly he rated the importance of economic questions, and how far-reaching – for human behaviour as well – he considered the consequences of ﬁnancial and economic revolutions: ‘The liveliness of commerce, the continual rustle of paper money, the increase in debts to pay off other debts – all these are powerful elements that the young man of the present confronts.’7 A model for these pitfalls had been presented by the Scottish banker and economic critic John Law, who redeemed all the king’s debts in 1716 with the foundation of a central bank and the issue of insufﬁciently backed paper money. Thus he achieved lower taxes and a general economic boom – until the progressive ﬁnancial expansion doomed his experiment to failure in a far-reaching economic crisis. Goethe’s deep suspicion of these remedies was based on his experiences of his own time, for example with the assignats of the French Revolution, the treasury warrants of the Austrian government bonds and the Prussian treasury issues in the nineteenth century. He knew very well that the transition from coinage to more mobile paper money and to the credit system can unleash powerful economic energies, and that an increase in the amount of money can lead to an increase in the national product and turnover of goods – provided that the increase in prices has not fully caught up, and that the productive potential has not been exhausted. But he also knew that Mephisto’s creation of paper money – with its sudden and boundless rise in current cash through fraudulent bonds, and without progress in productivity linked to purchasing power and demand – had a catastrophic and inbuilt inﬂationary effect. While everybody at court and throughout the empire plunges, with the help of the new mass of paper money, into a reckless consumer frenzy, only the old court fool acts differently: ‘And can I buy some land, a house, and cattle?’ (6167), he asks Mephisto, ‘A castle, too, with woods, a chase, and ﬁshing?’ (6169), then:’ Tonight I’ll dream of my estates’ (6171). Mephisto comments: ‘Who still can doubt our fool has wit!’ (6172) – and ‘wit’ here means his economic savvy which allows him to escape inﬂation in real estate. Whoever has, in Goethe’s own words, ‘been around and experienced a few things’ will ﬁnd that Faust can teach us the abcs of today’s investment consultants. And so to the natural sciences, for a change of perspective. When the philosopher Karl Jaspers was honoured with the Goethe Prize of

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Frankfurt am Main in 1947, he talked about ‘Our future and Goethe’ and declared: ‘Goethe’s world is the end of millennia of the Western World, a last realization, fulﬁlled and yet already turning into remembrance and departure. This is the world which generated ours, but from which our world is already so far removed that Goethe seems to be closer to Homer than to us.’8 Without considering that even Homer could ‘look different’ ten years later (not to mention three hundred years later), Jaspers justiﬁed his apodictic judgement mainly by saying that Goethe closed his mind to the natural sciences and ‘the emerging world . . ., without having understood it’. ‘This world has been lost to something that is now our fate, that signiﬁes a human greatness and an enormous new challenge which we must take up if we wish to live.’9 That was said half a century ago. Agents of secret services or terrorists occasionally talk about ‘sleepers’ who have been planted somewhere, remain inconspicuous for a long time and do not draw any special attention to themselves – until they are awoken from outside at a certain point and spring into action. There are such sleepers among works of art, like sleeping passages in literary works. Occasionally, dealing with them is a somewhat risky balancing act. Goethe put this ironically in Zahme Xenien ii : ‘When you interpret, be happy. / If you can’t interpret, pretend’ (BA 1, 655). Faust’s report at the time of the Easter walk on his father’s medical experiments during a plague may serve as an example. These experiments were based on old alchemist recipes written in technical jargon, the hermetic imagery of the initiated: ‘Red lion’, for instance, means a quicksilver oxide imagined as male, ‘Lily’ signiﬁes hydrochloric acid and the combination of them in the ‘Young Queen in the glass’ (i.e., test tube) then stands for quicksilver chloride, which was accepted at that time as a pharmaceutical substance. Here are Faust’s lines: Da ward ein roter Leu, ein kühner Freier, Im lauen Bad, der Lilie vermählt Und beide dann, mit offnem Flammenfeuer, Aus einem Brautgemach ins andere gequält. Erschien darauf mit bunten Farben Die junge Königin im Glas, Hier war die Arzenei, die Patienten starben. There a mercurial suitor, the Red Lion, would in a tepid bath be married to the Lily, then both be driven by tormenting ﬂames

(1042–8)

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out of one bridal chamber to another; when in the beaker of the Young Queen at last appeared a mass of colour, that was our medicine – the patients died.

In the context of a psychoanalytic Faust interpretation published in 2001, it is said (simply out of ignorance of this alchemist terminology): ‘The “Leu”, the lion is the sperm cell, the lily is the egg; they fuse and become the queen. Faust’s father understood this clearly as medicine. It did not work, though.’ Given our awareness of biomedical research today, such a misunderstanding would undoubtedly lead to associations with embryonic stem cell research and its therapeutic promises – a solid actualization, but based on a quite obvious misunderstanding of the text.10 Let us turn then to a more valid example. In Act 2 of Faust ii, Faust and Mephisto have entered the ‘laboratory’ of Professor Wagner, who whispers excitedly ‘Something tremendous is almost completed’ (6833). Mephisto says, more softly, ‘What’s going on?’ Wagner then, even more softly, ‘a human being is being made’ (6834–5). According to the stage directions, this biochemist works with alchemist’s equipment. Consequently, critics have traced his experiment, correctly, back to corresponding endeavours of pansophist alchemists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, speciﬁcally to directions (by Paracelsus) to make it possible ‘that a human being may be born outside a female body and of a natural mother’. His extra-corporeal in-vitro conception concludes with the assertion that in the end ‘a truly living human child will come of it . . . yet much smaller, which we would call a homunculus’.11 In December 1826, Goethe noted how he had planned this matter: Mephisto was to talk Faust into visiting his former famulus, the now ‘academically employed Doctor and Professor Wagner . . . whom they ﬁnd in his laboratory rejoicing about a small chemical human being having been brought to life. This being immediately bursts the luminous ﬂask and enters as a nimble, well-formed dwarf ’ (Paralipomena, FT 638). The laboratory scene written three years later looks quite different, however. Measured against the intended goal, it deals with a failing experiment. No longer is there any creation of a human being who bursts the alchemist test tube to step into life immediately. Rather, what has been successfully crystallized (‘kristallisieren’ is Professor Wagner’s word, 6860) remains locked in the ﬂask, from which the ventriloquist voice of Paracelsus’ homunculus makes it known that he has come only half-way into the world, and above all is trying to discover how one can evolve and transform. And why? Because in the meantime contemporary scientists had interfered with

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the prescriptions of the old alchemists and begun to make their own contributions to the Faust drama. Friedrich Wöhler’s epoch-making urea synthesis comes into play here. Wöhler had written to his teacher Berzelius in Stockholm about a ‘crystallized’ substance extracted from cyanic ammonium and its identity with animal urea: ‘I have to tell you that I can produce urea without . . . requiring kidneys.’ And: ‘This artiﬁcial formation of urea – can you consider it as an example of the formation of an organic substance from inorganic matter?’ (22 February 1828).12 Berzelius replied, ten days later, highly ironically to his former famulus, who worked at the Berlin trade school: ‘If we should manage to progress a bit further in our productive abilities . . . what wonderful art to make a child, however small, in the laboratory of the trade school. – Who knows? It should be easy enough.’13 As the highest authority of the time in the ﬁeld of chemistry, he also supported the prevalent opinion that there was no hope at all for any ‘organic matter’ to be ‘artiﬁcially produced’. That was in February and March 1828. In August, Berzelius visited Goethe. Undoubtedly he told his keenly interested host about Wöhler’s urea crystallization and did not understate the chemist’s fundamental reservation concerning the possibility of ‘a child, however small’ being made ‘in the laboratory of the trade school’. And Goethe had not stopped learning. What Wöhler had, in Berzelius’ sceptically dismissive view, contributed to the laboratory scene had extraordinary consequences for the Faust drama. The failed experiment, or rather, the experiment that had got bogged down half-way demanded a continuation which had not been anticipated at all in Goethe’s draft. Homunculus now would like to come to life. And the advice given by Thales, the Greek philosopher of nature, and Proteus, the ancient god of metamorphosis, was informed by ideas on natural history so advanced that only now have we become aware of it: ‘All living things evolved in water’ (7856). And: ‘You must begin out in the open sea’ (8260). In the rocky bays of the Aegean Sea a dolphin will carry the Homunculus phial to the place where it is smashed, in a hymnic-orgiastic act, on the shellcarriage of Galatea. Wagner’s crystallized substance is dissolved in the element from which organic life emerges. Thus ends the second act. And with the ﬁrst lines of the third act, after the boldest cut a dramatist may ever have made (bridging about 3.5 billion years by the latest estimate), man stands in front of our eyes, the paragon of female beauty: ‘I, Helena, who am much admired, much berated, / come from the beach [i.e., from the sea, from water] where only now we disembarked’ (8488–9).

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Accordingly, the theorem of Thales referring to the sea and directed to Homunculus appears as a vivid formula for the emergence of life and the evolutionary phylogenesis of man – ‘for you’ll evolve according to eternal norms [natural laws!] / changing your shape uncounted times, / with lots of time before you must be human’ (8324–6). What the author of Faust developed, with the morphogenetic approach of his theory of metamorphosis, out of the premises of the natural science and natural philosophy of his time, covers modern theories of a prebiotic-chemical phase of emerging organic forms as much as the concepts of a selective development of genetic information based on self-reproduction and mutageneity. According to the biochemist Manfred Eigen, it covers advanced ideas of an immanent ‘purposiveness of the evolutionary process’ which under the ‘steering inﬂuence of natural laws determined the development of life from the molecular system up to man’.14 But, ﬁnally, to politics. The scene of the last act of Faust ii is at ﬁrst the little hut of the old couple Philemon and Baucis, with a little garden, a few lime trees with hollow trunks and a dilapidated chapel in which the pious old people ring the chapel bell. Quite close by is the mighty residence of the now centenarian Faust. The keywords – palace, wide ornamental garden, large regular canal – were for Goethe’s theatre-going and reading contemporaries unmistakable political signs that referred to French garden art, with its paradigm of the castle and park of Versailles, the embodiment of a monarchic-absolutist state. Hut, therefore, and Palace present in this context a binary formula of opposition which goes back to Horace, Seneca and Virgil and had just been politically re-actualized by the slogan of the French Revolutionary forces: ‘War to the palaces! Peace to the huts!’ Mephisto presents the deeply troubled old autocrat with his coastal realm reclaimed from the sea: ‘admit that here, here from this palace, / you have the whole world in your reach’ (11225–6) – which causes Faust to foam with rage: Das verﬂuchte hier! Das eben leidig lastet’s mir. Dir Vielgewandten muß ich’s sagen, Mir gibt’s im Herzen Stich um Stich, Mir ists unmöglich zu ertragen! Confound your here – that’s what’s so terribly oppressive! I have to tell you, you who know so much, it causes me such endless heartache, it’s something I can bear no longer!

(11233–7)

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In a popular commentary written well over ﬁfty years ago we read that Faust wanted to ‘acquire Philemon and Baucis’ hut with its premises, because from there he would have the best view of his property’ (HA 3, 611). That is indeed what the old man claims, but the matter is by no means so harmless. This we can see because we too have experienced a few things. If Faust plainly contemplates world supremacy and now rages about two decaying lime trees on a sand dune, and about a dilapidated hut and an old chapel, we are really dealing with a fundamental phenomenon of power politics: the timeless essence of totalitarian control, which feels threatened in its absolute rule by even the smallest enclave, even the tiniest element of divergent selfhood. Faust calls it ‘resistance’ (11269) and ‘obstinacy’ (11269). He himself spells it out clearly: ‘The freedom of an invincible will / is blunted by this pile of sand’ (11255–6). And: ‘The few trees spoil, because I do not own them, / everything that I possess on earth’ (11241–2). And still earlier, locked in a strange formula: the two resistant old people are for him ‘A thorn in the eyes, a thorn in the soles of the feet’ (11161). The ‘intertextual’ reference of these words is to Numbers 33, where the Promised Land is announced. When the Lord caused an order to be issued to the children of Israel that they must conquer Canaan, expatriate its inhabitants and destroy its sacriﬁcial sites, it said: ‘But if you don’t drive out the country’s inhabitants before you, those that you leave behind will become thorns in your eyes and thorns in your sides, and they will plague you in the country where you live’ (Numbers 33:55). These biblical words entering into Faust’s speech provide the formula of an ancient and persistent history of disastrous and violent expulsion. ‘Go and rid me of their presence!’ (11275) Faust commands Mephisto, who gives a piercing whistle to summon his Three Mighty Men. This expulsion will cost Philemon and Baucis their lives. Mephisto, turning to spectators still well versed in the bible, says: ‘Here’s an old story, ever the same – / Naboth’s vineyard once again’ (11286–7). These words relate to the story of the pious Naboth in the Old Testament, who refuses to yield his vineyard near the royal palace to the ruling king. He is executed, and king Ahab takes over his property. ‘A thorn in the eyes, a thorn in the soles of the feet’ and ‘Naboth’s vineyard once again’ – this drama of mankind reaches as far back into the depths of time as it does forward into the distant future. The further someone pulls back the string of his bow, the further his arrow can ﬂy. During the winter semester of 1989–90 in Göttingen, I was dealing in a lecture with the scenes at the Emperor’s court of the ﬁrst act of Faust ii. This was during the highly dramatic weeks of the collapse of the German

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Democratic Republic (GDR). In the great ‘Throne Room’ scene the power centre of the empire is visualized. It is worth reading again how the situation reports presented by members of the Staatsrat (State Council) sketch the picture, or rather the model, of a collapsing state. Note also that this was the same name as the GDR’s highest political body. Public injustice, lawless violence and general corruption are the rule. The progress of national bankruptcy cannot be stopped. The commander-in-chief of the army has no ﬁrm control of his troops any more. ‘Sedition’s growing turmoil’ (4794), we read, is raging in a land which has become ungovernable. And even the session of the State Council is now invaded by the murmurings of the crowd, the mass of the people who have lost all conﬁdence in any improvement in conditions. At that time, it was quite superﬂuous to point out the simultaneous happenings outside the lecture hall in Göttingen, beyond the border that was 15 km away. There was nobody who would not have understood immediately how the events outside were reﬂected and explained in the text read inside, the new in the old. This venerable, dusty museum piece was revealing itself as an exciting piece of contemporary literature. When Faust at last stands in the courtyard of his palace, the desire of the centenarian reaches beyond all he believes to have achieved, towards a vast new land wrested from the sea which is to open up ‘Space for many millions’ (11563). This stands before his inner eye when he speaks the famous lines: ‘If only I might see that people’s teeming life, / share their autonomy of unencumbered soil’ (11579). Shortly afterwards, he sinks down, dying – a second Moses, who was at least allowed by the Lord to see the Promised Land from afar, a land which he will not set foot on himself. These lines provided a basis for the politicizing gloriﬁcation of Faust – in the Wilhelmian era and then (with a different twist) by the National Socialists, and ﬁnally (twisted differently again) by the rulers and cultural functionaries of the GDR. Walther Ulbricht, chairman of the GDR’s state council, had proclaimed these verses as a visionary anticipation of the Stalinist land reform and the ﬁrst Workers’ and Peasants’ State on German soil, and they can still be found on the building marking the south entrance of the former Stalinallee in Berlin. Worth preserving! It was a despot, however, who spoke these verses, one who had just attempted to mobilize the subservient masses for an all-out effort, and who had his overseer Mephisto drive the forced-labour gangs. ‘The traces of my days on earth / will survive into eternity!‘ (11583) – these are the words of a blind old man who thinks he hears the spades of the slaves clank as the lemurs dig his grave. But Mephisto murmurs, aside:

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(11548–50)

All of your kind are doomed already; – the elements have sworn to help us; the end will be annihilation.

Both perspectives are side by side, unreconciled and undecided, and reﬂect the central problem of modernity which stands behind the late passages of the Faust drama written at the beginning of Germany’s industrial revolution. The ﬁre of steam engines accompanies the work on Faust’s enormous canal construction project: ‘Fires ﬂowed down to the sea / there, at dawn, was a canal’ (11129). The feud of the interpreters concerning a positive or negative understanding of Faust (as the incessantly striving, great and exemplary ﬁgure, or as the protagonist of an ultimate demise, hopelessly entangled in crime) – this feud corresponds to the schism of the optimists and pessimists foretelling the end of what has now begun with our encroachment on nature, the deciphering of genomes, or nanotechnology, or computer-based robotics. In the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung of 19 June 1999, the then minister Otto Schily wrote that everybody ‘ought to have read two books: the bible and Goethe’s Faust’. This is not a bad piece of advice, coming from the Federal Minister of the Interior (especially if we can distinguish between these two books, if we don’t take Faust, as we once did – in opposition to Goethe aiming at ‘European, even world literature’ – as the bible of the Germans). This, after all, had been the aged poet’s hope at the very end of his life: that this work of art ‘would continue to delight and challenge humanity’ (letter to Zelter of 1 June 1831), in other words, that it might entertain and delight us theatre-goers or readers today, occupying our minds, causing us concern, driving our thoughts and actions. notes Translated by Hans Schulte. 1. Bertolt Brecht, ‘Einschüchterung durch die Klassizität’, in Große kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe, ed. Werner Hecht, Jan Knopf and Werner Mittenzwei, vol. xxiii, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1988–, 316–18. We thank Albrecht Schöne for adjusting a pre-published version of this chapter for us and for allowing us to translate it for this volume. First published as ‘Faust – heute’, in Moderna Språk, vol. c, 1 (Växjö, Sweden, 2006). 2. Thomas Mann to Hermann Hesse, 25 November 1947, Letters of Thomas Mann, trans. Richard and Clara Winston, New York: Knopf, 1971, 540.

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3. Goethe, Poems of the West and East, trans. John Whaley, Frankfurt: Lang, 1998, 189. 4. Paul Celan, Mohn und Gedächtnis, 6th edn, Stuttgart: Deutsche VerlagsAnstalt, 1963, 37–9. 5. Goethe, Zur Farbenlehre, GA 16, 331. 6. Karl Marx, Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, trans. Martin Mulligan, Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1959. 7. Goethe, Wilhelm Meister’s Journeyman Years or The Renunciants, Collected Works, vol. x, New York: Suhrkamp 1989, 298. 8. Karl Jaspers, ‘Unsere Zukunft und Goethe. Rede, am 28. August 1947 anlässlich der Verteilung des Goethepreises der Stadt Frankfurt am Main gehalten’, Die Goethe-Schriften, Zurich: Artemis, 1948, 14. 9. Ibid., 21. 10. Oskar N. Sahlberg, ‘Goethes Faust. Homunculus und die Neuzeugung der Schwestergeliebten’, The International Journal of Prenatal and Perinatal Psychology and Medicine 13/1–2 (2001), 193–200, 194. 11. Paracelsus, Sämtliche Werke. Erste Abteilung: Medizinische, naturwissenschaftliche und philosophische Schriften, ed. Karl Sudhoff, Munich and Berlin: Oldenbourg, 1922–33, xi, 317. 12. Jöns Jakob Berzelius, Briefwechsel zwischen J. Berzelius und F. Wöhler, ed. O. Wallach, vol. i, Leipzig: W. Engelmann, 1901, 205–8. 13. Ibid., 208–9. 14. Manfred Eigen, Stufen zum Leben. Die frühe Evolution im Visier der Molekularbiologie, Munich: Piper, 1987, 20, 79–80.

chapter 2

Mephisto and the modernization of evil Rolf-Peter Janz

When Goethe created Mephistopheles, his version of the devil, he was well aware that he had to get rid of most of the attributes traditionally ascribed to this opponent of God. There is plenty of evidence that this character no longer stands for one principle of evil, for instance the schemer or the Machiavellian ruler, but is deliberately constructed to bring together a large number of different qualities. Mephistopheles, one might say, is excessively overdetermined. Goethe lets him enter the stage in many masks. He plays the role of ‘Kuppler’ (matchmaker) and the tempter of Faust (following the story of Job), as well as the seducer, the schemer, the gambler, the magician, the art expert, ‘Soufﬂeur’ (prompter), entertainer, the envoy of hell, the satanic Don Juan etc. The phenomenology of evil in Faust is almost inexhaustible. If we compare Mephistopheles with the traditional picture of the devil, it is quite clear that he has become more complex – and more ambivalent.1 His art of metamorphosis turns him into a legitimate successor to Proteus. (Faust, by the way, also excels in this role.)2 So he can well be called a ‘man without qualities’,3 and in this respect Mephistopheles is more modern than the epitomes of evil on the Elizabethan stage – such as Richard III – and elsewhere. But if Mephistopheles is similar to Proteus and lacks identity, how can he still be regarded as a devil? Or does Goethe’s drama explore precisely the enormous multiformity of Mephistopheles as the modern version of evil, appropriate for the nineteenth century? How can evil and one of its main principles, destruction, be represented and visualized on the stage? One option is to give it a deformed, grotesque body. But the fact that the body is intact does not mean that Mephistopheles is any less destructive; rather, the evil which Mephistopheles stands for often ﬁnds its correlative in an ugly body. The supreme ugliness that he ﬁnally achieves by wearing the mask of the Phorkyas is to be read as the appropriate sign of absolute evil. Goethe leaves him only a few parts of his old trappings and costume: a cock’s plume, a red robe and a cloven hoof. But Mephistopheles can easily change clothes and wear all kinds of costumes in order to hide his physical appearance. 32

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The qualities, however, that the drama ascribes to Mephistopheles cannot be isolated from those given to Faust. While playing the role of Faust’s counterpart, Mephistopheles at the same time is designed as Faust’s alter ego. To be more precise, Mephistopheles nourishes and provokes the evil that is part of Faust’s character. He demonstrates Faust’s own ambivalence. If Mephistopheles is deﬁned as the personiﬁcation of destruction – ‘Ich bin der Geist, der stets verneint!’ (1338, I am the spirit which always negates)4 – he also shows Faust’s inclination towards self-destruction.5 If Faust calls Mephistopheles a monster, he involuntarily addresses himself, too. Given these kinds of contradiction, we might enquire as to the concept of anthropology that simultaneously generates characters like Mephistopheles and Faust. Evil is at work in Faust as well as in Mephistopheles. The answer seems to be rather simple. Faust desperately tries to escape his dilemma as someone caught between heaven and earth. He does not belong to either of them. Faust carries too much of heaven with him to live on earth and is too much involved in worldly life to belong to heaven; therefore, he needs Mephistopheles and the latter’s appropriate diagnosis: Vom Himmel fordert er die schönsten Sterne, Und von der Erde jede höchste Lust, Und alle Näh’ und alle Ferne Befriedigt nicht die tiefbewegte Brust.

(304–7)

He’d ransack heaven for its brightest star And earth for every last delight that’s to be found; Nor all that’s near nor all that’s far Can satisfy a heart so restless and profound.

Mephistopheles’ deal with God is made up like an anthropological experiment. And the question is: does Faust stick to metaphysics even if he is offered a variety of robust physical pleasures? The moment when Mephistopheles approaches Faust is indeed well chosen. Faust desperately calls his own metaphysical aspirations into question: Der Gott, der mir im Busen wohnt, Kann tief mein Innerstes erregen; Der über allen meinen Kräften thront, Er kann nach außen nichts bewegen; Und so ist mir das Dasein eine Last, Der Tod erwünscht, das Leben mir verhaßt. And though a god lives in my heart, Though all my powers waken at his word, Though he can move my every inmost part –

(1566–71)

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rolf-peter janz Yet nothing in the outer world is stirred. – Thus by existence tortured and oppressed I crave for death, I long for rest.

Mephistopheles’ task is to seduce Faust into a ‘real’ life without a shadow of a metaphysical dimension. For Faust lacks experience of life and, more than that, of the world. Mephistopheles promises Faust happiness, success with women, property and power – all in place of knowledge. He satisﬁes Faust’s thirst for life. According to Mephistopheles’ programme, ‘life’ means to be active (tätig) and effective (tüchtig). Given that, all those who want to reach their goals must be unscrupulous. Faust wants to colonize the whole area and orders Mephistopheles to expel Philemon and Baucis. He needs Mephistopheles in order to realize his ambitious plans. The guilt, however, is entirely Faust’s. Projects of this kind necessarily require victims. Evil here is the name for the price that has to be paid in order to give impetus to the process of civilization. At least in the eyes of Faust, evil has to be understood as man’s laziness in his creative abilities. This indeed is a modern notion of evil. Mephistopheles wants to annihilate the world. However, he ﬁnally has to acknowledge the power of ‘life’ that resists his destructive forces: Was sich dem Nichts entgegenstellt, Das Etwas, diese plumpe Welt, So viel als ich schon unternommen, Ich wußte nicht ihr beizukommen, Mit Wellen, Stürmen, Schütteln, Brand, Geruhig bleibt am Ende Meer und Land! Und dem verdammten Zeug, der Tier- und Menschenbrut, Dem ist nun gar nichts anzuhaben. Wie viele hab’ ich schon begraben! (1363–72) Und immer zirkuliert ein neues, frisches Blut. The Something, this coarse world, this mess, Stands in the Way of Nothingness, And despite all I’ve undertaken This solid lump cannot be shaken. Storms, earthquakes, ﬁre and ﬂood assail the land And sea, yet ﬁrmly as before they stand! And as for that damned stuff the brood of beasts and men That too is indestructible I have found; I’ve buried millions – they’re no sooner underground Than new fresh blood will circulate again.

It is quite obvious that Mephistopheles reveals negative and positive qualities, and as it turns out they can hardly be distinguished in the end. To

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begin with, what makes Mephistopheles a villain? His list of sins is long enough. Crime and violence, ‘destruction’ are his business. He is an egocentric, and his cynicism is unsurpassed. He supports Faust’s colonial ambitions and lets Philemon and Baucis be killed without the slightest scruple. His main aim is ‘to achieve great things’ (10126) and that means ‘chaos, violence and nonsense’ (10127). Mephistopheles achieves greatness ﬁrst as ‘the beloved son of chaos’ (8026), secondly as an advocate of violence. But his third claim is to be in charge of ‘nonsense’. It is rather surprising to ﬁnd nonsense afﬁliated to chaos and violence: a peculiar trinity. Mephistopheles here refers to his role as a fool, which prevails over many other roles. What is really new about Mephistopheles is that Goethe lets him take over a double role. He attaches the function of a fool to the traditional one of the devil. The devil as a fool, the fool as a devil: how do they ﬁt together? I shall return to this point. Last but not least Goethe’s devil is marked by his monstrous sexual appetite. That is one of the well-known characteristics of the devil, and Mephistopheles is no exception. Desire, in a Christian context, is strongly associated with the discourse of evil, and within this discourse the utmost evil is woman’s sex drive (FK 350). This is the message already derived from the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise. Of course, Mephistopheles’ colossal sensuousness is not denounced; rather, it is treated ironically.6 The great seducer lets himself be seduced – and by characters who are far from attractive: Wo man sie anfaßt, morsch an allen Gliedern. Man weiß, man sieht’s, man kann es greifen, Und dennoch tanzt man wenn die Luder pfeifen! (7717–19) In every limb they crumble at a touch, One knows all this, eyes and hands tell as much, And yet when these sluts play the tune, one dances!

Some of the exotic objects of his desire, however, dare to doubt his potency. They turn him down because his virility does not come up to their expectations. So his extraordinary sensuousness that is part of his traditional image proves to be mortal in fact. Mephistopheles shows human, or rather male, weakness. It is not surprising that Goethe’s devil with his manifold metamorphoses possesses some positive qualities too. First he acts as an excellent critic of Faust and demonstrates that the idealistic pretensions of his opponent, his ‘profundity’ and titanic ambitions are ridiculous. Mephistopheles takes over the role of the fool. Goethe endows him with all the wisdom of a cosmopolitan,

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and with a lot of common sense too: Mephistopheles feels uncomfortable among the archaic personnel that he meets at the beginning of ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. Like a modern tourist he praises the customs of home when he is abroad. The north is familiar to him, the south is different. He belongs to the Harz region and feels like a stranger in pre-classical Greece: Die nordischen Hexen wußt’ ich wohl zu meistern, Mir wird’s nicht just mit diesen fremden Geistern. Der Blocksberg bleibt ein gar bequem Lokal, Wo man auch sei, man ﬁndet sich zumal. (7676–9) Up north the witches would respect one’s rights I just can’t deal with these damned foreign spirits. The Blocksberg – that’s a snug spot, I must say; One feels at home there, wander as one may.

And later he continues: Man denkt an das, was man verließ, Was man gewohnt war bleibt ein Paradies.

(7963–4)

Things one was used to, they still haunt the mind; Paradise is what one has left behind.

We laugh at the expense of Faust because Mephistopheles presents himself as a close ally of materialism, of the body, of the obscene; in short, of the pleasures of life. Faust’s interminable striving really deserves Mephistopheles’ ironic commentaries, for Faust is ‘A luckless egocentric without measure’ (FK 37). Moreover, Mephistopheles gains our sympathy because he is self-ironic. When he ﬁnds out that Gretchen’s mother has handed over the jewellery to the priest – a present that he had stolen and Faust had given to her – he starts to rave like a madman. And he adds: Ich möcht’ mich gleich dem Teufel übergeben, Wenn ich nur selbst kein Teufel wär’.

(2809–10)

May the devil take me, I would say If I weren’t the devil myself.

Mephistopheles is a devil who makes us laugh (primarily at the expense of Faust) and – even more importantly – one who laughs at himself. He is a self-reﬂexive devil, and in this respect he offers a modern version of evil. He also mischievously fraternizes with the audience and, with a knowing wink, invites it to share his comic performance. But a devil who makes us laugh and who also makes a fool of himself, ending up as ‘The stupid devil’,7 loses his terror. Or does he?

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One could object and argue that Mephistopheles’ various qualities can hardly be identiﬁed as positive or negative. I agree with that objection. In view of the long tradition of either idealizing Mephistopheles in order to get rid of all the moralistic judgements that hampered the debate on Goethe’s drama, or demonizing him mainly in order to wash away all the stains on Faust’s costume, it might be useful to recall some of the main qualities that Goethe preserved for him. Mephistopheles is a character who presents not only the coexistence of good and evil in one person, but also demonstrates that the good does not exist without the evil. Evil is the necessary precondition for good – and vice versa. Likewise, beauty cannot exist without ugliness. To underline their interrelation is a privilege that Goethe allows no one but Mephistopheles: ‘Though for ugliness they chide me, yet I know true beauty well’ (8912). This is his commentary in the mask of Phorkyas looking at Helena. He is familiar with this subject because he is the son of chaos. And chaos – I here refer to one of Goethe’s main assumptions – is also the basis of the beautiful and the ugly. Mephistopheles knows the beautiful as he is an expert on ugliness, but that does not prevent him from trying to bring Helena, the epitome of beauty, under his control. He does so by adopting for this special occasion the role of the Christian devil, who confronts Helena with an endless list of her sins. Helena, however, escapes this kind of taming. To return to the correlation between good and evil visualized in the drama: the otherness of the devil must be an integral part of human life – otherwise it is not human. The drama takes that for granted, and thus the moral dimension of evil becomes less relevant. There is even a tendency in Goethe’s drama to make good and evil virtually indistinguishable. Already the witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth know that to produce moral indifference is one of the noble aims of the devil: ‘Fair is foul, and foul is fair.’8 To eliminate the distinction between good and evil is one of the strategies for playing down the terror of evil. Another one is to enlarge the number of evil deeds. If so many things can be imbued with the notion of evil, each of them becomes trivial and irrelevant. It is no longer dangerous (nor is it fascinating). The evil that occurs in countless variations can of course be more easily integrated into a concept that takes evil and good alike as an integral part of a whole. On the other hand, is it not precisely the multiplicity of evil that constitutes its dangerous power? The drama about Mephistopheles, as far as I can see, offers both options and allows both readings. Let me ask another question: is evil in Goethe’s Faust to be conceived as the other of good so that both can be integrated in one concept of human

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life? Or is evil, because of its genuine destructive and subversive energies, something that cannot be integrated into our world order? In other words: is not evil more than the other of good and therefore in need of exclusion? Goethe’s tragedy here again negotiates both options. But ultimately it prefers the model of integration. And for this reason Goethe decided to exclude the ‘Black Mass’ from the main body of his Faust manuscript. The unﬁnished parts of the ‘Black Mass’ (which are still the subject of ongoing controversy)9 might prove that evil – strictly speaking – in the end resists any attempt to control it. It is the main feature of evil that it is essentially incalculable.10 It has no function within the economy of a whole. In its radical version, evil successfully shatters any faith in the world, a faith that we need in order to ﬁnd our place within it. Mephistopheles’ manifold, if not unlimited, qualities, all the metamorphoses he goes through, could be read as a sign that evil ultimately cannot be included. It remains inaccessible. Mephistopheles seems to know about his extraterritorial position. For he suggests: ‘Remember that the Devil’s old – / When you’re his age you’ll understand him too’ (6817–18). In what way does Goethe’s drama about Faust and Mephistopheles disclose new aspects of evil? Mephistopheles is no longer deﬁned by one principle, as is Richard III, who is preoccupied by nothing else but to attain and maintain power. Goethe’s hero presents himself in an almost unlimited variety of masks. Therefore we could call him a man without qualities. Yet among all those masks, Mephistopheles prefers that of the devil and that of the fool. To add the task of the fool to the traditional one of the devil is one of Goethe’s inventions. But by no means does either the devil who behaves like a fool or the fool who behaves like a devil prevent the spread of terror. That is new too. Even the humour of the elderly Goethe does little to change that.11 Faust ii confronts us with a new version of the subject insofar as it partly eliminates the boundary between good and evil. What seems to be right in Faust’s view is wrong in Mephistopheles’. The play is in favour of some kind of moral indifference not because Goethe is an immoralist, but because things are thematized that cannot be reached or enclosed by moral or theological categories. Mephistopheles is no longer a grandiose product of hell, but often an average character, unremarkable and sober, rather down to earth compared with Faust, with his sometimes abstract and dark aspirations. He is also used to thinking in terms of economics – and in that respect he is a modern character: a bourgeois, and therefore quite familiar, in a strange way.12 Faust’s and Mephistopheles’ crime, the killing of Philemon and Baucis, it seems to me, reveals what Hannah Arendt in the early 1960s called ‘the banality of evil’.13 Neither Mephistopheles nor Faust follows what we might

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call a satanic master plan. Faust just refuses to foresee the consequences of his decision to possess and to colonize the whole land. He is not prepared to imagine what will happen to the old couple. He is not stupid. If there is a crime, it is a result of mere thoughtlessness. And that, too, is a very modern version of evil. not es 1. See Ernst Osterkamp, Lucifer. Stationen eines Motivs, Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter 1979; Peter-André Alt, ‘Aufgeklärte Teufel. Modellierungen des Bösen im Trauerspiel des 18. Jahrhunderts’, in Die deutsche Tragödie. Neue Lektüren einer Gattung im europäischen Kontext, ed. Volker C. Dörr et al., Bielefeld: Aisthesis, 2006. 2. See FK 52. 3. Gert Mattenklott, ‘Der Medien-Mephistopheles. Gustav Gründgens als Mephistopheles in Goethes Faust’, Theater heute 2 (2000), 23–7. 4. All further references to Faust are by line number from FT. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are taken from Goethe, Faust, trans. David Luke, Oxford University Press, 1987, 1994. 5. See Jochen Schmidt, Goethes Faust. Erster und Zweiter Teil. Grundlagen–Werk– Wirkung, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1999, 122. 6. See Rolf-Peter Janz, ‘“Vom Harz bis Hellas immer Vettern.” Mephistopheles in der “Klassischen Walpurgisnacht”’, in Peter Stein inszeniert Faust von Johann Wolfgang Goethe, ed. Peter Stein and Roswitha Schieb, Ostﬁldern: DuMont Reiseverlag, 2000, 274–6. 7. See 11832 ff. and FK 777. 8. Macbeth I, i. 11. 9. See for instance Albrecht Schöne, Götterzeichen, Liebeszauber, Satanskult. Neue Einblicke in alte Goethetexte, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1993; FK; Thomas Zabka, ‘Dialektik des Bösen. Warum es in Goethes “Walpurgisnacht” keinen Satan gibt’, DVJs 72 (1998), 201–6. 10. This thesis is strongly advanced by Wilhelm Schmidt-Biggemann in ‘Über die unfaßliche Evidenz des Bösen’, in Das Böse. Eine historische Phänomenologie des Unerklärlichen, ed. Carsten Colpe and W. Schmidt-Biggemann, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1993, 7–12. 11. If we look at plays of the 1970s and 1980s, I would suggest that a play like Mein Kampf by George Tabori could be understood as one of a few examples that show the double identity of devil and fool, the intimate alliance of terror and laughter. 12. Hans Richard Brittnacher, Ästhetik des Horrors, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1994, 241. 13. Hannah Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem. A Report on the Banality of Evil, New York: Viking Press, 1963. (German translation: Eichmann in Jerusalem. Ein Bericht von der Banalität des Bösen, Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1978, 16.)

chapter 3

Mephisto is the devil – or is he? Peter Huber

This question seems too obvious to be stated and discussed seriously. Doesn’t Faust refer to Mephisto as the devil several times, as when he says ‘Who holds the Devil, hold him tight!’ (1428)?1 Does not even Mephisto repeatedly call himself ‘devil’, as after his liberation: ‘You are not yet the man to hold the devil captive’ (1509)? There should not be any doubt about Mephisto’s origins. Nevertheless, having the question of Faust’s modernity in mind – a modernity which, inspired by Nietzsche, has developed a more differentiated view on what is good or evil – it may be worth playing the role of the advocatus diaboli and arguing that the hellish client is not the devil, or, at least, not in the common sense: that is, not as evil personiﬁed. It can in fact be argued that he even incorporates characteristic traits of some honorable individuals. Recapitulating Mephisto’s deeds and actions, one has to conclude that he performs pranks and jokes rather than committing crimes. What does he actually do after signing the pact with Faust? He gives amusing academic advice to a would-be student, he fools the tipplers of Auerbach’s cellar, he prescribes a rejuvenation drug for Faust, he organizes some gifts for Gretchen, he encourages Faust to face Valentin in self-defence and he provides horses for Gretchen’s prison escape. The only possibly illegal act in the ﬁrst part is the testimony asserting Mr Schwerdtlein’s death, but even this is questionable. Given the depravity of this world, one can be assured that, whenever and wherever a person dies, Mephisto will be present or at least informed. So it’s only Faust who deﬁnitely lies. In the second part we ﬁnd Mephisto in the roles of Emperor’s fool and of avarice in the carnival scene. He rationalizes the Emperor’s ﬁnances by introducing bonds and ious, makes a journey to Greece, disguises himself as an old maid and house-keeper and conducts Helena and her women to Faust’s castle. In the fourth act, Mephisto rescues the Emperor from an almost successful rebellion. So far, there have been no unlawful acts; on the contrary, Mephisto turns out to have been quite a useful creature. Only the ﬁfth act of Part ii is an exception. Here we encounter a malicious and brutal 40

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daemon who unscrupulously eliminates Philemon and Baucis, and who gathers wealth through piracy. This change from a comedian to a criminal is indeed worth thinking about. Did Goethe intend to withdraw sympathy from the ﬁgure through the ﬁnal motif of the deceived deceiver, where the angels snatch Faust’s soul away from Mephisto? Even if this were the case, there is another possible explanation, which I shall develop in the following manner: Mephisto is not a sharply deﬁned, clear-cut character – he always remains open, inconsistent and even contradictory. He represents what Goethe has called a ‘schwankende Gestalt’ in the very ﬁrst line of his Faust poem: a changing, iridescent, unstable and undeﬁned character.2 While the eponymous role of Faust gained some homogeneneity during a process of creation lasting more than ﬁfty years, Mephisto never obtained that degree of consistency in person and character – he is too much an indicator of Goethe’s ever-developing Weltanschauung and philosophy of nature. Let me begin by illustrating Mephisto’s metamorphic appearance with a fundamental consideration: is he the devil or is he a devil? And if the latter is true: is he the head of his kind or is he just a subaltern daemon? In the ‘Prologue in Heaven’ we have a Mephisto acting as a counterpart to God, initiating a wager for Faust’s soul. In this function he is presented as the only antagonist, as the opposite principle to the divine. In this respect Mephisto denominates his uniqueness by speaking of ‘the devil himself’ (353). This is how Mephisto appears in most scenes of both parts. Goethe’s comparison between the Titans and the devil in Dichtung und Wahrheit (Fiction and Truth) ﬁts into this context: The Titans are the foil of polytheism, as the devil may be considered the foil of monotheism; though, like only God to whom he stands in contrast, he is not a poetic ﬁgure. The Satan of Milton, though boldly enough drawn, still remains in the disadvantage of a subordinate existence, attempting to destroy the splendid creation of a higher being: Prometheus, on the contrary, has this advantage, that even in spite of superior beings, he is able to act and to create.3

In the ‘Prologue’ Mephisto seems to be the ‘foil of monotheism’ indeed. He is the ‘spirit who always negates’ God’s creation, and his subalternity is clearly outlined (1338). While God addresses Mephisto with the familiar ‘du’, Mephisto responds with ‘Herr’ or ‘Lord’ and uses the polite form ‘Ihr’. In the manner of a domestic servant he refers to God in the monologue as ‘den Alten’ (350), which means ‘the old man’ in the literal and ‘the boss’ in the ﬁgurative sense. Given that Goethe analysed Milton’s Satan and found him boring in the sense of not being a poetic ﬁgure, should he be expected

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to provide Mephisto with exactly the same features? This is implausible, especially since Mephisto is a very interesting ﬁgure – much more so, clearly, than Faust. This indicates that Mephisto must be a lot more than merely the ‘foil of monotheism’. We shall return to this point later. To continue this line of argumentation, the devil as God’s counterpart is only imaginable as a single being. On the other hand, there are choruses and other groups of daemons commanded by Mephisto. ‘These are the smallest of all / who are at my call’ (1627–8) is Mephisto’s commentary on the singsong of the baby daemons in the ‘Study 2’ scene. In the last scene of Part ii, while waiting for Faust’s soul, Mephisto demands support from two ‘tribes’ of devils, ‘Fat Devils’ and ‘Lean Devils’. According to this, Mephisto is just a devil among others, even if it looks as though he is the chief of them all. In the ‘Walpurgis Night’ a ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp’ responds to him: ‘You are the master of the house’ (3866). On the other hand, the Walpurgis Night paralipomena with Satan’s mass suggest that there is a Satan superior to Mephisto. It is in this sense that Mephisto says to Faust in the pact scene ‘I am not one of the great ones’ (1641). These examples show inconsistencies, if not outright contradictions, in the dramatic development of the Mephisto ﬁgure. Yet this uncertainty in appearance and apparition on Mephisto’s part seems to be a consequence of the different periods during which Goethe worked on the Faust project. Let us have a look at the earliest stage of the poem, represented by the Urfaust, which contains scenes written down in the pre-Weimarian epoch before 1776. In these years, the inﬂuence of the sources, such as the Volksbuch (chapbook) ‘Historia of D. Johann Fausten’, the Faust puppet play or other derivatives of Christopher Marlowe’s Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus was still strong. In Marlowe’s play, Lucifer, Beelzebub and Mephistopheles appear among other good and bad daemons. The puppet play, as handed down by Karl Simrock, has eight other hellish daemons beside Mephistopheles, called Auerhahn, Astarot, Megära, Haribax, Polümor, Asmodeus, Vitzliputzli and Xerxes. And even the Historia distinguishes between Satan, Mephostopheles and other devils. All these sources take a moral stance, allowing the frightening embodiments of all these devils to give an impression of what will happen when one leaves the path of virtue. In the pre-Enlightenment era, hell – just like the Kingdom of Heaven – was understood to be a realm, an empire with a Prince of Darkness and legions of warriors. The young Goethe, inﬂuenced by mysticism, the Kabbala, magic and alchemy, adopted the conceptions of the devil and their scenarios of hell from these sources. Decades later, when the author came in contact with natural science and the philosophy of the

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Enlightenment, especially Kant, the devil assumed a more abstract meaning in the sense of the above-mentioned ‘foil of monotheism’. The reduction from a variety of devils to a sole principal devil can be studied by comparing the early version of Urfaust with the Faust fragment of 1790. In Marthe’s garden Mephisto says about Gretchen: ‘she feels that I am certainly a genius / Perhaps even a devil’ (1232–3, my emphasis). The Fragment and the ﬁnal version have a small but important textual variation: ‘Perhaps even the devil’ (1843–4; 3541–2, my emphasis). This is not the only evidence of the conceptual change. In Auerbach’s cellar Mephisto leaves the scene with the words: ‘Remember well the devil’s joke’ (2321). The early version (Urfaust) lacks this sentence, again denoting the singularity of the devil. In this context it is instructive to look at the scene ‘Witch’s Kitchen’. Goethe wrote it in 1788 while staying in Rome. The Witch, when she recognizes Mephisto, exclaims: ‘I lose all sense and reason upon seeing the nobleman Satan here’ (2503–4). Again, ‘Mephisto’ and ‘Satan’ are treated as synonymous. As mentioned above, the paralipomena of ‘Walpurgis Night’ seem to have a Satan besides Mephisto, and it was possibly not only the explicit sexual elements which caused Goethe to suppress the scene, but also the discarded concept of a hellish hierarchy. Some scenes of the Faust drama were written in Italy, and there the author encountered Greco-Roman antiquity with its polytheism. For the irreligious movements of the Enlightenment as well as for the pantheists – both groups contribute to German classicism – polytheism became a metaphor for non-revealed, self-determined human ethics. When Goethe, Schiller and Hölderlin speak of gods instead of God, they refer to the fact that these gods behave morally as humans and do not represent good or bad in general.4 We know from the biography of Fichte that the propagation of a theoretical atheism could be quite dangerous for one’s career around 1800. It was much safer to declare oneself for Spinozism or pantheism in philosophy and for polytheism in poetry. What has all that got to do with the ﬁgure of Mephisto? From a simple daemon in hell – according to the sources – he progressed to being the ‘foil to monotheism’. But why should the author, a Spinozist, let his most impressive character remain in an antiquated position of religious philosophy? Admittedly, trying to re-establish ‘polydevilism’ would not serve as a ‘foil of polytheism’ but would, rather, seem to be a relapse into the pre-rationalistic theology of the Faust sources. The integration of the devil’s ﬁgure of Mephisto into Goethe’s Weltanschauung takes place much more subtly. To demonstrate this, I would like to draw attention to a seemingly insigniﬁcant detail.

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Let us recall the scene ‘Witch’s Kitchen’. The Witch, not having recognized Mephisto at ﬁrst, asks apologetically, ‘Where is your pair of ravens?’ (2491), suggesting that these two birds usually serve as Mephisto’s companions. Two ravens, however, designate the Nordic father of the gods, Wotan, rather than the devil. This impression is even conﬁrmed by the fourth act of Part ii. The Emperor’s army is – in spite of the aid of Mephisto’s Three Mighty Men – just about to lose the battle when Mephisto’s ravens enter the scene. Mephisto, now commanding the Emperor’s troops, sends them around to communicate his orders: ‘War commands raven’s post’ (10678). This scene is highly reminiscent of Wotan and his ravens Huginn and Muninn. One could argue that in the Faust puppet play Mephisto is also accompanied by a raven called Mercurius, and that Goethe simply adopted this tradition. However, this is not the case. First, there is only one raven, and secondly, it only appears in the pact scene, where the bird picks up the contract and takes it to hell. Comparing these two scenes it becomes obvious that with the introduction of a second raven and their employment during a battle, Goethe was deﬁnitely alluding to the Wotan myth. There has not been any real attempt to decode the raven scenes in which Mephisto displays features of the Nordic god. The best available explanation is that in the course of the Christianization of Northern Europe the Nordic gods were discredited and interpreted as bad daemons, as devils.5 Yet this argument only clariﬁes why Wotan was identiﬁed with the Christian devil; it does not explain why Goethe had supplied Mephisto with the traits and symbols of Wotan. I think the correct answer can be given in terms of the argumentation presented above. Goethe’s humanism did not permit a Christian devil as a ‘foil to monotheism’. If Mephisto belonged to an older dynasty of gods (like the Aesir) defeated by the Christian God, there would be at least theoretically a constellation which I call humanistic polytheism. And let us recall that the Christian God does not like to be called by name. Individuals are distinguished by name, and calling God by a speciﬁc name means that there could be others. If there was something before God, then God can’t be the creator of everything. Nor can the gods of polytheism, since one dynasty is founded by defeating an older one. Polytheistic cosmogonies always refer to the self-creation of nature out of ‘chaos’ – or whatever term is chosen to describe ‘absolute nothingness’ – to end the succession of generations. This problem is mastered by monotheism when it declares God eternal and the creator. On the other hand, to reveal the mechanisms of nature’s creative forces was Goethe’s strongest incentive in his scientiﬁc endeavours. In the research on Faust it has been pointed out that the Mephisto of the ‘Prologue’ does not correspond to the devil of the New Testament but rather

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to that of the Old Testament. I shall go a step further by stating that Mephisto represents a sphere prior to God but domesticated by him. The Wotan allusion is just one indication of that complex. This generalized understanding of the devil’s ﬁgure by the post-Italian Goethe can be demonstrated in the ‘Prologue’, created around 1800. In line 344, God calls the angels ‘true sons of God’ compared with Mephisto, who is thus regarded neither as a son nor as a creation of God. Mephisto must serve ‘as devil’ according to line 343, which is not the same as being the devil. The status of Mephisto in the ‘Prologue’ is much more respectable than expected: God and Mephisto enjoy seeing each other, and God calls him ‘companion’. The German equivalent ‘Geselle’ in line 342 does not refer to Mephisto as a ‘companion’ of Faust but to God’s own ‘Geselle’. This word has more or less the same meaning as the old German expression ‘Gesinde’ (see line 274), which is more a ‘friend’ and ‘conﬁdant’ than a ‘servant’ or ‘domestic’. In this context, the last two lines of the ‘Prologue’ reveal a hidden meaning: Mephisto says that God speaks ‘menschlich’ with the devil, where ‘human’ or ‘humane’ means more than ‘tolerable’ – it stands for ‘humanistic’. And God indeed uses a humanistic idiom when speaking of ‘Göttersöhne’ (sons of the gods) instead of ‘Gottessöhne’ (God’s sons), in this way undermining his uniqueness. Another hint as to Mephisto’s origin in Wotan comes from Faust’s antagonist himself. In the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’ scene, when the Witch asks for the ravens, he replies that the ‘Nordic phantom’s gone and vanished’ (2497). It is well known that the Witch is also part of Nordic mythology. If Mephisto is her master, then logically he must be Wotan. This connection is surprising, insofar as we have hardly any examples of northern myths in Goethe’s work. And indeed, the author concedes in the ﬁfth part of Dichtung und Wahrheit (Fiction and Truth) that he was not able to integrate them in his poetic work. Whereas Greek mythology is well documented in literature and visible through myriad sculptures and temples, the Nordic remains pale and inconceivable. Why should he, says Goethe, replace Jupiter with Wotan and Mars with Thor and introduce fuzzy images instead of well-deﬁned southern ﬁgures into his poetry? Nobly as they [the Nordic Myths] excited my imagination, they nevertheless were inaccessible to the perception of the senses; while the mythology of the Greeks, turned by the greatest artists in the world into visible, easily imagined forms, still existed before our own eyes in abundance. I did not often allow gods in general to appear; because they had their abodes outside of the Nature which alone I knew how to imitate. Now, what could have induced me to substitute Wodan for Jupiter, and Thor for Mars, and instead of the Southern, accurately described ﬁgures, to introduce forms of mist, nay, mere verbal sounds, into my poems?6

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Well, with Mephisto Goethe did introduce a kind of ‘schwankende Gestalt’, as we have seen above. According to the author’s confession, this ﬁgure is – additionally and predominantly – given features of a ﬁgure from Greek mythology: Hermes. Although the allusions are too numerous to be listed completely, I shall concentrate on a few: Hermes is given the epithet ‘psychopompos’ because he guides souls to the underworld. This is exactly what Mephisto intends to do with Faust. He has God’s explicit permission ‘to guide [Faust] gently along [Mephisto’s] road’ (314). Just as Hermes mediates between Olympus and earth, Mephisto is the chain between the transcendent God of the ‘Prologue’ and Faust on earth. Hermes is the god of travellers and thieves, having stolen his brother Apollo’s cattle when he was still a baby. Mephisto, too, cannot be completely exonerated from larceny. The monkey in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’ says, ‘You recognize the thief and must not tell his name?’ (2420–1). Mephisto and Faust appear as travellers in ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’ and in the Gretchen scenes. When Marthe asks, ‘And you, Sir, will you always be travelling like this?’ (3085), Mephisto replies, ‘Alas! that business and duties force us to!’ (3086). Mephisto pretends to be a trader, which also conforms to the competency of Hermes. He is the divine messenger, and in this function he brings the news of Mr Schwerdtlein’s death. He also invents the lyre or kithara, and with this instrument Mephisto performs his serenade under Gretchen’s window. In this scene Mephisto acts as matchmaker for Faust and Gretchen, and matchmaking also belongs to the patronage of Hermes, because he is the god of mediation. In his translation of The Birds by Aristophanes, Goethe uses the expression ‘The matchmaking messenger Mercury’ (MA 2:1, 330), who is the Roman equivalent of Hermes. In his capacity as god of matchmakers he is very impressed by Marthe. Mephisto gushes about her: ‘That’s a woman predestined to matchmaking and gypsy work’ (3029 f.). In the ‘Forest and Cave’ scene, the furious Faust yells ‘Get lost, pimp!’ (3339), and the scolded companion retorts ironically that even God acted as a matchmaker when he brought Adam and Eve together. Thus we see that Mephisto is well versed in doing the job of Hermes. One more feature: Hermes is the god of serendipity, so there is some hope that he will discover the hidden treasures he had promised to the Emperor. ‘What a lucky ﬁnd’ (9955), gloats Mephisto, while he picks up what is left of Euphorion. These examples should sufﬁce to demonstrate that the character of Hermes lies within the shell of Mephisto. In fact, the author himself connected the two ﬁgures in the third act of Part ii, when Mephisto in the mask of Phorkyas guides Helena and her women from Arcadia towards Faust’s Gothic castle. With perceptible anxiety the chorus intones:

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Siehst du nichts? schwebt nicht etwa gar Hermes voran? blinkt nicht der goldne Stab Heischend, gebietend uns wieder zurück Zu dem unerfreulichen, grautagenden, Ungreifbarer Gebilde vollen, Überfüllten, ewig leeren Hades.

(9116–21)

Can you see anything? Is that not Hermes Who hovers before us, his golden wand gleaming, Who summons, who orders us to return To dreary, twilight-gray Hades, which, ﬁlled to repletion with impalpable shapes, is eternally empty?

In this context, it is the purest dramatic irony when, in a following scene, the chorus tells the story of young Hermes and his thefts, assuming that Phorkyas–Mephisto has never heard about them. To summarize: with Wotan and Hermes, Goethe has packed two pre-Christian gods into the character of Mephisto. There is no doubt that this symbolizes the demonization of the polytheistic religions by Christianity. The author was fully aware of this. In the ‘Walpurgis Night’s Dream’ a curious traveller believes he can see Oberon, the king of the elves. An orthodox religiosus comments: Keine Klauen, keinen Schwanz! Doch bleibt es außer Zweifel, So wie die Götter Griechenlands,7 So ist auch er ein Teufel.

(4271–4)

No claws, no tail! But there is no doubt: Just like the gods of Greece, So even he is a devil.

A variation of this motif dates from 1814, when Goethe added a scene for the Faust performances of Fürst Radziwill in Berlin. Two baby devils examine the winged ﬁgure of Amor and come to this conclusion: Erlogen ist das Flügelpaar, Die Pfeile, die sind Krallen. Die Hörnerchen verbirgt der Kranz: Er ist ohn’ allen Zweifel, Wie alle Götter Griechenlands, Auch ein verkappter Teufel! The pair of wings is false, The arrows, they are claws.

(MA 6:1, 1069)

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peter huber The little horns are concealed by the wreath. He is undoubtedly, Like all the gods of Greece, A disguised devil.

Regarding Goethe’s early dramatic play Satyros with its idolized devil (‘vergötterter Teufel’) we have with Mephisto’s metamorphoses demonized gods (‘verteufelte Götter’), where Wotan and Hermes stand for preChristian polytheism and natural religion. By introducing this term we are close to Goethe’s own religious ideas, since Goethe’s Spinozism can be regarded as a ‘de-demonized’ natural religion. This gives us an opportunity to look at the Mephisto ﬁgure from another point of view. It is the ‘Forest and Cave’ scene that has always caused irritation, since Faust seems to address his speech to the Earth Spirit. Faust’s expression of thanks is usually interpreted in the following way: Faust thinks it was the Earth Spirit that fulﬁlled his wishes and gave him Mephisto as companion. Taking the ‘Prologue’ into consideration, this would be self-deception on the part of Faust, assuming it was not the author who messed things up. If Faust really connects Mephisto with the Earth Spirit, then he cannot be aware of having made a pact with the devil. Thus the bet between God and Mephisto would be invalid. Of course, this constellation could bring about the salvation of Faust’s soul in the end, but this possibility is never alluded to in the play. And besides, why should Faust be mistaken at all? Does he not refer to the word ‘devil’ several times, e.g., ‘Who holds the Devil, hold him tight!’ (1428)? I believe that the solution to this question lies elsewhere. When Goethe uses the word ‘devil’, he does not primarily mean the Christian devil, but rather pre-Christian gods and nature daemons which had been declared devils by Christianity, as outlined above. So it may well be that Mephisto indeed belongs to the sphere of the Earth Spirit. Just as the latter impersonates the creative forces of nature, which humans may call ‘the good’, so Mephisto represents the destructive forces, the so-called ‘evil’. Both together form the polar principle of creation, of life – ‘stirb und werde’ (die and become) in the author’s words.8 The principle of polarity, which Goethe had adopted from Schelling, played an important role in Goethe’s Weltanschauung and philosophy of nature. From about 1800 onwards, he tried to explain all physical phenomena within these categories. Goethe’s most famous application of this principle was the opposition of light and non-light (darkness) as a precondition of colour in his Theory of Colours. Here again, creative and destructive forces act together to produce the variety of phenomena that includes life. With this in mind, it is not hard to understand Mephisto’s selfintroduction along these lines: ‘I am the spirit of eternal negation’, he

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says, calling ‘destruction’ – which humans may call ‘evil’ – his element (1338 ff.). He characterizes himself in terms of the Theory of Colours as ‘part of the darkness’. From his optical studies Goethe knew that light is not visible by itself, but only as the reﬂection of a body. In opposing light it must therefore be Mephisto’s goal to destroy physical bodies. That’s exactly what he tries to explain to Faust. But just as bush ﬁres (ﬁre is Mephisto’s tool of destruction) create new life in the wilderness while they extinguish a withered bush, Mephisto supports creation while he intends to destroy it. Understood in this way, there is no paradox in Mephisto’s words ‘I am part of that force which constantly intends evil and relentlessly creates that which is good’ (1335 f.). Once one regards Mephisto as part of the forces of nature, as the principle of destruction and opposite pole of the Earth Spirit representing the creative forces, there is no more reason to accuse Faust of self-deception. These considerations cast new light on another passage as well. Mephisto’s question ‘Did we force ourselves upon you or you upon us?’ (MA 6:1, 666) in the prose scene ‘Dreary Day, Field’ has been understood as sarcasm, since it was the poodle that followed Faust. Once Mephisto is understood to be part of the Earth Spirit’s sphere, it becomes clear that it was indeed Faust who initiated the contact. But if he belongs to the Earth Spirit, why does Mephisto have access to heaven if he is the antagonist of God? He is a representative of all the older generations of gods, such as Wotan and Hermes, including the earliest principles of nature, such as the Greek Gaia, the ‘mother earth’, which is nothing but a personiﬁcation of the Earth Spirit. The acts of nature gods and goddesses cannot be grasped with moral categories like ‘good’ or ‘bad’. They create and destroy unconsciously9 like the (god of the) sun, which provides for life on earth and yet would burn it if there was no rain. Referring to this pre-moral property, Faust calls Mephisto ‘Oh you peculiar son of chaos!’ (1384), where the Greek word chaos means Uranfang (the very beginning). These gods and natural forces were defeated by the Christian God and demonized, but also domesticated. This process of domestication has a name: interpretatio christiana. As long as the devil deters humans from evil, he does a good job and is welcome even in heaven. Mephisto is a good example of the ‘trickster’, a mythological and archetypical character who challenges the established regime with fraud and cunning, yet without calling its legitimacy into question. The classical example of the trickster is Hermes, and I have shown why Mephisto is modelled after him. God calls him a ‘wag’ (339) in the ‘Prologue’, and that’s how Mephisto acts throughout the play, with the possible exception of the last scene. The Christian God, at least the God of the New Testament,

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represents the principle of the ‘good’, rather than acting like a human person as the ancient gods do. Just as the latter can be good and bad, so Mephisto may be called the ‘devil’, but he is not evil in person. Once there is no separation into ‘absolute good’ and ‘absolute evil’, it doesn’t make sense to stick to the concept of original sin, according to which mankind can never be good through itself but only through redemption. On the contrary: the humanist programme of self-education is based upon the conviction that mankind is able to gain salvation autonomously. This conviction is, of course, the purest Pelagianism, an attitude Goethe was familiar with since his earliest youth when he did not even know what Pelagianism was. In the ﬁfteenth book of Dichtung und Wahrheit (Fiction and Truth) the author writes that he could never agree with the orthodox view, the Augustinian doctrine of predestination. The opposition of light and darkness, of good and evil, which Mephisto describes in the process of introducing himself is sometimes termed Manichaeism. This is not the case: Manichaeism teaches a strict dualism of good and evil. Goethe, however, reconciles the good and the evil with the concept of polarity. They imply one another, and they also turn into one another, just like Mephisto’s disentangled paradox of ‘creating the good while intending the evil’. The above considerations have omitted the ﬁfth act of Part ii. This is the only one in which we ﬁnd an evil Mephisto, revealed in the murder of Philemon and Baucis. This is furthermore the only act where we have a multitude of devils; indeed, there is a confrontation between them (the forces of evil) and the angels (the forces of good) over Faust’s soul. Undoubtedly Mephisto conforms to the Christian conception of the devil in this act. This is connected with what I call the ‘religious turn’ of Act 5. Salvation from sin, redemption, ecstatic eremites and the cult of the Virgin Mary evoke a Christian mysticism of Romantic and Catholic provenance. The redemptive ending is much like an ‘unforeseen accident’. Originally, as we know from the paralipomena, another ending was intended: after the purloining of Faust’s soul by the angels, Mephisto applies to a celestial court to get back his legally acquired soul. Then it turns out that Mephisto has erroneously taken Faust’s life and therefore has no legal claim. According to the pact, Mephisto was supposed to gain Faust’s soul whenever the latter might have said to a moment in his life, from the depth of his heart: ‘Tarry awhile! you are so fair!’ (1700). In fact, Faust never said that, or, if he did, he did not mean it that way. Instead, he expressed the utopian idea ‘If I ever could stay with free people on free ground, then I might say: “Tarry awhile! you are so fair”’ (11580–2). With this argument, Mephisto would have been refused Faust’s soul. This would have been the proper trickster ending: the deceived deceiver.

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In 1820, long before Goethe wrote the ﬁfth act, he described in a letter to Schubarth how he imagined the ending: ‘Mephistopheles must only win the wager in part. And if half the guilt remains with Faust, then the Old Lord’s right of pardon takes effect immediately, presenting us with a most amusing and cheerful ending for the entire play.’10 Indeed, the redemptive ending is sublime, but is by no means amusing. We do not know what caused the author to withdraw the original plan. Was the ‘late’ Goethe inclining towards Romantic mysticism and Catholicism? This is hard to believe. Perhaps the redemption scene turned out to be too overwhelming and too perfect an ending to be followed by a court scene. Be that as it may, this decision must have been made at the last minute, so that the circumstances of Faust’s death now appear as a blind motif. Let us simply rate this ‘unforeseen accident’ as a private, eternal lifeassurance policy of the author’s – who is now over 80 years old – and let us recapitulate. There are mainly four periods during which Goethe worked on Faust; between 1772 and 1775, the period generally referred to as the preWeimarian or ‘young’ Goethe; the two periods from 1788 to 1790 and from 1797 to 1803, which can be comprehended as the ‘classical’ Goethe; and the fourth period, from 1825 to Goethe’s death in 1832, which represents the ‘late’ Goethe. According to this classiﬁcation, we can discern three different stages in the development of the Mephisto ﬁgure. The young Goethe oriented his devil’s ﬁgure according to the sources. Here, Mephisto is a Christian devil representing evil according to the morality play. The classical Goethe identiﬁed Mephisto with ancient gods and nature forces as described above. Christian allusions appearing in the Urfaust were omitted. So was the ‘Country Road’ scene, in which Mephisto was afraid of the cross. In the ‘Study’ scenes written by the classical Goethe, Mephisto is no longer banned by the cross but by a preChristian symbol: the ‘Drudenfuß’ or ‘pentagram’. Around 1800, he drafted the Helena interlude with all the obvious Hermes allusions. In a sketch bearing the paralipomena number 103, according to Hecker’s counting, we ﬁnd the notes ‘Polytheism and heroism nobly mythological’ and ‘Ideal salvation, setting in mythology, pantheism’ (MA 18:1, 1000). With ‘polytheism’ and ‘pantheism’ we encounter two key words of Goethe’s new conception of Mephisto. The ‘classical’ Mephisto was possibly not intended to be given up by the later and late Goethe, but at the very end the author seemed to rely more on the impressive effect of the redemption scene than on ﬁgural integrity. Even if we can discern three stages, there is no doubt that the proper Mephisto is the classical one of the period from, say, 1780 to 1830. This is the conception of an ancient, demonized god and divine wag, an archetypical trickster and, last but not least, a representative of the humanistic attitude of his author.

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From the point of view of the religious fundamentalists of his days, Goethe’s humanism needed to be criticized and even demonized. In this sense Goethe’s seemingly paradoxical dictum about his drama Iphigenia, calling it ‘diabolically humane’,11 appears under a new aspect. Just as Iphigenia is ‘diabolically humane’, so is the Mephisto of the Faust play ‘diabolically humanistic’. He is not an evil devil, and a devil only by name. He represents the value-free destructive force of nature and thus guarantees the evolution of nature. He is beyond good and evil. A world of increasing religious fundamentalism and decreasing tolerance deserves more than ever a ﬁgure like him – a trickster and wag who tries to make even God laugh, and a living reminder of the fact that the roles of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are never distributed too obviously. notes This chapter is dedicated to Harry Seelig. 1. Line-number references to Faust are from MA. Translations are cited from Walter Arndt, Walter Kaufmann and Stuart Atkins and some are by the author. 2. ‘Schwankende Gestalt’ is commonly translated as ‘wavering apparition’, but ‘fuzzy’ and ‘uncertain’ are more exact. 3. The Autobiography of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, trans. John Oxenford, 2 vols., Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1974, ii, 278. 4. In Die Götter Griechenlands (The Gods of Greece), Schiller laments the demise of antique polytheism: ‘To enrich just one, the whole realm of the gods had to vanish’, and the following sentence of the ﬁrst version of Schiller’s poem represents the very programme of classical humanism: ‘When the gods were still more human-like / mankind was more god-like’. Friedrich Schiller, Sämtliche Gedichte i, in Sämtliche Werke, ed. Gerhard Fricke and Herbert G. Göpfert, vol. i, Munich: C. Hanser, 1965, ﬁrst version [1788], 163–9, second version [1800], 169–73. 5. Cf. Albrecht Schöne’s comment to 10664, FK 685 f. 6. The Autobiography of Goethe, ii, 161. 7. Goethe mocks literary critics (probably a particular one) of religious-orthodox provenance, who had polemicized against Schiller’s philosophical poem The Gods of Greece (see above). 8. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, West-östlicher Divan, BA 3, 22. 9. A theatrical Example of a natural goddess without consciousness is Wagner’s Erda of the Rheingold. 10. Letter to Carl Ernst Schubarth, 3 November 1820, WA 4:34, 5. 11. Letter to Schiller, 19 January 1802. The ﬁrst draft of Iphigenia reaches further back than the Mephisto conception of Goethe’s classical period. Nevertheless the humanist tendency of the drama is very much in accordance with the ‘good and evil’ problem discussed here. One of the central points of Iphigenia is the

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self-liberation from the ‘curse of Tantalus’, the progenitor of the Atrides. This ‘curse’ symbolizes Christian original sin and, according to the Augustinian doctrine, such a (self-)expiation is impossible. As a consequence of his deviant view, Pelagius was condemned as a heretic. The classical conception of humanity, as propagated by Goethe and Schiller, is based on this ‘demonized’ Pelagianism. So the expression ‘verteufelt human’ is not at all meant ironically or paradoxically, but is strictly literal.

chapter 4

‘Schwankende Gestalten’: virtuality in Goethe’s Faust Ulrich Gaier

Ask Goethe whether you should put Faust on the stage: he will tell you ﬂatly ‘No!’ He never supported efforts to do so,1 even though readers and theatre people urged him to stage the piece. When the actor Pius Alexander Wolff and Goethe’s adlatus Friedrich Wilhelm Riemer planned a representation in Weimar around 1810, Goethe was angry, saying that if he had wanted, he could have staged it himself.2 Later he described his attitude towards it as ‘passive, if not suffering’.3 Finally he consented to draw sketches for some scenes in Part i and revise the stage version, adding lines here and there in order to stress the operatic character which Wolff had intended (FT 582– 90). When, in 1829, Weimar and Leipzig rehearsed for a representation of a revised version of Part i, Goethe contributed a chorus for the ‘Study 2’ scene and a ﬁnal chorus for the ‘Prison’ scene (FT 591 ff.), again to enhance the operatic character which he always had in mind. We think of the multitude of musical inlays in the text, but also of his remark that only Mozart could have set the play to music, and that after his death only Meyerbeer was capable of rendering its more terrifying aspects.4 He consented to train the actor LaRoche to portray Mephistopheles; indeed, LaRoche confessed that each gesture, each step, each grimace and each word came from Goethe.5 Wilhelm Holtei, an aﬁcionado of the Weimar stage, noted on LaRoche’s Mephistopheles: ‘It was a symbolic appearance, fully on the level of the poem. To tell the truth: it was an appearance which perhaps was as little suited to the real stage as the poem itself.’6 Referring to the Leipzig production, Goethe himself wrote that it revealed the old truth that one should not ‘paint the devil on the wall’,7 that is, one should not try to create a realistic image of that ﬁgure. Apparently, it is not so much the difﬁculties which the stage technicians might encounter in realizing Goethe’s ideas and imaginations, but the symbolic nature of the ﬁgures, events and scenes. ‘Symbolic’ refers to a 54

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plurality of aspects and relationships in which a phenomenon has to be understood, and such plurality will always exceed the spectator’s ability to perceive a stage ﬁgure. mephistopheles LaRoche played Mephistopheles, and he succeeded in giving the ﬁgure a symbolic appearance. Let me go into some detail with this ﬁgure. First, Mephistopheles constantly changes costume, mask and function. In the ‘Prologue to Heaven’, we have his name only as a stage name for the ﬁgure who, in this re-make of the biblical Book of Job, plays the role of Satan. But at the same time this ﬁgure appears modernized in the same way as the ﬁgure of the Lord, since the eminent object of their wager is not the pious Jew any more but a non-believing Doctor of Theology. So, the intertextual reference to the Book of Job suggests that the unknown opponent to the Lord is Satan. Faust as the modern object of the wager, however, denies the Satan identity, as does the stage direction that the actor of Mephistopheles has to play this part. Before Faust conjures Mephistopheles in ‘Study 1’, he calls for spirits in the air who might lend him wings on which he could follow the sun. Such spirits, as Wagner warns, are dangerous because they carry all the evils of the four winds. Just as Faust took the Earth Spirit as an elementary daemon, Wagner speaks of the air demons and forgets that Saint Paul had warned of the devil, the evil spirit who rules in the air between earth and sky (Ephesians 2:2; 6:12). Thus the poodle who follows upon Faust’s request is not only the dangerous shepherd’s dog with a predilection for water, drawing behind himself a tail of ﬁre and spiralling in on Faust through the ﬁelds; it is also a spirit of the air and at the same time the devil who rules in it, an animal composed of the four elements and possessed by the evil spirit. When Faust conjures this creature, we see it swell and assume ever larger form, ﬁlling the room as a cloud and ﬁnally appearing in human form as the travelling scholar. All these, we learn, are masks of Mephistopheles. Faust, seduced by an apparition he takes for a colleague, stops conjuring, although he already had to use the holy cross for the exorcism. Had he gone on, the devil would have had to show himself in his dreadful shape. The scholar’s mask, however, which Faust takes to be the poodle’s core, offers his services, appears easy to communicate with, and above all useful. It is the domesticated nature of the poodle with some devilish spice in it, clad in viable academic form – exactly what Faust had longed for when he asked for technical assistance in ﬂying. Already, the forms and functions are multiplying; Mephistopheles is becoming a symbolic ﬁgure.

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Here, we can go on indeﬁnitely: the outward appearance of Mephistopheles changes continually. In ‘Study 2’, he is dressed in Spanish travelling attire; in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’, the Witch does not recognize him any more because the ‘Nordic phantom with horns, tail and claws’ has been relegated to the realm of fable, and the horse’s leg and hoof are concealed. Here, Mephistopheles wants to be called a baronet like the rich bankers of the era of the French Revolution and the ensuing wars, Necker and Rothschild for instance (2490–513).8 In the Gretchen scenes, Mephistopheles even reﬂects on his masks: ironically, he praises Margarete for her physiognomic competence in reading his mask and feeling that he is either a genius or the devil (3537–41). On the Blocksberg, he appears in traditional costume; in the ﬁrst act, he is a fool; in the second and third acts, he is Phorkyas, ﬁrst by distorting his face, then with a tragical mask in the third act’s play within the play. In the fourth act, he mimics a medieval knight, as does Faust. In the ﬁfth, however, he is the captain of a war, pirate and commerce ﬂeet, and the overseer of the modern dyke project. Finally, he falls back into the late medieval devil’s gear, following the imagery of the paintings of the Camposanto in Pisa which inspire the scenery, ﬁgures and content of the two ﬁnal scenes. Looking back on this constant play of masks and costumes, of animal, human and daemonic ﬁgures, we detect a diversity which symbolizes the inﬁnite and unexpected, often unrecognizable ways in which we encounter evil. We also ﬁnd reﬂections on outdated and modern forms and ﬁgurations of evil: ‘The Evil One / They may be rid of, evil ones still have not vanished’ (2509). Evil in the singular belongs to the realm of fable; now we have evil in the plural. Or we see, in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, Mephistopheles’ attempt to transport himself, with a fake Phorkyas identity, back to the mythical beginnings of the world (8010–33). Here Eros–Phanes and Lucifer play the same role of creating from chaos a beautiful organic world while at the same time contradicting its Greek beauty by ugliness – disrupting its living biblical coherence by negative isolation. Alongside the diversity of masks and chronological variations, we encounter the fact that in each culture there are speciﬁc ﬁgures that negate the principle and basis of that culture – beauty in Goethe’s view of ancient Greek culture, and pious elevation to the divine in Christian culture.9 The praise song at the beginning of ‘Prologue in Heaven’ even shows how this principle of negation enters the world: the Archangels, in their function as angeloi (messengers) to other angels and mankind, are at a loss in the beginning because they are confronted with incomprehensible phenomena, with two world models, encompassing both constructive and destructive processes. They cannot but see these as ‘works’, but they cannot trace them

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back to a single will. Michael, the angel to sing the last strophe, ﬁnally decides that these ambivalent and incomprehensible, albeit magniﬁcent and strengthening, works may be the Lord’s works, but what the messengers revere and communicate is a Lord of slowly wandering daylight and benign gentleness. At this point, the Satan ﬁgure of Mephistopheles pops up; the negative principle is provoked, even created by the reductive view of the Archangels. And to conﬁrm this, the Lord employs the satanic rogue as an instrument to keep mankind from becoming lazy. Mephistopheles consents to this function, but not as a simple servant and dependant of the Lord. His ﬁnal words in this scene indicate that he could very well dissolve the treaty with the Lord (351). It is only under this condition that a wager can be made between the Lord and Satan/Mephistopheles in which the goal is to preserve or to seduce Faust, and where triumph and lordship over the cosmos is at stake. This initial situation in analogy to the Book of Job is overturned in an ironic way at the end of the play. In the last chapters of the Book of Job, Satan is not mentioned any more, the Lord is triumphant and Job is rehabilitated after his submission. But in Faust the Lord is not to be found at the end, Mephistopheles has no court of appeal – Faust’s entelechy meets a kind of apotheosis. The Lord has given up lordship, and there is a Lady, a heavenly queen and goddess, we are told by Doctor Marianus (12103). And from Mephistopheles’ bitter complaints concerning the deceitful methods of cheating the devil of his claims on a soul (11612–35) we understand that with the new management in heaven, the customs and principles have changed completely. Thus, at the end of the play, Mephistopheles in the old devil’s function is an outdated ﬁgure, objectively comical because he has been radically overtaken by the new developments. We must not forget, however, that Mephistopheles, at the end of the ‘Interment’ scene has once again assumed the late medieval devil’s costume and function, and is assisted by the grotesque daemons and hell’s jaws as depicted by Buffalmacco in the Camposanto in Pisa. So it is only this outdated phantom of evil which has become obsolete and objectively comical, a mask that Mephistopheles has already ridiculed in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’. For Faust, the Doctor of Theology who is not afraid of hell or the devil, Mephistopheles must match his modernity. As we saw in the ‘Prologue in Heaven’, Faust is a decidedly modern version of Job, and Goethe seems to be asking how it is still possible for a modern man, a nonbeliever, to be diabolically tempted. We saw that Faust asked for technical assistance in ﬂying, to follow the sun, and what he received was a contemporary with the devil inside. But after this devil in scholar’s clothing has

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escaped him once, Faust becomes wary and does not simply renew the twenty-four-year pact which the Renaissance Faust made with the devil. Instead, he offers a wager that Mephistopheles could never divert him from his inﬁnite goal, and from his restlessness and dissatisfaction with himself and everything that is offered to him. In accepting this wager, Mephistopheles is reduced to a kind of sparring partner for Faust. Actually, Faust makes a wager with himself, reducing Mephistopheles to a provider of highest-quality solutions to every wish that Faust may have and a constant source of new wishes. The pact itself seems to consist in Faust giving himself up to Mephistopheles, should he pronounce the words of Rousseau’s formula for happiness and say to the present moment ‘Verweile doch! du bist so schön!’ (1700, Tarry, remain! – you are so fair!).10 In offering the wager, Faust replays the wager on Job, but Faust has read the Book of Job and knows that Job is an exemplary ﬁgure, and that the wager on Job is potentially made on every human being. The reader knows from the ‘Prologue in Heaven’ that Faust is the object of such a bet and is right in assuming that it will also apply to himself. It is a modern Faust who can make a wager with his counterpart by himself. He is really challenging himself; Mephistopheles (as we have seen) is reduced to a sparring partner and technician. Faust is fully aware of the difﬁculty of keeping a promise to himself through a lifetime, in view of the rapid changes the world is going through (1720–3). With this kind of wager, compared with the story of Job, Faust is not only his own Lord, but also Satan and Job in one. This devalues Mephistopheles even more. The former devil can do nothing more than provide high-quality treats, arouse wishes whose fulﬁlment might make Faust forget his promise, let him ‘tarry’ and make him succumb to pleasure. By embracing restlessness and dissatisfaction, Faust keeps not only Mephistopheles but also himself on the move and unknowingly assuages the Lord’s fear that man may get lazy. Here, too, Faust makes the devilish rogue superﬂuous and becomes his own rogue. How, then, could there be a temptation for a man who is so autonomous – even in making himself unhappy? In ‘Forest and Cave’, for the ﬁrst time, Faust understands that he cannot do without this technician and fulﬁller of wishes, and that he becomes more and more dependent on that hateful cynic who constantly debases him and his ideal feelings. This dependence is the temptation which, until the end, usurps Faust’s will and decision-making completely. We may think of the way in which Mephistopheles and his three terrible servants do away with Philemon and Baucis, or how he makes fun of Faust, the blind and nearly deaf old man who orders a ditch to be dug (‘Graben’) whilst they dig a grave (‘Grab’,

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11555–8). It is this growing autonomy of the instrument, the irresistible magic of technology, commodities and wealth that can be termed temptation and evil for modern man. This is also why, in the Nordic ‘Walpurgis Night’, Satan with his strategy of tempting man with sexual sin has to step down from his reign in hell. Faust, whose behaviour decides over the lordship in the world, warns himself not to forget himself in that Walpurgis mass (4114), and when he dances with the young witch, he is again warned by his disgust of a red mouse, by enlightenment in the shape of the ridiculous Proktophantasmist and by his projective memory of Gretchen (4124–209). With modern man, Satan’s strategy of seducing Adam by the magic of sexuality is no longer effective. So, as in heaven the Lord is replaced by the Lady, Satan in hell is replaced by Mammon – on the roof of the illuminated palace (3915, 3932) where the Walpurgis festival takes place. And it is Mammon who dominates the world, as Acts 1, 4 and 5 of Part ii show clearly. Mephistopheles, especially with the three terrible servants, works for Mammon and rebuilds his hellish palace as Faust’s palace in which the world’s wealth is piled up. And Faust cannot bear the sound of the sweet old couple’s bell, and the idea that this little patch of land with a hut, a chapel and two lime trees does not belong to him. Faust has been successfully seduced by this modern evil. The only possibility of liberating himself from this magic is to pronounce the ominous sentence (wishing the ‘beautiful’ ultimate moment to last) in a situation that cannot qualify. The new land is poisoned by a stinking swamp and endangered by the next ﬂood; the colonists who are going to live there are lemurs, half-natures sewn together from dead bodies, or workers of the type found in the English coalmines of the time. Or in the immense building project of Bremerhaven in the 1820s, which Goethe followed with great interest: exploited workers with emaciated bodies, incapable of organizing their own defence against the elements. And for them to be free, on liberated land, and for Faust to be free with them, Mephistopheles, his terrible fellows, and Faust himself would have to be eliminated. Would it be possible for Faust, who cannot bear to leave a patch of land to its owners, to consider giving away land where many millions can live and which he himself has created? What Faust describes in his ﬁnal speech (outlining the wish that the moment may last) contradicts all facts and possibilities in the present and in the future. But Faust pronounces the sentence, using the magic of wordcharm, and falls dead as the pact foresaw. But Mephistopheles has not won the wager with Faust, he has not put him to rest, not made him complacent, not cheated him with pleasures; on the contrary, Faust enjoys his highest

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moment in devising a future contrary to all given facts and even contrary to his own existence. Thus Mephistopheles hears words, and Faust falls dead, but the devil has been tricked out of a wager which would have given him the right to take the soul he had worked for. As in medieval spiritual plays, the devil is the dupe of a tricky human and an astute Lady in heaven. We must not forget that this is part of the cheerfulness in which Goethe wanted this tragedy to end,11 and that the dupe is the traditional devil who wants to catch a soul, not the absolute ruler of the world who, with his three terrible companions, rules and ‘colonizes’ the world. To be sure, he does this in the service of Faust, but he performs all these tasks and carries out all his orders in his own manner. As we shall see when we discuss the spatial aspects of the play, after the beginning of the fourth act, this world has become hell, with Mammon as its absolute monarch, and Mephistopheles as Mammon’s obedient and Faust’s disobedient servant. I have discussed the Mephistopheles ﬁgure paradigmatically in order to show what Goethe meant when he intended the actor LaRoche to give the ﬁgure a ‘symbolic appearance’. This appearance was – as Holtei observed – on the level of the poem itself, and neither ﬁgure nor poem was suitable for the stage. We have seen the diversity of costumes and masks, and found chronological and cultural reasons for this diversity and elusiveness. I have dealt with Mephistopheles’ functions in various religious systems of the play, his decidedly modern relationship with Faust, an experimental ﬁgure whose behaviour in the face of temptation and seduction decides the change of rulership in hell and the character of evil in the world. On the one hand, Mephistopheles – whose name, throughout the entire text, is never pronounced fully (see 4183) – is a ﬁgure who appears, with some exceptions, as a variable human ﬁgure on the stage. On the other hand, he is what men in different times and cultures think of as ‘evil’ (1342–4). Then again, he seems to be just a principle of negation or negativity, complementary to the ruling afﬁrmative principle of the Lord. He represents the male principle, together with the Lord in Part i, as well as the opposite female principle in Part ii. Mephistopheles is one of those ‘schwankende Gestalten’ of which the ﬁrst line of Faust speaks and which the Lord extends to the whole of creation when he orders the Archangels to pin down by permanent thoughts what ﬂoats in undecided appearance (348). To be sure, what the Archangels pin down, deﬁne and solidify with their thoughts is only meant for a certain duration; what embraces them eternally is the love of what is eternally living, becoming and creating (346–9) – we have seen this constant process of shaping and reshaping in the heavenly and hellish governments. This is what I would like to call ‘symbolic’ and ‘virtual’

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in Goethe’s ﬁgures and, indeed, in the whole play: symbolic in the sense that a multitude of aspects is present, as in the ﬁgure of Mephistopheles. It makes him inﬁnitely readable and elusive; virtual in the sense that all these aspects are embedded in one principle (or tendency, or vector) which remains ungraspable in terms of a visible ﬁgure or deﬁnable concept. It is experienced, in Mephistopheles’ case, in the sheer force of negation, in examples which are only a fraction of what is, in fact, one aspect of the whole world. faust With Faust, we could go into similar detail; he is no less symbolic, elusive and virtual than Mephistopheles. Let me mention some aspects of this. Most prominently, there is the chronological line from the Renaissance to the time around 1830, which we can follow from act to act, and of which Faust is the exemplary representative. The Nordic Walpurgis complex, for instance, can – by way of various textual hints – be dated to the time around 1800. This shows that Goethe situated the main change in hell’s strategy – the shift from the temptation by sin to the temptation by capital – in the years after the French Revolution, allegorized in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’. The search for Helena in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ and the play within a play, the birth and death of Euphorion during the ongoing Peloponnesian war, refers to the Greek wars of liberation in the 1820s and to the Philhellenic movement which absorbed the attention and interest of European intellectuals to the detriment of the political and economic situation at home. Faust is the exponent of European history; his seemingly private experiences are an allegory of what were, in Goethe’s interpretation, the crucial developments in general history. This applies as well to his symbol of domesticated nature – the poodle as a well-trained animal comprising the four elements. Evil is its real core, but Faust ceases conjuring as soon as the human shape appears, and does not disclose evil. Nature, whose workings had, from the sixteenth century onwards, been investigated with increasing success by science and made useful by technology, proved a wonderful instrument to improve human life and to increase the effects of action. Nature harnessed by technology, machines, electricity, chemical plants and artiﬁcial breeding suddenly presents destructive consequences. But above all, it makes individuals and societies dependent, creates coercions, channels human activity, deprives man of free decisions. Faust complains in ‘Forest and Cave’ that he cannot do without Mephistopheles who, while procuring commodities and delights, debases him continually and reduces to cheap mechanics what Faust had

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embraced as gifts of the Great Spirit, and for which he wants to feel gratitude. One can easily see how, in Faust, Goethe not only registered historical events from about 1500 to 1830, but also represented and made plausible the enormous changes in spirit which took place during these two-and-a-half centuries. To make these changes plausible, Goethe continually sets up a confrontation of the two epochs between which Faust oscillates, ‘schwankende Gestalt’ that he is. Take for instance the beginning, where Faust speaks his ﬁrst monologue in Hans Sachs’ old-fashioned Knittel-verse, which automatically dates the ﬁgure back to the early bourgeois period of the German renaissance. But after the ﬁrst thirty-two lines the tone changes, the verse runs smoothly, making way for Ossianic reminiscences: Faust speaks as a sentimental youth of the late eighteenth century. The change is so audible that, in the nineteenth century, Gustav Röthe hypothesized (with his so-called ‘paper-scrap theory’) that Goethe had written a couple of lines from time to time, then simply taken the scraps and copied them without harmonizing them in a consistent character. Röthe has apparently not read the ﬁrst line of Faust: there is no consistent character in the play, only ‘schwankende Gestalten’. Here, Faust can be regarded as a Renaissance man, ingeniously anticipating the coming centuries, or as a contemporary of the eighteenth century stubbornly harking back to the old days and ﬁnding no language for the new developments. For instance, the magic he uses for the Macrocosm and the Earth Spirit signs is Renaissance magic, but Faust counteracts its ecstatic character with ‘inward’ magic developed in the eighteenth century. Consequently, both magic experiments fail half-way. In Part i, the scholar’s tragedy, light falls especially on the Renaissance aspect; in the Gretchen tragedy, the contemporary aspect is stressed. In Act 1 of Part ii, the Renaissance aspect of the Emperor Charles IV is blended with the modern creation of paper money. In Act 2, structures of time and history from the beginning to the end of the world are construed. Faust becomes less and less active, and action is taken over by his aides and partners, as we have seen. His last concrete action is at the end of Act 1, when he presents images of Helen and Paris – which he obtained from the Mothers – with a kind of slide projector. Infatuated with Helen and furious at Paris who is about to abduct her, he tries to shoot him out of the show, causing an explosion of the projector which places him in a coma. The next two acts take place in his head, a situation which is impossible to reproduce on the stage. In the fourth act, we have radical virtuality: a combination of two historical periods – the struggle of Emperor Charles IV against Günther von Schwarzburg, and the battles between Emperor Franz II and

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Napoleon – and the allegory of the three giants of aggression, greed and avarice. It is explicitly stated that these ﬁgures are allegories (10329), but when they ﬁght in battle, they dissolve into a mass of individual ﬁghters (10581–3), like the ‘artiﬁcial man’ in the frontispiece of Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan. In the ﬁfth act, we are completely absorbed by virtual reality – antique mythological ﬁgures watching an ultra-modern dyke-building project in which armies of workers and magical powers are at work: half-dead lemurs singing Shakespeare, devils and angels, pious fathers and children who died before they could be baptized. All these ﬁgures have stepped out of the late medieval frescos in the Camposanto of Pisa, and all of them are mixed with Faust’s utopia, which in turn depicts the plans of the SaintSimonists in the 1820s for a social and industrial revolution. If we are led, at the beginning of the play, to experience certain historical developments, such historical presence is consequently and consciously dissolved into virtuality in the course of the play, right up to the end. Faust is at the centre of this process. He is present on the stage at ﬁrst as an individual man whose uneasy situation between progress and regression can be understood psychologically; he is also present on stage at the very end as an entelechy – not as an individual soul, but as accumulated energy which is about to take ethereal shape for a new form of posthumous existence. As we can see, Faust is as multivalent in his aspects and forms of existence as his counterpart, Mephistopheles. female figures Turning now to the female ﬁgures – Margarete and Helena, not to speak of the Mothers, the Hades goddesses and the Mater gloriosa in Part ii – we see that they are elements of a series of conﬁgurations which starts with the vision of the reclining female in the magic mirror of the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’. According to Mephistopheles’ explanation that this female is the result of six hard days of God’s creative work, it must be understood as the beauty of the world enclosed in a female body; it is therefore not just any woman’s picture presented to a naïve scholar who has until then seen nothing but books. Actually, he has seen beauty in the scene ‘Outside the City Gate’ already: the beauty of the evening sun gilding the mossy green huts. He experienced beauty (in the sense of Goethe’s colour circle) as the unfolded totality of the seven basic colours. What Faust perceives in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’, then, is Frau Welt, the medieval representation of the alluring world in a female ﬁgure. Inﬂamed by the Witch’s potion, he wants to take possession of this heavenly image. Margarete is the compromise between those extreme

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spiritual and sexual desires with which he leaves the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’, with Mephistopheles quoting Duke Theseus’ remark in Act V, Scene 1 of Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream that the frantic lover will see ‘Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt’. Margarete thus is not only a compromise between heavenly beauty and sexual attractiveness, but also a Proto-Helena who is the mythical image of god-like beauty and sexual attraction. Margarete, little more than 14 years old, cannot unite the two projections of angel and whore thrown upon her by Faust, although she tries hard to meet both desires. Goethe reveals the split in her personality by using two stage names for the ﬁgure, Margarete and Gretchen. In Goethe’s day, ‘Gretchen’ was still used as a generic name for a girl of easy virtue, or even a prostitute, and it is in the scenes where this aspect is prominent that Goethe uses this stage name. Margarete, on the other hand, is the name of two saints, Margaret of Antioch and Margaret of Cortona. The latter is the patron saint of prostitutes who returned to virtue; her fate is very close to that of Margarete, while Margaret of Antioch with her successful defence against the devil in her gaol gives the pattern for the end of Part i. Thus, in a way, this ﬁgure has to be played by two actresses or by one actress playing two parts. The saintly background of Margarete is not just a pious reminiscence: in encountering Mephistopheles, Margarete develops a bodily feeling of Mephistopheles’ radical negativity, his fundamental hatred and incapacity for love. This religion of the body also works in gaol, where she feels similarly suffocated when Faust cannot kiss her any more, and it is this religion of the body which, at the end of the scene ‘At the Well’, makes her confess that what impelled her to sin was all good and loving (3585–6). The same God–Father whom she prays to in this confession contradicts Mephistopheles at the end of the ‘Prison’ scene. Traditionally, the devil rightfully anticipates condemnation, but the Lord’s voice from above conﬁrms that she is saved. Or, as I would prefer to put it, parallel to the change of management in hell, the Lord has already stepped down, possibly because of Margarete’s new religion, and the Lady with her new theology saves what was a sinner for the old Lord. Helena, to whom Margarete is a stepping-stone, appears in the ﬁrst act on transparencies which Faust has obtained from the Mothers in the universal archives of shapes, together with the poetic tripod which functions as projector. This explodes when Faust, in his folly, takes the projected image for reality – but this is the same folly that in the same act makes people take a piece of paper money without the backing of real value. In the second act, which already plays in Faust’s head, he projects Helena’s conception by Leda through Zeus in a swan’s shape. Moments later he

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meets, in his dream, Chiron the centaur and learns that Helen is a mythological ﬁgure whom the poets shape and reshape according to their needs. Feeling that he is a poet himself, Faust shapes a poetess Helena who can shape herself according to the needs of the situations in which she ﬁnds herself. This is experimented with in the third act, a stage play consisting of three fragmentary plays: an antique tragedy in the manner of Euripides, a medieval chivalrous drama, and an Arcadian opera in a literary landscape but set during the Greek wars of liberation of the 1820s. In this act, Goethe wanted the Helena ﬁgure to be played by two actresses, a tragical heroine and an opera singer.12 So again, the character is split, albeit between a theatrical and an operatic appearance. These remarks may be sufﬁcient to indicate ﬁrst that the female ﬁgures are ‘schwankende Gestalten’ as well, in the sense of multiple characters; secondly, that they possess iconic depth (like Margarete referring to and commenting upon the two saints); thirdly, that the mirror-woman, Margarete, and the various ﬁgurations of Helena are parts of a series; and fourthly, that all of them are expressions and allegories of the sensual beauty of the world and of the principle of female attraction which is complementary to the principle of male expansion. form I have analysed the main characters of Goethe’s tragedy as variables being held together only by a stage name and, in the case of Margarete, not even by a single stage name. Now, the whole play is immensely variable in its structure, form and Gestalt. To conclude, let me give some indications of this. I have discussed the time problem in Goethe’s interpretation of history from 1500 to 1830, and in his superimposing of epochs which contradict or comment upon each other. Goethe was proud of the phantasmagorical time span of 3,000 years in the third act which stretches from the battle of Troy to the Greek wars of liberation, and to Lord Byron’s death in 1824.13 Similarly, there is immense variability and layering in terms of spatiality. The ‘Prologue on the Stage’ speaks of encompassing the whole orbit of creation, and of a passage from heaven through the world to hell (239–42). Scholars have always wondered if Goethe had not somehow forgotten hell, since, with the ‘Prologue’ and Faust’s passage through the small and the greater world, only heaven seemed to rule. An important subtext of Part ii is Dante’s Divina Commedia. Part ii starts with the characteristic situation at the outset of Inferno, and Dante’s triplet verse. But Faust has no poet Virgil to guide him through hell. He returns to the world, then to the world of his

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head with its conﬂation of times and places, until at the beginning of the fourth act, after orbiting the world in Helena’s garments, he lands on top of the highest mountain. According to Mephistopheles’ serious myth, this was originally the deepest point in hell, now turned downside up by a revolution which transformed Dante’s funnel bottom of hell into this mountain top, bringing all the damned sinners, as well as the devils who plagued them, into full daylight. In climbing down the mountain, Mephistopheles calls the three terrible giants with whose help the war is fought and Faust’s worldly possessions are acquired. This means that hell is right here, that the nineteenth century, with its colonization, imperialism and exploitation of peoples and nature itself, is hell in the sense understood by the elderly Goethe. Poetically, Faust is the text with the highest calculated variability in all literature. Apart from one or possibly two prose scenes, Goethe uses all kinds of verse, not only with expressive inner variability, but also with the value of a cultural or social index. Margarete’s naïve Knittel-verse differs greatly from Faust’s high-tension use of the metre. Margarete’s use of the French courtly Alexandrine verse is a proof intended for Faust that she is educated and can move in higher society. But when he is gone and she returns to her domestic Knittel, it is like kicking those painful high-heels off and walking around in an old pair of slippers. So much for the verse. As far as poetic genres are concerned, Goethe is constantly quoting genres of literature from all times and cultures, again not at random, but in calculated series or conﬂations. In Part i, for instance, we ﬁnd a number of genre inlays, from the late medieval Easter play in the ﬁrst scene to Margarete’s folk song in gaol, which the Romantic artist Philipp Otto Runge had published in the fairy tale of Machandelboom. I have already mentioned the three fragments of plays in Part ii, recalling the epochs and cultures of antiquity, the Middle Ages and the present. Parallel to the Renaissance and contemporary aspects of the Faust ﬁgure in Part i, the scholars’ drama becomes a Renaissance drama of admonition in the manner of Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, on which, in turn, a modern drama of social conditions developed by Diderot and Lessing is superimposed. In the Gretchen drama, a domestic tragedy in the tradition of Lillo’s London Merchant is projected onto a Renaissance legend. The ‘schwankende Gestalt’ extends from the ﬁgures, times, spaces and cultures to the poetic form. The ﬁrst line in Faust already reveals much of its poetics. As I noted at the beginning, Goethe was convinced that Faust was not stageable. I have tried to explain why: too many perspectives, surface appearances and multiple readabilities, interfaces of reality and virtuality come together and are symbolically bound up by a stage name which, like

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Mephistopheles, is never fully pronounced in the text. Finally, there is that ungraspable deep reality in which all these aspects are one, and which I called virtual. We saw how, in Mephistopheles, the force of negativity appears as the negation of the central values of a certain culture – Greek beauty, Christian piety, modern freedom – and which then works in countless manifestations of that culture. Similarly, we have a virtual principle of afﬁrmative Lordship or Ladyship, virtual principles of male and of female humanity, and a virtual principle of poetry. not es 1. Hans Gerhard Gräf, Goethe über seine Dichtungen. Versuch einer Sammlung aller Äußerungen des Dichters über seine poetischen Werke, vol. ii:2, Frankfurt am Main: Rütten & Loening, 1904, repr. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1968, 511. 2. Ibid., 468. 3. Ibid., 494. 4. Johann Peter Eckermann, Gespräche mit Goethe in den letzten Jahren seines Lebens, ed. Otto Schönberger, Stuttgart: Reclam, 1994, 325. 5. Gräf, Goethe über seine Dichtungen, 185. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid., 511. 8. All further references to Faust are by line numbers from FT. 9. See the myth at the end of Book viii in Goethe’s Dichtung und Wahrheit. 10. For the Rousseau reference, see Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, FaustDichtungen, ed. Ulrich Gaier, Stuttgart: Reclam, 1999, ii, 256. 11. Gräf, Goethe über seine Dichtungen, 272. 12. Eckermann, Gespräche, note 4, 233. 13. Gräf, Goethe über seine Dichtungen, 350.

chapter 5

Amnesia and anamnesis in Goethe’s Faust Wolf-Daniel Hartwich

In the dual conception represented by the German words Gedächtnis and Erinnerung, memory and remembrance has, for some time now, enjoyed considerable academic and popular discussion. The paradigms of this discussion have proved popular in cultural studies, from where they have migrated to general cultural and political debates. The programme of memory studies continues to be closely associated with the concept of identity in the sense of individual and collective self-deﬁnition. Since Freud, psychology has taught that the individual can only attain a healthy psychological existence through anamnesis, repetition and working through of personal history. More recently, sociologists and historians such as Maurice Halbwachs, Pierre Nora and Jan Assmann have shown how communities, religions, peoples and states understand their own constitution through long-term strategies of memory. Identity and memory, it would seem, are related proportionally to one another. The inability and the refusal to remember leads to a questionable deﬁnition of self. If individuals and collectives deny and repress speciﬁc (usually negative) aspects of their past, they are not able to attain unity with themselves, and their self-understanding becomes damaged, unstable and threatened. It is interesting to note that, from the point of view of memory studies, Goethe’s Faust is repeatedly evoked as an example of this kind of memory deﬁcit and of the ensuing weakening of identity. Applied to a ﬁctitious character on the stage, this syndrome is described as a lack of unity pertaining to character and its dramaturgical functions. In his book Goethe. Der Zeitbürger,1 Dieter Borchmeyer emphasizes the fact that Faust is a ‘great forgetter’, removing himself from all conﬂict as it arises and before it can be brought to its catastrophic dramatic climax. This means that he is unsuitable as a tragic character. On the other hand, in his book Lethe,2 Harald Weinrich reads Goethe’s Faust as a tragedy that is motivated by the power of memory and oblivion. For Weinrich, Goethe’s Faust ﬁgure represents a modern way of thinking 68

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obsessed with innovation. The ensuing faith in progress ﬁnds justiﬁcation in abandoning traditional views on faith, history and wisdom. According to Weinrich, the consequence of this is the loss of social and moral bonds. In the story of Faust, Mephistopheles plays the part of the virtuoso of forgetting. The devil drives Faust through a maze of various existences up to the point where Faust completely forgets his own identity. At the same time, however, the devil knows perfectly well what he wants and who he is. The devil remembers that he wants Faust’s soul. In the scene where they make their pact, the devil reminds Faust: ‘Consider well your words – we’ll not forget them’ (1707). And in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’, when Mephistopheles rejuvenates Faust through black magic, Faust forgets his previous experience of life. Similarly, the loss of memory has tragic consequences in the Gretchen drama. Here, Mephistopheles’ devious diversions, as well as Faust’s notorious ﬁckleness, make Faust forget about his love for Gretchen. This happens in the scenes ‘Forest and Cave’, ‘Walpurgis Night’ and at the beginning of Faust ii in the ‘Pleasant Landscape’. Here the nature spirits remedy the protagonist with water from the river Lethe, which, as Greek mythology has it, causes oblivion. Weinrich argues, however, that Faust’s redemption at the end of the second part of the tragedy demonstrates that the heavenly powers have their own strategy of memory, which undermines the Mephistophelean tactics of forgetting. Unfortunately, Weinrich doesn’t elaborate on this divine politics of memory, and at the conclusion of this chapter I shall be proposing how this idea might be productively developed. For the time being, however, I would like to approach the question of the loss and regaining of memory in Goethe’s Faust from two different angles. On the one hand, I shall offer an interpretation of the psychological syndrome of Faust’s chronic oblivion from the perspective of psychological theory as it was discussed in Goethe’s own time. On the other hand, I shall be arguing that Goethe provides a staging of the work of memory within the framework of historical ideas. Alongside rhetorical mnemonics taught in classical antiquity, the Platonic and Neoplatonic doctrine of mnemosyne plays a major part in Goethe’s Faust. Anamnesis, in the method of philosophical education, is intended to remind the individual of the transcendental world of ideas as perceived by the immortal souls before they acquire physical form. But above all, the play continually refers to Christian ideas of memory. Faust is intimately acquainted with this tradition. He has after all studied theology – ‘to his regret’, as he puts it. In the New Testament, memory is understood as the medium of the divine. When Jesus celebrated the last

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supper with his disciples, thereby establishing the Christian cult, Jesus spoke the injunction: ‘Do this in remembrance of me’ (1 Corinthians 11: 24). In Christianity there is no salvation without Christ, but after his ascension Jesus Christ only lives on in Christian acts of remembrance. Through anamnesis, the remembrance of the congregation, the scene of the last supper comes back to life, and when the words of the last supper are solemnly spoken, Jesus is present in the bread and wine. Therefore, there is no salvation without memory. This is why Christianity contains a theatrical dimension. The tragedy of the redeemer and the drama of salvation are re-enacted on the stage of the altar, the stage of collective memory. Through the re-enactment of the lives of Jesus and the saints, the festivals of the ecclesiastical year call to mind the history of the church. In discussing the St Rochus festival in Bingen (WA 1:34.1, 1–45), which he attended in August 1814, Goethe gives a benevolent account of the Catholic veneration of the saints. At that time Christian dramaturgy had been absorbed and modernized by Romantic aesthetics, a tradition of which Goethe’s Faust is also part. In contrast to the ecclesiastical tradition and the staging of memory in acts of Christian devotion, modern psychiatry has focused on amnesia, the loss of individual memory. Amnesia is regarded as an illness, whereby those afﬂicted lose information necessary for their self-understanding as well as for their orientation in society. People who forget too much are threatened with madness and marginalization. In this respect, the medical reconstruction of memory seems to be a social continuation of religious redemption through memory. In this chapter, I intend to draw attention to a psychological theory which can shed light on Goethe’s Faust as a great forgetter. The theory was developed in an article published in a journal edited by one of Goethe’s close friends, Karl Philipp Moritz, one of the founders of empirical psychology. Moritz developed the Pietist tradition of religious introspection into a novel analysis of the submerged psychic motives of human action. His interest in psychological matters is evident in two of his most important intellectual products: his autobiographical novel Anton Reiser, in which he attempts to analyse the hidden motivations of his personal development, and the Magazin ﬁir Erfahrungsseelenkunde (the Journal for Empirical Psychology), which he edited between 1783 and 1795. In the third volume (1784), Moritz published an article by Johann Werner Streithorst entitled ‘Beispiel einer außerordentlichen Vergessenheit’ (An example of an extraordinary loss of memory),3 in which it is apparent that extreme amnesia as depicted in Goethe’s Faust was not a singular phenomenon in the late eighteenth century.

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A clergyman from Halberstadt reports that several times he visited a sick man who was in mortal danger because of a fever. Nevertheless, the man remained lucid at all times. When the clergyman visited the afﬂicted man again after he had recovered, the man suddenly talked to him as if they had never met before. Streithorst chooses the very same image which Goethe uses for Faust’s amnesia in the second part of the tragedy: ‘it was as if he had drunk from the river Lethe’.4 In Streithorst’s article the patient describes how, on the day before falling ill, he had turned away a boy begging for alms. At the end of his illness the very same boy appeared as a vision in his memory. All other occurrences in between these two impressions, however, had been blotted out. This gap in the sick man’s memory can easily be explained with Streithorst’s theory. He points out that only strong and vivid impressions produce clear memories, but that the liveliness of the memory impresssions depend on the strength of and stress on the nervous system.5 After he had sent the boy away, the patient’s nerves had become ﬂaccid because of his illness, and therefore he was only able to retain vague impressions of his environment. Upon recovering, he was confronted with so many new sensory impressions that the vague impressions from his illness were suppressed. The appearance of the boy marks the boundary of the two states of consciousness. The image serves as a point of orientation for the powers of recollection and enables the recovered man to ﬁnd his way back into his own life story. However, the cost of this restoration of an individual’s life narrative is the loss of his memory. This case of an extraordinary loss of memory shows remarkable parallels to the amnesia suffered by Goethe’s Faust. Helmut Schanze has attached a great deal of importance to the fact that Goethe and Moritz exchanged ideas on mnemotechnics in Italy.6 It is not far-fetched to suggest that these conversations might also have touched upon the problem of forgetting, thereby providing the impetus for Goethe’s incorporation of the amnesia theme into Faust. My intention is not to reduce the psychological constitution of a literary ﬁgure to that of historical individuals. Nor is it possible to reduce the complex character development throughout Faust to the aetiology described by Streithorst. Nevertheless, the theory of forgetting derived from this aetiology may well have appeared useful to Goethe at a time when he was reconsidering and reconceptualizing the ﬁgure of Faust and the dramatical realization of his story. There are two ways in which Goethe ascribes to Faust mental events similar to those Steinhorst attributes to his patient. On the one hand, Faust in his mental history also suffers from periods of apathy and overstimulation. On the other hand, Faust is also haunted by images produced

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by his memory. And these visions cause a crisis in his memory which leads to the extinction of whole stages of his life. The ‘Witch’s Kitchen’ deﬁnes the end of a period of intellectual lethargy of the melancholic, bored Faust. This tedium vitae reaches a climax in ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’ in Leipzig, a scene where the students’ wild and mindless pastimes are regarded by Faust as rather boring. The rejuvenation through black magic prepares the protagonist for the strain and emotional over-stimulation that will be caused by the seduction story. Faust’s erotic fantasies are aroused when he sees Helena’s image in the mirror, giving form to the cultural memory of the most beautiful woman of antiquity. The ever-luring Mephistopheles promises the actual fulﬁlment of Faust’s desires: ‘With this drink in you, you’ll soon see in every woman a Helen of Troy’ (2604–5). When he ﬁrst meets Gretchen in the ensuing street scene, the new and overwhelming impressions make him forget his former life. Just before Mephistopheles drags Faust into the pandemonium of the ‘Walpurgis Night’s Dream’, Faust has a vision of Gretchen in the ‘Walpurgis Night’ scene in which her execution for infanticide is preﬁgured. Faust then remembers the misery of the girl he has left behind as, in the next scene, ‘An Expanse of Open Country’, he hurries with Mephistopheles on magic horses to free her from prison. Having lost his ability to remember his love, Faust isn’t able to connect emotionally with Gretchen. When Gretchen tries to remind him of the story of their shared love, she is asking too much of Faust’s imagination. Pointing out this lapse in his memory means posing a vital threat to his identity. Faust tells her: ‘Let what is past, be past, / You will be the death of me’ (4518–19). Subsequently, he falls once more into an apathetic state and thus becomes a passive appendage to Mephistopheles. Without hesitating, Faust obeys the devil’s imperious command: ‘Away with me’ (4618). In Part ii of the tragedy, the sequel to this crisis of Faust’s memory is depicted when, in the ﬁrst scene, Faust drinks from the river Lethe and thus forgets about Gretchen’s tragic end. Faust’s lethargy is continued when the opening stage directions show him ‘couched on grass and ﬂowers, fatigued, restless and endeavouring to sleep’. This scene marks Faust’s transition from a psychological weariness to an even more challenging state of strain when Mephistopheles makes Faust the political leader at the Emperor’s court. Here, Faust conjures up the ghost of Helena with the assistance of an astrologer. This vision is another important turning-point in the history of his anamnesis. Faust wants to touch the image, but the projection of his ideal explodes, and Faust drops back into an apathetic state. During the next two scenes he remains in this state, oblivious to all that is happening around

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him. That is why he cannot remember anything from this period. Only when the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ begins does the protagonist awake. The ‘Walpurgis Night’ ﬂoods his fantasy with chimerical ﬁgures from ancient mythology, culminating in Helena’s incarnation. It is characteristic for Faust that visions of a woman always cause him to forget about his former life and adopt a new transformation of his identity. In keeping with this, Faust now establishes a new identity as knight and lover. Psychologically speaking, the vision of Helena has the same function as the vision of the boy in Streithorst’s medical report. Both continue their lives and forget what happened prior to their visions. Paradoxically, Faust is able to salvage his identity through these acts of amnesia, although he is constantly changing identities. It follows that the ﬁgure of Faust is not so lacking in unity as has been claimed by many critics, beginning with Madame de Staël. Goethe was able to derive a dramatic structure from the psychological theory of forgetting, thereby compounding the episodic multiplicity of Faust’s history into alternating sequences of over-stimulation and fatigue, experience and amnesia. In this way, a psychological model of forgetting, such as the one expounded by Streithorst, is used as a means of poetic construction, resulting in the many-sided motifs and associations that shape Faust’s character. Apart from the psychological interpretation of memory, there is also a recurrent motif from the Christian tradition of memory. This motif is apparent in the opening ‘Night’ scene in the earliest prose version. In Faust i the Christian concept of memory serves as a counterpoint to the Mephistophelean temptation of amnesia. For example, Faust the scholar, deeply despairing of human knowledge, is shaken out of his depression by the Easter bells and is thus prevented from committing suicide. However, Faust doesn’t accept the theological meaning of the liturgical sign of memory any more: ‘Although I hear your gospel, I lack your faith’ (765). Nevertheless, he is saved by remembering his faith: ‘And yet these sounds, familiar with my youth / Summon me now again to life’ (769–70). It is in keeping with this theme that Faust must renounce the redeeming power of memory before concluding his pact with the devil. As Faust puts it, ‘the sweet music long familiar’ (1584) had merely betrayed him with ‘echoes of an earlier happier time’ (1585–6). The ability to remember a happiness experienced in the past and experience it again seems to Faust a mere selfdeception. Faust prefers to place his trust in the sensually present, giving rise to the stressful experience of constantly changing impressions ﬂooding his brain. In order to intensify his faculty of perception he makes a pact with the devil, granting him an acceleration of impressions. His wish to go full speed

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ahead with his experiences is evident in some of the paradoxical demands he makes of Mephistopheles. With his wishes Faust puts the devil to the test before he agrees to the pact: ‘Show me the fruit that, still unplucked, will rot / And trees that leaf each day anew’ (1685–6). In this sentence Faust is speculating on the extreme alternation of sensual stimuli, which leaves behind natural laws. Faust’s thirst for experience can’t be drenched with the present state of the objects; rather, he always wants to experience their further development and even their destruction. In this context we also have to interpret the famous moment when Faust and Mephistopheles wager Faust’s soul. ‘If I ever say to any moment: / Tarry, remain – you are so fair! Then you may lay your fetters, then I will gladly be destroyed’ (1699–1702). Here Faust confesses that, for him, identity only means a transitional stage from one stimulus to the next. But the fullness of experience is only attained at the expense of loss of memory. Faust has dedicated himself to a diabolical perversion of the Christian concept of self with its foundations in memory and the acts of anamnesis associated with the history of salvation. In Goethe’s Faust, the programmatic eradication of memory has direct and violent consequences. Faust is quite content to accept the death of anyone who stands between him and the realization of his changing identities. The trail of blood leads from the murder of Gretchen’s mother and brother to that of the old couple Philemon and Baucis and the destruction of their chapel. It is the chiming of the bells of the chapel that enrages Faust. The same cultic signs of memory that he had denied in the ﬁrst part of the tragedy now remind him of the earthly limitations of his new project of colonization and sovereignty. In this scene, Goethe is making implicit reference to a historical incident where a sacred place was destroyed in the name of political progress. In his essay on the St Rochus festival in Bingen, Goethe recounts how the chapel there had been ‘desecrated and destroyed . . . because its position provided an advantageous view over the entire surrounding area’ (WA 1:34.1, 9). The chapel of Philemon and Baucis must also give way to Faust’s look-out tower. In the case of St Rochus, the festival of the saint had managed to outlast the destruction of the chapel, sustaining his memory among the people. Modernity was not able to cast the mythic dimensions of the Christian cult into oblivion. The famous turning-point at the end of Faust’s monologue at the end of Part ii should be seen against the background of his temporal perception. When Faust has the vision of a free society based on colonization, he paraphrases the words spoken in the pact: ‘then, to the moment I could say: / Tarry a while, you are so fair . . . Envisioning those heights of happiness, I now enjoy my highest moment’ (11581–6). Faust’s perception

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of time is here deﬁned by things to come. The allegorical ﬁgure of Care formulates this as ‘caring only for the future’ (11465). The acceleration of perception leads to its complete virtualization. The busy sound interpreted by Faust as the beginning of the canal-building is, however, the sound of the gravediggers’ spades. Faust also expresses this loss of reality in his perception with the subjunctive form ‘could’. This means that Faust does not wish to experience the present moment, but instead to anticipate the future moment. Experience has become mere auto-suggestion. It’s true, he has renounced the Christian culture of memory with its moral obligations, but the devil will not win the bet. When, in a scene that has been given a great deal of attention in the critical literature, Goethe has Faust saved in the ﬁfth act of the play, this can also be interpreted as an anamnesis, Faust’s memory regained. This scene, like the one discussed earlier, can be interpreted from the perspective of Steinhorst’s psychology of extraordinary forgetfulness, as well as through the Christian theology of total recall. Abducting Faust through the mountain gorges into heaven, the angels save his ‘Unsterbliches’ (immortality) from the devil. Faust thus emerges from his ﬁnal lethargy, which had culminated in his death, in a realm of abundant experiences. This new change of identity is once again introduced by a remembered vision of a woman. Gretchen appears transﬁgured in penitential robes and greets Faust: ‘the love of my youth, / No longer unhappy, / Has now returned’ (12073–5). Gretchen’s entrance refers to the Christian culture of memory as depicted in Christian hagiography: Gretchen is joined in the entourage of the Mother of God by the three prominent holy sinners of church history: Mary Magdalene, the woman of Samaria and Mary of Egypt. Gretchen’s appearance in Part ii, unlike that in Part i, doesn’t throw the protagonist into a new state of amnesia, but promises Faust redemption by anamnesis. Gretchen asks Mary, the Mother of God, to initiate the reborn Faust into his new existence: ‘Grant me permission to instruct him – / He still is dazzled by the strange new light’ (12092–3). Goethe has already portrayed Gretchen as the representative of a culture of memory rooted in Catholicism. She regularly attends Mass, hears the Word and prays to the Holy Virgin. But already in Part i her religiosity exceeds the bounds of dogma. The golden chalice, which the King of Thule received from the hand of his dying lover in the ballad sung by Gretchen, is a symbol of the sacrament of remembrance and faith outside the church. The idea that Gretchen will instruct Faust on his new path to salvation alludes to the scene in Martha’s garden in Part i, where Gretchen asks her lover the famous question ‘say then, what is your religion?’ (3415). When

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Mephistopheles then mocks Faust with the words ‘I . . . heard the professor catechized’ (3523), he is alluding to another medium of the Christian culture of memory. Religious instruction aims at impressing upon the memory of young believers the subjects of Christian faith, thus preparing them for conducting their lives in the spirit of the gospel. For this, the literary genre of the catechism uses as a mnemonic aid the alternation of question and answer. Since Faust had renounced Christian memory long ago, in Martha’s garden he cannot with all his will commit himself to a traditional image of God. In the last scene of the play Gretchen announces her intention to make up the skipped lesson in a post-mortem existence. Nothing is said in the play about the contents of the teachings that are to prepare Faust for a heavenly life. It can be taken for granted that these teachings will be less dogmatic than the ones written down in the catechism. What is of decisive importance is that the chronic forgetter Faust will be given the capacity for memory. Here the heavenly policy of memory uses the Platonic teaching method of eros as a means of education. Erotically attracted by beauty, the student of philosophy is led to the memory of our innate idea of beauty. When Gretchen says that Faust will be blinded by the heavenly light, the text alludes to the Platonic cave simile about human beings imprisoned in the cave of the sensual world. Since they are used to living in darkness, they must be gradually led out of the cave to the bright light of the heavenly realm of ideas. Without this thorough guidance to enlightenment they will be blinded. Gretchen becomes Faust’s guide, leading him through the celestial spheres. The vision of Gretchen helps Faust to overcome his amnesia. Platonic eros serves as a protection against the invading new impressions. This shield prevents Faust from being overstimulated and enables him to gradually absorb the impressions and to save them in his memory. In this way he can begin to attain an everlasting identity. To summarize, reading Goethe’s Faust as an engagement with anamnesis and amnesia, memory and forgetting, allows us to engage with the widespread criticism of the unity of the central ﬁgure’s identity. I juxtaposed Faust’s amnesia with a medical case history from contemporary empirical psychology, in which loss of memory was explained as being caused by alternating lethargy and over-stimulation. Memory images serve as markers for the onset of a crisis in memory. The eradication of earlier sensory impressions allows a reconstitution of the patient’s life narrative. Goethe was able to apply a similar principle in order to consolidate the episodic existences of Faust, forming them into a single character. The story of Faust also cites the Christian theology of memory and its wider mythological

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context. The pact with the devil appears as the remainder of a stance towards the world which has been preserved in memory. Of course, Goethe’s Faust cannot be reduced to a mere psychological or theological treatise. The author employs these diverse traditions as dramatic means. The salvation of Faust combines Christian theology with the mythology of classical antiquity, Platonic philosophy and modern psychology. The memory image of Gretchen serves as an example of pedagogical eros, overcoming Faust’s amnesia and suffering, and allowing him to be reborn with a memory. But Faust’s salvation is not, ﬁnally, a coup de théâtre, what might be called a stage spectacle in the sense of a theory of memory. Goethe’s play uses dramatic means to bring to life the collective memory archive of mythology and Christianity. Faust’s individual identity is unfolded against the background of cultural memory. Goethe’s Faust exceeds the theatre of the Christian cult by way of a collective act of remembering in the medium of art. The purpose of the work of art is to give form to personal and cultural identity in modernity and to free it from the constraints of forgetfulness. not es 1. Dieter Borchmeyer, Goethe. Der Zeitbürger, Munich: Hanser, 1999. 2. Harald Weinrich, Lethe. The Art and Critique of Forgetting, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004. 3. Johann Werner Streithorst, ‘Beispiel einer ausserordentlichen Vergessenheit’, Magazin ﬁir Erfahrungsseelenkunde 3/3 (1784), 1–14. 4. Ibid., 3. 5. Ibid., 8. 6. Helmut Schanze, Goethes Dramatik. Theater der Erinnerung, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1989.

chapter 6

Magicians of modernity: Cagliostro and Saint-Simon in Goethe’s Faust ii Hans-Jürgen Schings

To be sure, Goethe stated repeatedly that what appears in the second part of Faust is ‘a higher, more spacious, brighter, more dispassionate world’, and that one must ‘lead a man like him through more worthy circumstances, in higher regions’.1,2 Yet occasionally his intention also admits of more apprehensive tones: ‘There are still a number of magniﬁcent, real and fantastical delusions on earth, in which the poor human, were he to lose himself in them, would experience something nobler, more digniﬁed and higher, than he ever does in the ﬁrst, common part. Our friend Faust should also have to struggle through these.’ And to this Goethe adds that ‘in the world’s daylight, it would look like a pasquinade’.3 Those who cling decidedly to the ‘higher regions’, like Max Kommerell, Dorothea Hölscher-Lohmeyer or Wilhelm Emrich, run up against the great entelechy and its spheres of being, the survey, if possible, of cosmic worldregions, primordial ur-phenomena and histories of being – and tend towards a monumental interpretation of Faust, beyond all morality.4 Those who, on the other hand, keep in mind the ‘real and fantastical delusions on earth’ will retrieve the Faust of the second part, too, from an ontological, ur-phenomenal dimension and expose him to the ‘world’s daylight’. The Emperor plot of Acts 1 and 4, as well as the land appropriation venture in the ﬁfth act, are then recognizable as a ‘poetic-symbolic representation of modern existence’, as a more or less systematic sequence of historical-political phenomena, in which ‘symphronistically’ – to use Goethe’s expression from the Journeyman Years – the German late Middle Ages are synthesized with the modern present. The work of Gottlieb C. L. Schuchard was ground-breaking in this regard, though belatedly so.5 Recently his trail has been picked up by Nicholas Boyle, Thomas Zabka, Jochen Schmidt and Michael Jaeger, among others.6 And from here the ‘pasquinade’ – that is to say, the disenchantment with Faust – is indeed no longer so far off. 78

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The political-historical sequence which appears in the second Faust circumvents the phenomenon of the French Revolution, but playfully skirts it as its secret kernel. In Act 1 we see: a state in crisis – ‘while fever rages rampant in the state / And brooding evil breeds proliﬁc evils’ (4780–1); an empire on the brink of ‘turmoil’ (4794) and bankruptcy – ‘but here the lack is money’ (4890); a ruler who celebrates anyway – ‘then let us pass the time in gaiety!’ (5057), who does not know why ‘we should torment ourselves by holding council’ (4769) and who confuses governance and pleasure – ‘it was proper and commendable / To practise two activities at once – / To govern, and to lead a life of pleasure’ (10249–51).7 An ancien régime ripe for revolution, then, is exposed to the meddling of the magical ‘cronies’ Mephisto and Faust. In Act 4, after the overture about vulcanism and revolution, which can be read as a ‘prelude’ rather than as a digression, there follow stages of ‘anarchy’ (10261), usurpation, civil war and restoration.8 Act 5 presents post-revolutionary modernity, the new world. Faust the war proﬁteer disposes of the ﬁefdom which he has acquired by magical intervention, he has ‘sovereignty and property [trans. modiﬁed]’ and ‘Eigentum’ (10187), ‘great holdings’ (11156) and ‘possession of the world [trans. modiﬁed]’ (11242). The colonizer dies with a utopian vision for ‘millions’ (11563). This all amounts to something like a complicated picture puzzle which thornily resists any solution. A wealth of names and events from history have been read into this scenario: Louis XVI, but also Duke Carl August, or Prussia and Napoleon, Charles X and Louis Philippe, the 1806 battle of Jena and the battle of the nations at Leipzig, or the Congress of Vienna and the July revolution in France.9 What is at issue in particular are developments in French history stretching from the pre-revolutionary ancien régime to the ‘restaging of the tragedy of 1790’, which Goethe saw arrive in the July revolution of 1830.10 Even if, as is self-evident, mimetic exactitude is not to be expected of Goethe’s symbolic typology, a sequence of phenomena can nonetheless be discerned grouping around the omitted centre, the French Revolution. Does Faust thus also partake of what Goethe, in 1823, called the ‘boundless effort to poetically master, in its origins and consequences, this most terrible of all events’ (WA 2:11, 61)? But what part does Faust himself play? Does Goethe draw his hero into this era as well? This is what he is supposed to have suggested to the painter Burmeister in a splendid, unfortunately not entirely dependable, statement of 1830: ‘What if you drew a modern Faust, a distiller of the invisibly daemonic in all life and activity? A discloser of the dire future and the seemingly good present?’11

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Let us recall how he had proceeded in the case of Euphorion, for whom he could ‘use no one’ but Byron as a ‘representative of the latest poetic period’.12 If we look for representatives who might serve typologically – ‘symphronistically’ – as models for the ‘distiller’ Faust, then Cagliostro and Saint-Simon appear good candidates – both great, dubious, daemonic adventurers of historic scale and ‘Faustian’ restlessness, exemplary of decisive tendencies of the age of revolution and modernity, one a subversive occultist, the other armed with utopian explosive power, and both active prior to the revolutions of 1789 and 1830, respectively. The one stumbled early on, the other only later, into the sights of the poet of Faust. Goethe called Cagliostro ‘one of the most peculiar monstrosities . . . to have appeared in our century’.13 The man embodies a double trauma: on the one hand, there is the daemonic power by means of which he incites a desire for miracles, spirits and treasures, and so stages a magical conspiracy against the Enlightenment. On the other, there is his covert entanglement in the Necklace Affair, which appears to Goethe as a highly explosive conspiracy against the French court. As a ‘sinister omen’ it painted the Revolution on the wall and was part of its ‘foundation’.14,15 It opened up an ‘immoral abyss of city, court and state’, outrageously exhibiting the ‘head of Medusa’.16,17 Riemer reports: ‘The Necklace Affair is a reversal of world-history. For Goethe the most horrible, Medusa-like symbol of the recent and latest events. Debauchery on a monstrous scale’ (GG 2, 1138). Hence Goethe’s conviction that the charlatan magician Cagliostro was involved. Neither his piece Der Großcophta (The Grand Kophta) nor the man himself left Goethe in peace during his work on Faust ii. ‘Spoke a lot about The Grand Kophta’, Eckermann wrote on 17 February 1829. ‘I’m talking about The Grand Kophta, which I re-read these last days’, Eckermann reports again on 14 February 1831. It is worth noting at this point, however, that Goethe himself, in a letter to Zelter of 20 November 1829, suggests the analogy between Cagliostro and Faust. The context is the origin of the ‘Faustian Legend’ in Protestantism. This movement had done away with the fear of ecclesiastical punishments, so that ‘diabolical and magical elements’ could ‘more methodically’ step to the fore – thus giving Faust an open ﬁeld. The Protestant devil-conjurers were not immediately threatened with excommunication, and there were all the more Kophtas, who knew how to make use of people’s foolishness, helplessness and impassioned appetites; for of course it would be easier to get rich by means of a few drawn characters and nonsensical mumbling, than by earning one’s daily bread by the sweat of one’s brow. (WA 4:46, 157)

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‘Kophtas’ – that is the sarcastically Egyptianizing code word which Goethe had borrowed from Cagliostro, and here it extends to Faust. The connection is not new, by the way – Nicolai’s Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek had already called the historical Faust a ‘Cagliostro of his times’ in 1792.18 With no lack of clarity, Goethe’s letter delineates the constellation of our ﬁrst act. Here, Faust is anything but the ‘Upright Man of Court’ (the title of a novel by Goethe’s great-uncle Johann Michael von Loen) desired by the proper political morality of the Enlightenment.19 The magic with which he and Mephisto delight the Emperor’s court no longer has the playful, adventuresome elements still present in the Faust tradition, and only with difﬁculty can one ﬁnd in it the striving towards ‘being’s highest form’ (4685) which Faust announced in the tercets of the ‘Pleasant Landscape’. The magic of the ﬁrst act is deceptive and subversive, and, as will become apparent, it imperils the state. Money and spirits are what matters at the imperial court: ‘Now that we’ve made him rich, / We are expected to amuse him’ (6191–2). The magic of the two ‘friends’ (cf. 6311) thus amounts to two undertakings – the fabrication of paper money and a spirit conjuration. Embedded are the treasure magic with the chest, which catastrophically ends the ‘Masquerade’, and Faust’s invocation of the Mothers, which brings about the apparition of Helen and Paris, which likewise ends explosively. It is no accident that Mephisto is the one who ‘publicly’ has an alchemistic term handy for both of these principal undertakings: ‘great work’ (6110; 6425), the opus magnum, that is. He also enjoys speaking, in the role of the fool, about ‘wisdom’ (4892) and the ‘wise’ (5030), even about ‘mysteries’ (5032). With the enticing aperçu ‘a man that nature has endowed with spiritual might [trans. modiﬁed]’ (4896), he ingratiates Faust with the Emperor. The actual status of the magical events, however, is indicated by other expressions. Faust apologizes for the ‘ﬁery illusion’ (5987) of the Masquerade, Mephisto speaks in private of ‘entertaining tricks’ (6176), of ‘phantom money’ (6198) and ﬁnally of a ‘spectral masque’ (6546). He’s not lying. Suspicion, present from the start, is swept under the rug by the wondrous events. The Chancellor, properly orthodox, warns right away of ‘heretics and sorcerers’ (4911). The society at court is heard to murmur: ‘The fellow’s a rogue. – And clever too. – / Lies gain him favour’ (4885–6). And then: ‘They both are rogues . . . – and hand in glove. – / The visionary and the fool’ (4951–2). And later: ‘Astrology – or alchemy! – / I’ve heard it all before’ (4974). Even referring to Plutus with the chariot, someone drops the word ‘charlatan’ (5641) during the Masquerade. Against such a heavily laden semantics, Faust’s speech about the ‘dauntless sorcerer’ (6436) stands all

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alone. Does it balance the scales? Ever since Albrecht Schöne uncovered the secrets of the laterna magica (FK 479 ff.) the magical essence of the ﬁrst act has come increasingly under suspicion; the enigmatic passage to the Mothers in particular has had a hard time selling itself as anything but satire. It is not by chance that the venture with paper money is connected to the registers of treasure-hunting, sorcery, alchemy and gold-making, which had drawn Mephisto into the ‘Throne Room’ scene, where the problem of backing the magical currency was fantastically obfuscated and downplayed. The signature of the Emperor, which he gave – although he doesn’t know quite how – in the frenzy of carnival, is reminiscent of the ‘drawn characters’ which Goethe mentioned in his letter to Zelter. ‘Quick conjurors’ (6072) are at work here, ‘magical leaves’ (6157) is the designation for the paper bills; the ‘Intendant of the Treasury’ greets in Faust his colleague the ‘magician’ (6142). And the end result is – as the scholarship has demonstrated with recourse to Goethe’s knowledge of economics, as drawn from Johann Georg Büsch’s Abhandlung von dem Geldumlauf (Treatise on the Circulation of Money, 1780) – inﬂation.20 The Emperor has been served ‘false riches’ (10245), as Mephisto admits in the fourth act. The consequence was ‘anarchy’ (10261). ‘Tomorrow this imperial magniﬁcence / Will be the ash-heap of one night’ (5968–9) is the Herald’s commentary on the ‘ﬁery illusion’ with the treasure chest – but the statement far outreaches the occasion. Money and spirits. In high style, at the level of the state, treasurehunting, alchemy and spirit-seeing are staged to the great detriment of the empire. The sorcery of the ﬁrst act, deceptive and subversive, thereby takes on recognizably ‘kophtic’ traits. The connection with the dealings of Cagliostro is not hard to make.21 Cagliostro’s success depended on his enormous stature. That he was ‘a man that nature has endowed with spiritual might’ and ‘that he is very powerful in magic’ Lavater, for example, believed.22 In letters to Goethe he calls Cagliostro ‘power personiﬁed’, ‘a highly original, powerful, unsublime and in a certain respect ineffably banal person . . . Just as he is, he is no doubt a rock-solid man of great consequence.’23,24 Or elsewhere: ‘powerful slave of stars and conjurer of spirit-forms, lacking greatness and simplicity’.25 Goethe’s cool response is: ‘Cagliostro is always someone worth taking note of. But a fool with power and a scoundrel are still such close kindred. I mustn’t say anything about it. I am inﬂexible on this point.’26 In Cagliostro, the promises of the old esoteric sciences celebrated their return in the Age of Enlightenment. Goethe’s Grand Kophta himself enacts them:

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When a man, not satisﬁed with his natural powers, senses something better, desires something higher; when he aims to acquire for himself, step by step, unassailable health, everlasting life, inexhaustible riches, the affection of people, the obedience of beasts, even control over elements and spirits, he cannot do so without a deep understanding of Nature. This is what lies beyond the gate I now open to you. (MA 4:1, 59)

These are, formulated in exact correspondence with Elisa von der Recke, the ‘demands of higher sensibility’, just as the historical section of the Farbenlehre (Theory of Colours), in the section ‘Alchymisten’ (Alchemists), states in the same context (MA 10, 614).27 The repertoire of a ‘kophtic’ personality, which promised everything ‘worth desiring’ in the twinkling of an eye, was of course readily available to the reader of the voluminous Cagliostro literature: ‘Connection with the spirit world’, i.e., apparitions, ‘metamorphosis of metals’, i.e., gold-making, and so on down to treasurehunting, magical operations and miraculous acts of healing.28 This ensemble returns in its entirety in Faust. In the ‘Brightly Lit Rooms’ scene, Mephisto even demonstrates the ‘kophtic’ cures. He irritatingly makes his appearance as ‘court physician’ just at the moment when his ‘crony’ Faust is tarrying among the Mothers.29 That Goethe not only orchestrates the whole affair ‘kophtically’, but that he even makes use of detailed ‘kophtic’ allusions, I shall try to demonstrate by means of an example which deals with the money motif of Plutus. Plutus–Faust, who will destroy the ‘cheerful entertainment’ (5067) by playfully reducing the ‘pretty show’ (5733) to the ‘coarse reality’ of ‘gold’ (5730), notoriously gives the Herald a hard time. The latter describes him as follows: Er scheint ein König, reich und milde, Wohl dem, der seine Gunst erlangt! Er hat nichts weiter zu erstreben, Wo’s irgend fehlte, späht sein Blick, Und seine reine Lust zu geben, Ist größer als Besitz und Glück.

(5554–9)

He seems to be a rich and kindly king Whose favour would ensure prosperity. He looks not for new realms to conquer, But to discover where there’s want, And the pure joy he takes in giving Outweighs all the delights of ownership.

Probably the most widely disseminated portrait of Cagliostro, which introduced his francophone apologia and was well-known to Goethe, closes:

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hans-ju¨ rgen schings De l’Ami des Humains reconnoissés les traits, Tous ses jours sont marqués par de nouveaux bienfaits, Il prolonge la Vie, il secourt l’indigence, Le plaisir d’être utile est seul sa récompense.30 Recognize the features of a friend of man. All his days are marked by new acts of generosity, He prolongs life, he aids the destitute, The pleasure of being helpful is his only recompense.

The similarity goes without saying. The Herald describes Faust, in the guise of Plutus, as the miraculous and altruistic do-gooder Cagliostro. Known for giving away his miracle cures for free, Cagliostro was stormed by hordes of the needy, to whom he also gave away money.31 And it just so happens that the philanthropist also has seemingly endless means at his disposal. The Journal für Freimaurer (Journal for Freemasons) of 1786 lets a critical eyewitness speak his mind: ‘This is the miracle man, spirit-seer, spiritconjurer, philanthropic unpaid doctor and hero, who has been living it up in these parts for years, without anyone ever knowing where he gets his money.’32 His physiognomic features, his ‘face that glows with health’ and ‘ample mouth’, the ‘well-rounded cheeks’ as well as the ‘jewelled turban’ (5563–5) are also explicable without recourse to fantastical-oriental elements. The portraits of Cagliostro depict a chubby-cheeked, conspicuously rotund head with exceptionally pouty lips.33 Occasionally, Cagliostro appeared in his séances as an ancient Egyptian Grand Kophta (just as in Goethe’s play), in which case he wore ‘a large turban on his head’.34 An eyewitness from Warsaw also reports that ‘the Grand Kophta rolled into the city every morning in a cabriolet to visit his female patients. A philosopher, an adept, a Grand Kophta en cabriolet!’35 ‘A magniﬁcent quadriga’ (5512) is how Plutus arrives at the Emperor’s court. The terms ‘Werk’ (opus) and ‘le Grand Oeuvre’, are of course also applied to Cagliostro’s spirit-dealings.36 There is a report that he planned to summon Henry IV, Rousseau and Voltaire before Cardinal Rohan, the cardinal collier (Jules Michelet).37 Elisa von der Recke described the details of such an invocation from her own experience. There we ﬁnd the medium, a manipulated young boy, the wild stamping of the sorcerer (‘then he stamped his feet, ﬁrst on the ground, then on the door’, repeatedly), the opening-up of the earth, the appearance of ghosts (‘seven very good-looking people’) and Cagliostro’s convulsive fainting – in the third act of his comedy, Goethe changes this into the fainting of the medium and adds a tripod and incense to the magic ritual for good measure (MA 4:1, 55–61).38 From here the trail leads

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all the way to Faust. The ‘spectral masque’ which Mephisto organizes with Faust in ‘dim lighting’ likewise draws on the detailed and well-tried repertoire of ‘kophtic’ necromancy, including the shibboleth ‘the great work’ (6425) and the designation ‘thaumaturge’ (6422), which Faust is allowed to share with Cagliostro.39 It is particularly unfortunate for Faust that his stamping on the way to the Mothers – ‘mephistopheles “To sink you stamp your foot, to rise you stamp again” (6304). faust stamps his foot and sinks out of sight’ – has an obvious model in Cagliostro’s techniques.40 One thing, however, fundamentally differentiates Faust from the Grand Kophta: Faust himself takes it all quite seriously. In the midst of the ‘kophtic’ confusion unleashed by Mephisto, he always manages to ﬁnd his very particular, enthusiastic tone. He raves – for instance, when he says of the paper money and its backing beneath the ground of the imperial lands, ‘Yet minds that can look deep will have / The vast assurance that vast undertakings need’ (6117–18); but he remains untouched by the surrounding greed. Yet this in no way mitigates the deceptive and subversive character of this undertaking, or its fateful consequences. A portentous cloud hangs over the ﬁrst act. Even if the majority of the Cagliostro allusions can be chalked up to Mephistopheles, a shadow falls on Faust as well. In the ‘Historical Section’ of the Farbenlehre (Theory of Colours), Goethe explains, with regard to the origin of superstition and alchemy, ‘It is the misuse of the genuine and true, a leap from ideality, from the possible to reality, a misapplication of genuine feelings, a fraudulent conﬁrmation by which we ﬂatter our most cherished hopes and desires’ (MA 10, 614).41 Goethe diagnoses it as caprice (‘Willkür’). And just as caprice – that is, the hasty, impatient leap beyond the law-like necessities of nature and society – seizes Faust at the Emperor’s court, so it remains, supported along the way by often brute force, Faust’s symptom until his demise. In the ﬁfth act we step into a new world. Faust has meanwhile become a colonizer and power-holder, a merchant prince and the master of an army of labourers. Magic switches elements. It is no longer ‘kophtic’, but becomes technological and industrial, passing ﬁnally into a utopia of modernity. But the foundation is still caprice or, as Faust’s own ambitious formulation puts it, ‘the untrammelled power of the will’ (11255). This is the ﬁeld in which a new, likewise pre-revolutionary ‘distiller of the invisibly daemonic’ could leave its imprint on Faust – namely, Saint-Simon and the teachings of his disciples, the Saint-Simonists. Claude Henri de Rouvroy (1760–1825), comte de Saint-Simon and descendant of the duc de Saint-Simon, probably ﬁrst came to Goethe’s

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attention when he read Saint-Simon’s obituary, and underlined it, in his favourite newspaper, Le Globe.42 His interest was ignited when the July revolution in Paris presented him with ‘the greatest thought problem he could have faced at the close of his life’.43 He had to watch as Le Globe transformed itself into an emphatic organ of Saint-Simonism and printed the catchwords ‘Religion, Science, Industry’ next to the respective maxims on the front page. Schuchard was the ﬁrst to thoroughly document Goethe’s engagement with Saint-Simonism. Goethe read publications of the Société Saint-Simonienne and reviews of them, and informed himself through conversation, above all with Soret. On 30 May 1831, he notes: ‘Efforts to get to the bottom of the Saint-Simonist phenomenon. Therefore read until the evening’ (WA 3:13, 83). This was happening during the last phase of his work on Faust. He left no doubts about his aversion. On 17 October 1830, he writes to Carlyle: ‘I bid you keep your distance from the Société Simonienne’ (WA 4:47, 300). What did he see in it that was apparently so fascinating and at the same time so disconcerting? First of all, here is a man whose biography, as Nicholas Boyle correctly attests, bears all the traits of a modern Faust: ‘a period of fruitless study, an attempt at suicide, a subsequent metaphysical reorientation, a life of permanent striving and permanent disappointment, of grandiose schemes (including canal-building) and a desire for a “gloire” that would embrace all humanity, an end simultaneously in dereliction and resurrection’.44 Of particular interest is Saint-Simon’s early pet project, canal-building; to the viceroy of Mexico he suggested building a canal through Nicaragua, for Spain he planned a canal to Madrid. It is no accident that Ferdinand de Lesseps was, if not an old Saint-Simonist, at least a sympathizer. Quite innocent of any intentions regarding Faust, of course, modern scholarship has exposed the grandiose Suez Canal project as a symbol of SaintSimonism and its claim to nature-altering productive power.45 In a letter ‘to the gentlemen workers’ Saint-Simon writes in 1821 that, in order to master nature and develop the earth, ‘fallow tracts must be made arable, wetlands drained . . . and all those canals built which can be used for shipping and irrigation’.46 In the pamphlet De la Religion St Simonienne (1830), ‘embanking the sea becomes a symbol of the mastery of nature in general’.47 All of humanity is called upon to take a new pride in itself: ‘Calm and superb, I see you mastering the tempest; you rule over the winds; the tamed lightning follows the paths which you have traced for it: it is you who have erected the dyke, and it is you who have said to the angry sea: you shall come only this far, and not go any further.’ That the author (Abel Étienne Transon) here rearranges and redirects a passage from the Book of Job, and

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delegates to humans the power of the creator, is one of the principal ironies which also helps us see Faust’s dyke project in a new light.48 The motives and aims of the Doctrine de Saint-Simon (the title of the manifesto which Goethe read in May 1831) are most succinctly grasped in the words of the Globe obituary which Goethe underlined for himself: Il rapporta du Nouveau-Monde un caractère qui devait le distinguer entre tous les amis de la liberté: il avait vu des sociétés de proscrits malheureux s’élever par le travail et la fraternité au bonheur et à la plus haute civilisation; l’industrie devint sa divinité. Quand tout le monde en France s’occupait d’intérêts purement politiques, dans le vieux sens attaché à ce mot, il sentit qu’une ère nouvelle s’ouvrait pour les nations, et que le travail allait jouer le premier rôle dans le dix-neuvième siècle. Dès lors toutes ses pensées, toutes ses actions, eurent pour but le perfectionnement de l’industrie, l’éducation des classes laborieuses, et l’élévation des producteurs au gouvernement des affaires.49 He came back from the New World with a quality which could only set him apart from all the friends of liberty: he had seen societies of dejected exiles raise themselves through work and fraternity to happiness and to the highest degree of civilization; industry became his divinity. While everyone in France was occupied with purely political interests, in the old sense of that word, he sensed that a new era was beginning for the nations, and that work would play the leading role in the nineteenth century. All his thoughts, all his actions, henceforth had the aim of perfecting the industry, the education of the working classes and the appointment of producers to the government of affairs.

To paraphrase this ‘religion de notre siècle’ (as the obituary calls it), its main ideas are as follows: abolition of the parasitic feudal system, the ‘classe féodale et théologique’; development of science, production, technology and labour in the direction of the dominant world system, to the ‘système industriel et scientiﬁque’, to the ‘grande société d’industrie’; and formation of the ‘citoyen industrieux’ as the new type of human.50 All of this is to be organized by an elite class of intellectual and practical producers, the ‘chefs naturels et permanents du peuple’. If this restructuring succeeds, the supposedly lost Golden Age will be close at hand: ‘L’âge d’or, qu’une aveugle tradition a placé jusqu’ici dans le passé, est devant nous!’51 The will is what counts, and beside it all sceptical reservations pale: utopia becomes reality.52 Can the will, the ‘god of recent times’, which Goethe had long been pursuing, manifest itself any more clearly?53 To the poet of Faust it was ripe for the picking, and Schuchard has demonstrated the afﬁnities. The modernizing push that Goethe gave his hero in the ﬁnal phase of writing borrows boldly from the new utopian magicians of modernity.

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‘To rule’ and ‘have possessions’ (10187) is what Faust wants, not a feudal, hereditary patrimonium, but a free dominium. The Emperor disappears into nowhere; the old world, the ‘dilapidated chapel’ (11158) and ‘our fathers’ God’ (11142) are liquidated along with Philemon and Baucis. Mastery over nature and the elements, hence dykes, canals; the draining of marshlands continues to fascinate Faust up to his ﬁnal vision. The Three Mighty Men stand for his productive power, and with them he has at his disposal an army of ‘workmen’ (11503) and ‘labourers’ (11552). Be it of feudal, neo-feudal or already bourgeois orchestration, Faust appears in any case as the uninhibited ‘master’ (11169) of an empire of trade and labour. And he too directs his ﬁnal glance, ‘the ﬁnal wisdom we can reach’ (11574), towards a Golden Age, ‘a land of Eden’ (11569), as he says. Faust’s striving takes a turn towards the very latest, modern conﬁguration of the world. The ‘great work’, the signal word ﬁrst for archaic, then for ‘kophtic’ magic, now becomes the ‘greatest work’ (11509), magic in the highest possible style, the technological-industrial utopia of the new age. And its building-blocks are provided by the doctrine of Saint-Simonism. Having just been blinded, the ‘master’, the ‘patron’ (cf. 11170) heralds the coming of this new world: Die Nacht scheint tiefer tief hereinzudringen Allein im Innern leuchtet helles Licht: Was ich gedacht ich eil es zu vollbringen; Des Herren Wort es gibt allein Gewicht. Vom Lager auf ihr Knechte! Mann für Mann! Laßt glücklich schauen was ich kühn ersann. Ergreift das Werkzeug, Schaufel rührt und Spaten, Das Abgesteckte muß sogleich geraten. Auf strenges Ordnen, raschen Fleiß, Erfolgt der allerschönste Preis; Daß sich das größte Werk vollende (11499–510) Genügt Ein Geist für tausend Hände. The darkness seems to press about me more and more, But in my inner being there is radiant light; I’ll hasten the fulﬁlment of my plans – Only the master’s order carries weight. – Workmen, up from your beds! Up, every man, And make my bold design reality! Take up your tools! To work with spade and shovel – What’s been marked off must be completed now! Prompt effort and strict discipline Will guarantee superb rewards:

Magicians of modernity To complete the greatest of all projects, One mind sufﬁces for a thousand hands.

89 [trans. modiﬁed]

An attentive inspection of Faust’s vocabulary will show that Saint-Simonist ideas now permeate his key concepts. Travail (tools, spade, shovel), organisation (strict discipline), industrie (prompt effort), production (the greatest of all projects), patron (master, one mind) – the lexicon of the new doctrine can still be discerned in Faust’s speech. The expression ‘actively free’ (11564), which appears in Faust’s ﬁnal monologue, is a succinct formulation of the Saint-Simonist linking of labour, as mastery of nature, with freedom. The bold word ‘communal impulse’ (11572) is evidently a translation of the Saint-Simonist ‘impulsion commune’ which is supposed to lend wings to the workers of the future.54 Even the contentious verses in which Faust qualiﬁes his blindness by reference to his ‘inner light’ have a certain plausibility in this context. The colour theorist Goethe leaves no doubt about it: given such a disproportion of the internal to the external, what is at hand is a pathological phenomenon, and not the condition for a heroic-creative state of exception.55 No less signiﬁcant is the polemical weight of the epiphany motif, which was a familiar one to the enlightened century. The evocation of ‘inner light’ was a mark of visionaries and inspirationalists, of fanatics, chiliasts and utopians of every stripe.56 This is the neighbourhood into which the blind Faust stumbles. It is particularly telling that the Saint-Simonists also thought of their message, which they understood to be a new secular religion, in terms of God-sent light: ‘Gentlemen, do not shut your eyes to the light which god sends to you, and allow the one who carries this new light to you to make your acquaintance.’57 Goethe stated unambiguously what he thought of the Saint-Simonists. To Zelter, 28 June 1830: At the head of this sect are very shrewd people who know precisely what is lacking in our times and also how to present what is desirable; but when they presume to overcome this dreadful state of affairs and foster something desirable, their ineptitude is apparent. The fools believe they can competently play the part of providence, and promise that every man shall be rewarded according to his contribution, if he commits himself body and soul, without reserve, and becomes one of them. (WA 4:48, 259)

Journal entry of 31 October 1830: ‘Discussion about the Société St. Simonienne, as a repetition of those general demands, which can’t even be called ideal, for they are without the slightest concept of the conditions which are to be accounted for, to which one must necessarily

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attend’ (WA 3:12, 324). In accordance with this, he formulates a well-known maxim: ‘There is nothing sadder to see than unmediated striving towards an unconditional state in this throughly conditioned world; it appears in the year 1830 perhaps more inappropriate than ever.’58 The short version of this is: ‘Unconditioned activity, regardless of its kind, ultimately leaves one bankrupt.’59 It is certainly possible that Goethe had in mind the words he had read in Saint-Simon’s obituary: ‘in the end he went bankrupt’. Should we not fear that this sentence applies just as well to Faust, at the end of his earthly career? Those who cling together, swing together, according to the adage – Faust’s similarity to the Saint-Simonists is, at any rate, not a good sign. It delivers him up to those who see him as an agent of modern bankruptcy and want to make him answer for it. A strong faction of contemporary Faust interpreters is determined, and thus also prepared, to show that, in the battle for Faust, Mephisto was right. But Goethe doesn’t make it quite that easy for Faust’s critics. His benevolence denies Mephisto victory in the contest and preserves Faust’s ‘immortal part’. Of course, this doesn’t amount to a seal of approval for Faust’s earthly tenure, either. notes Translated by John Koster. 1. Gespräch mit Eckermann, 17 February 1831. 2. ‘Helena. Zwischenspiel zu Faust’, WA 1:41.2, 291. 3. To Karl Ernst Schubarth, 3 November 1820, WA 4:34, 5. 4. Max Kommerell, Geist und Buchstabe der Dichtung. Goethe, Schiller, Kleist, Hölderlin, Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1940; Dorothea Lohmeyer, Faust und die Welt. Der zweite Teil der Dichtung, Munich: C.H. Beck, 1975; Lohmeyer, ‘Einleitung und Kommentar zu Faust ii’, MA 18:1, 535–1213; Wilhelm Emrich, Die Symbolik von Faust ii. Sinn und Vorformen, 5th edn, Königstein: Athenäum, 1981. 5. G. C. L. Schuchard, ‘Julirevolution, St Simonismus und die Faustpartien von 1831’, ZfdPh 60 (1935), 240–74 and 362–84. The citation there is on 370. 6. Nicholas Boyle, ‘The Politics of Faust ii. Another Look at the Stratum of 1831’, Publications of the English Goethe Society 52 (1983), 4–43; Thomas Zabka, Faust ii – Das Klassische und das Romantische. Goethes ‘Eingriff in die neueste Literatur’, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1993; Jochen Schmidt, Goethes Faust. Erster und Zweiter Teil. Grundlagen–Werk–Wirkung, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1999; Michael Jaeger, Fausts Kolonie. Goethes kritische Phänomenologie der Moderne, Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2004 and Global Player Faust oder Das Verschwinden der Gegenwart. Zur Aktualität Goethes, Berlin: WJS Verlag, 2008. 7. Faust citations are from FT. Unless otherwise indicated, all Faust translations are taken from Goethe’s Collected Works, vol. ii, trans. Stuart Atkins (Boston: Suhrkamp, 1982).

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8. Schuchard, ‘Julirevolution’, 371. 9. See for instance Manfred Birk, ‘Goethes Typologie der Epochenschwelle im vierten Akt des Faust ii’, Jahrbuch der deutschen Schillergesellschaft 33 (1989), 261–80; Katharina Mommsen, ‘Faust ii als politisches Vermächtnis des Staatsmannes Goethe’, Jahrbuch des freien deutschen Hochstifts (1989), 1–36; Heinz Hamm, ‘Julirevolution, Saint-Simonismus und Goethes abschließende Arbeit am Faust’, Weimarer Beiträge 28 (1982), 70–91; John R. Williams, ‘Die Deutung geschichtlicher Epochen im zweiten Teil des Faust’, Goethe-Jahrbuch 110 (1993), 89–103; Zabka, Faust ii. 10. To Knebel, 12 September 1830, WA 4:47, 217. 11. The passage is quoted in Schuchard, ‘Julirevolution’, 372. Cf. GG, 4, 424 f. and 5, 182. 12. Gespräch mit Eckermann, 5 July 1827. 13. ‘Zur Italienischen Reise. Zweiter Teil’, WA 1:31, 304. 14. Campagne in Frankreich, WA 1:33, S. 264; Goethe’s Collected Works, trans. Thomas P. Saine, New York: Suhrkamp, 1987, v, 744. 15. Gespräch mit Eckermann, 15 February 1831. 16. Tag- und Jahreshefte 1789, WA 1:35, 11. 17. Campagne in Frankreich, WA 1:33, S. 261. 18. Klaus H. Kiefer, ‘Balsamo, Giuseppe’, in Goethe-Handbuch iv/i , ed. HansDietrich Dahnke and Regine Otto, Stuttgart-Weimar: Metzler, 1998, iv/1, 98. 19. See Wolfgang Martens, Der patriotische Minister. Fürstendiener in der Literatur der Aufklärungszeit, Weimar-Cologne-Vienna: Böhlau, 1996. 20. Fundamental: Bernd Mahl, Goethes ökonomisches Wissen. Grundlagen zum Verständnis der ökonomischen Passagen im dichterischen Gesamtwerk und in den ‘Amtlichen Schriften’, Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1982. Particularly plausible: Zabka, Faust ii, 230 ff. 21. Faust scholarship has, as far as I can see, only rarely been interested in connections to Cagliostro, probably because they came too close to Faust’s prestige. See Pierre Grappin, ‘Zur Gestalt des Kaisers in Faust ii’, GoetheJahrbuch 91 (1974), 107–16; John R. Williams, ‘Mephisto’s Magical Mystery Tour. Goethe, Cagliostro, and the Mothers in Faust, Part Two’, Publications of the English Goethe Society 58 (1989), 84–102; Michael Jaeger, Fausts Kolonie, 289 ff.; Yvonne Wübben, ‘ “. . . und dennoch spukt’s in Tegel” – Zu Goethes Cagliostro-Rezeption’, Goethe-Jahrbuch 119 (2002), 96–119, esp. 108 ff. (Michael Jaeger and Yvonne Wübben were among the participants in an Oberseminar at which I discussed the Cagliostro question.) 22. To Goethe, 19 May 1781, in Heinrich Funck (ed.), Goethe und Lavater. Briefe und Tagebücher, Schriften der Goethe-Gesellschaft xvi (1901), 179. Gespräch mit Eckermann, 17 February 1829: ‘“Lavater”, said Goethe, “believed in Cagliostro and his miracles. When he was debunked as an impostor, Lavater held that it was a different Cagliostro, for the miracle-worker Cagliostro was a holy person.”’ 23. Lavater to Goethe and Knebel, 10 February 1781, in Funck (ed.), Goethe und Lavater, 147. 24. Lavater to Goethe, 3 March 1781, ibid., 152 f.

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25. Lavater to Goethe, 10 December 1783, ibid., 235. 26. Goethe to Lavater, 18 March 1781, ibid., 162. 27. Charlotta Elisabeth Konstantia von der Recke, ‘Nachricht von des berüchtigten Cagliostro Aufenthalte in Mitau, im Jahre 1779, und von dessen dortigen magischen Operationen (1787)’, in Klaus H. Kiefer (ed.), Cagliostro. Dokumente zu Aufklärung und Okkultismus, Munich: Beck, 1991, 90. 28. Now easily accessible in Kiefer’s anthology, ibid. 29. FT, 547 (paralip.). 30. See the print by Ch. Guérin in Kiefer (ed.), Cagliostro, 67, ﬁg. 3. The print Goethe mentions in regard to his research in Palermo (WA 1:31, 126) may have been of this type; cf. Kiefer’s commentary, Cagliostro, 648. 31. Von der Recke, ‘Nachricht’, in Kiefer (ed.), Cagliostro, 46 ff. 32. Reproduction in ibid., 283. 33. See ﬁgures 3–12 in ibid., 67 f., 129–32 and 193–6, and physiognomic descriptions at 179, 213, 418 f. 34. Augustus Moszinsky, ‘Cagliostro in Warschau (1786)’, in ibid., 160. See also Ludwig Ernst Borowsky, ‘Cagliostro, einer der merkwürdigsten Abenteurer unsres Jahrhunderts’ (1790), in ibid., 390. 35. Moszinsky, ‘Cagliostro in Warschau’, in ibid., 161. 36. See ibid., 89, 188. 37. Heinrich Düntzer, Studien zu Goethes Werken, no. 6: ‘Graf Cagliostro und Goethe’s Großcophta’, Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen 5 (1850), vii, 1–60, here 14. 38. Von der Recke, ‘Nachricht’, in Kiefer (ed.), Cagliostro, 55 f. and 79 ff. 39. Ibid., 41, 47, 60, 83. 40. Von der Recke, ‘Nachricht’, in ibid., 79–81. 41. Goethe’s remark about Roger Bacon also pertains to this: ‘But it wasn’t his time alone which was guilty of this overhastiness, in which it presumed to subjugate those things which are possible for profound, solidly founded, consequent, eternal forces of Nature, to will and and to caprice, treating them, against God and Nature, as if they were arbitrary’ (MA 10: 587). 42. Heinz Hamm, Goethe und die französische Zeitschrift Le Globe. Eine Lektüre im Zeichen der Weltliteratur, Weimar: Böhlau, 1988, 303–6. 43. F. v. Müller to F. Rochlitz: ‘The impression which this lightning-fast revolution has left here, too, is indescribable. Goethe says he can only keep calm about it by seeing it as the greatest thought problem which he could have faced at the close of his life.’ GG 4, 291. 44. Boyle, ‘The Politics of Faust ii’, 13–14. 45. Cf. R. Martinus Emge, Saint-Simon. Einführung in ein Leben und Werk, eine Schule, Sekte und Wirkungsgeschichte, Munich-Vienna: Oldenbourg, 1987, 46 ff. and 181 ff. 46. Quoted in Zabka, Faust ii, 255. 47. Ibid., 256. 48. This quotation, which is otherwise attributed in the literature to the Doctrine de Saint-Simon, I have here taken from the MA thesis by André Renis, ‘Der

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Schlußakt des zweiten Faust als staatswirtschaftliche Denkübung’ (Berlin, 2004), 29. The reader is there also referred to Ulrich Gaier, who notes the signiﬁcance of Job 38: see his Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Faust-Dichtungen, Kommentar I, Stuttgart: Reclam, 1999, ii. 1043. 49. Hamm, ‘Goethe und die französische Zeitschrift Le Globe’, 304. 50. Ibid., 305. 51. For summaries of the doctrine see Emge, Saint-Simon, 99 ff.; Thomas Petermann, Claude-Henri de Saint-Simon. Die Gesellschaft als Werkstatt, Berlin: Duncker & Humboldt, 1979, 100 ff. Quoted in Schuchard, ‘Julirevolution’, 266. 52. Quoted in Schuchard, ‘Julirevolution’, 272. 53. ‘Shakespeare und kein Ende!’, WA 1:41.1, 61. 54. See Schuchard, ‘Julirevolution’, 272; Zabka, Faust ii, 256. 55. An excellent discussion is Peter Michelsen, ‘Fausts Erblindung’ (ﬁrst published 1962), in Peter Michelsen, Im Banne Fausts. Zwölf Faust-Studien, Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2000, 161–70. 56. See H. J. Schings, Melancholie und Aufklärung. Melancholiker und ihre Kritiker in Literatur und Erfahrungsseelenkunde des 18. Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1977. 57. Jules Lechevalier-Hippolyte Carnot, Religion Saint-Simonienne. Enseignement central, Paris, 1831, 15. 58. Goethe, Maximen und Reﬂexionen, BA 18, 620. 59. Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre, HA 8, 286.

chapter 7

The blind Faust Eberhard Lämmert

Once a play has been written, it is the beginning and end that are least in keeping with life beyond its artistic representation. The author who narrates or brings to the stage the life of various human beings is obliged to provide an artiﬁcial beginning and end to his presentation, and the life that unfolds between these two moments derives its particular shape from them. It is for this reason that Jean Paul in his Vorschule der Ästhetik (para. 74) explicitly calls the ﬁrst chapter of a novel the ‘Omnipotence Chapter’, in which ‘the sword that cuts through the knot in the last [chapter] actually has to be sharpened’.1 Thus, by already proclaiming in the ‘Prologue’ the aged Faust’s unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and by making this the overall theme with Faust’s ﬁrst appearance on stage, Goethe sets a theatrical worldreview in motion that from one phase to another takes in ever more people and ever greater spatial expanses. The end of a drama – as opposed to all life outside the realm of art – gives the author the opportunity to stop the hands of the clock for one ideal moment, and to take stock of whether or not the main characters, indeed all those involved, have been apportioned the right measure of satisfaction or atonement. Such a stock-taking according to the rules of poetic justice is most clearly seen in comedy when the good are rewarded at the end with marriage or riches or both, and due punishment is meted out to the wicked. But tragedy, too, allocates to everyone a fate at the end, so that even the death of the hero can provide the grounds for sympathy and hence also for aesthetic enjoyment. In order to take stock in this way of Faust, Goethe’s life’s work, we shall turn our attention ﬁrst of all to the last act of this sprawling drama. We want to see how it all ends, this wager that Mephistopheles makes with the Lord in ‘Prologue in Heaven’ and that Faust seals with a pact in his study. Goethe spent no fewer than sixty years of his life weaving this pact with the devil into one huge theatrical work that he ﬁlled out with everything that concerned him, with art and science, with love affairs and affairs of state, with despair and thirst for action, but above all with a knowledge of theatre. His taking hold of the ‘fullness of human life’ (167) develops into a 94

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panopticon of the small world and the great, and in the end the centenarian must come to terms with both the pact and himself. This is supposed to be the moment when Faust’s promise to the devil is realized. But does it ever actually come to that moment? What has become of those people whose lives he has utterly shattered, even ended? What happens to Faust in the end? What becomes of his soul after death? And what happens to the land on which he ﬁnally erected his palace, and the territory that he sought to create for a free people? When the curtain goes up on this last act of Part ii, the audience catches sight – like the wanderer who has just come on stage – of ‘Open Country’ with a hut on a small piece of high ground and a beautiful landscape which the wanderer soon declares to be ‘like Paradise’ (11086). Yet here is by no means a primal nature landscape in the manner of Rousseau; rather, it has buildings on it, a meadow, pasture, garden, village and forest as well, while in the distance sails are seen drawing into a harbour. This is an artiﬁcially constructed paradise and yet almost too perfect to be the work of human hands. Four scenes follow which present the dimensions of Faust’s palace, together with his ornamental garden, a canal that runs nearby, his outer courtyard and the inner one, with the slightly raised cabin visible in the middle distance. Faust’s burial will take place slightly off to one side. This panorama is followed only by the last scene in a wasteland, ‘Mountain Gorges, Forest, Cliffs, Wilderness,’ which is completely removed from the previous setting. Here, rising from the valley below and spreading out across the mountains are hermits, boys’ choirs and in higher up the Mater gloriosa with female Penitents, all of whom gather together around the angels that raise Faust’s soul up into heaven or, more cautiously put, into a higher region. Understandably, this ﬁfth act of Faust ii belongs to the most heavily interpreted parts of the whole drama. More than all the other pièces de résistance of Part ii – the ‘Pleasant Landscape’ at the beginning, the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night,’ the appearance of Helena and the cloud scene in ‘High Mountains’ at the beginning of Act 4 – this act gives rise to the liveliest arguments about Goethe’s intentions, as well as to a broad spectrum of admiring, conﬂicting or dismissive judgements on the entire play. This response can be traced back to the early life of the play: a commentary in the year of Goethe’s death, praising the end of Faust for its ‘genuine mysticism’ and ‘beatiﬁc fusion’ of God and nature;2 the lament of the aesthete Friedrich Theodor Vischer about the overloading of the play with ‘incomprehensible ballast of knowledge,’;’3 and the ﬁt of rage of a leading critic at the time, Wolfgang Menzel, concerning Goethe’s presentation of the Catholic-Christian heaven; it seemed as repulsive to him, a dyed-in-the-wool Protestant, as

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the way in which the genial Marie Antoinette held court. . . . Around her we see only ladies-in-waiting and pages, as larger and smaller angels, with a few adoring mystics as devoted doormen. The poor sinner is now brought in . . . a young lady-in-waiting makes supplication for him, the Queen of Heaven smiles and – the sinecure in heaven is his. – Where is God? Is there no man in heaven any more?4

This is how the rattle of arms from the desk of scholars swiftly drowns out the harmony of the spheres in which Goethe enveloped Faust’s elevation. But quite apart from the innumerable pages that have been written about this relatively short ﬁnal act, far more single lines and set expressions have found their way from here than from any other part of this sprawling drama as idioms into everyday German. Remarkably, these are almost exclusively positive, praising life, encouraging the worthy and able (Tüchtigen), and heralding a bright future: Dem Tüchtigen ist diese Welt nicht stumm.

(11446)

No good and able man ﬁnds this world mute. Das ist der Weisheit letzter Schluß: Nur der verdient sich Freiheit wie das Leben, Der täglich sie erobern muß.

(11574–6)

It is the ﬁnal wisdom we can reach: He only merits freedom and existence Who wins them every day anew. Auf freiem Grund mit freiem Volke stehn.

(11580)

On acres free among free people stand. Im Vorgefühl von solchem hohen Glück Genieß ich jetzt den höchsten Augenblick.

(11585–6)

Envisioning these heights of happiness, I now enjoy my highest moment. Gerettet ist das edle Glied Der Geisterwelt vom Bösen: ‘Wer immer strebend sich bemüht, Den können wir erlösen.’ This worthy member of the spirit world Is rescued from the devil: ‘For him whose striving never ceases, We can provide redemption.’

(11934–7)

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And at the end: Das Ewig-Weibliche Zieht uns hinan.

(12110–11)

Woman-Eternal Draws us on high.

If one also takes Mephistopheles’ outburst of fury ‘A great expense, for shame! is thrown away’ (11837), then the much-lauded vernacular in any case has no doubt that ‘a worthy soul through the dark urge within it’ (328) has been well aware of the right path, and that it was no more than just for the heavenly hosts, collected by the Lord around himself in the ‘Prologue’, to wrest his soul away from the devil for rescue in the Elysian ﬁelds. One must compare this with the terse little sentence of the Lord’s, also in the ‘Prologue’: ‘Es irrt der Mensch, so lang er strebt’ (317, Men err as long as they keep striving). With this, up to the last act, Goethe has his Faust make his path through the world not as a benefactor; nor does he by any means offset all the disasters that his hero causes on this path by laying it to Mephistopheles’ account. Nevertheless, Goethe named his Faust ‘A Tragedy’ after some deliberation. So does he come to the realization, as at the end of a proper tragedy, that a sense of guilt arising from the contradictory state of the world demands his death? Doesn’t the author have his hero die instead as a child of Fortune? Faust’s last wish – and he announces this himself in the ‘High Mountains’ scene – is ‘to lock the imperious ocean from the coast’ (10233). Mephistopheles knows how to stage a proper war, allowing Faust to function in it as commander-general, so that the Emperor will reward him in the end with a strip of coastal land for the defeat of the enemy. This land he gives to Faust as a ﬁef, though also mindful of the archbishop, who immediately claims one-tenth of all the returns for himself, wanting to build a cathedral there. In Act 5 we encounter Faust again, on a vast piece of land won back from the sea. No longer is there any talk of a ﬁef or of a cathedral: Faust is lord of this new land. It is only from Baucis, who, with her somewhat senile Philemon, inhabits the raised cabin by the sea, that the wanderer and the public learn how things happened. The place where the sea had once pitched the shipwrecked wanderer ashore is now transformed into a harbour and a ‘densely settled territory’ (11106) with a splendid palace. How all this has come about disturbs the old woman greatly: Wohl! Ein Wunder ist’s gewesen! Läßt mich heut noch nicht in Ruh;

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(11111–14)

Marvel is the word to use! Even now I’m still uneasy; I’m convinced that the whole bus’ness Was not done with proper means. Menschenopfer mußten bluten, Nachts erscholl des Jammers Qual; Meerab ﬂossen Feuergluten, Morgens war es ein Kanal. Gottlos ist er, ihn gelüstet Unsre Hütte, unser Hain; Wie er sich als Nachbar brüstet, Soll man untertänig sein.

(11127–34)

Human lives were sacriﬁced, Groans of torment ﬁlled the darkness; Fires ﬂowed down to the sea – There, at dawn, was a canal. He’s a godless man who covets Both our cottage and our grove; Boasting that he is our neighbour, He would have us be his serfs.

While Philemon goes to the chapel with the intention of ‘greeting the parting sun once more’ (11140), the watchtower keeper, Lynceus, announces from the palace the arrival of new ships and the great good fortune of living in this time of joyous industriousness and increasing wealth. Faust, however, makes his appearance with a curse because the bell in Philemon’s chapel begins to ring out while he is strolling through his ornamental garden. He curses the ringing because it reminds him that this hill and this chapel, which abut his own new land, do not yet belong to him, and that he could best survey his whole new territory from the vantage-point of that raised ground: Der Lindenraum, die braune Baute, Das morsche Kirchlein ist nicht mein. Und wünscht’ ich, dort mich zu erholen, Vor fremdem Schatten schaudert mir, Ist Dorn den Augen, Dorn den Sohlen; O! wär’ ich weit hinweg von hier! That linden grove, its old brown cottage, And the dilapidated chapel are not mine.

(11157–62)

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Although I would enjoy its restful quiet, I cannot bear the thought of shade that’s not my own, That pricks the eye and stabs the ﬂesh like thorns – Oh, would that I were far from here!

Albrecht Schöne ﬁnds a precursor to these lines in Numbers 33:50 ff.5 There the Lord advises the children of Israel to take over Canaan, the promised land, to destroy the inhabitants’ places of worship on the high ground and to drive them out. ‘But if you do not drive out the inhabitants of the land from before your face, then they will become, if you let them remain, thorns in your eyes and thorns in your sides.’ Faust orders Philemon and Baucis to be expelled, albeit peacefully, and this time – drawing on the legend in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (viii, 618–724) – he has the vision at night of a spacious new manor house for the couple. But Mephistopheles, together with his Three Mighty Men, goes to work in a more brutal way, destroying the cabin and chapel with ﬁre, along with the two old people. Do we read this scene differently today from the way it looked more than a century and a half ago to an author well-versed in the bible, adhering to the Old Testament and to classical writers? Are we alarmed because what happens here to two human beings happened in our century in the Congo, in Solingen and a million times over in Poland at the hands of Hitler’s thugs? It is true that Faust says nothing more than ‘go then and clear them out of my way!’ (11275) and promises them a ‘handsome little estate’ (11276), but Mephistopheles, overseer of the great project, only whistles shrilly and promises his Three Mighty Men a festival at sea to follow. At this point Albrecht Schöne sees a connection with that part of Celan’s ‘Todesfuge’ (Death Fugue) in which a man comes out of the house, whistles for his hounds and has his slave labourers engage in making preparations for the death of others as well as himself.6 Celan’s recollection of Faust in this poem is very clear, given his allusion to Gretchen’s golden hair. But is it justiﬁable to establish this proximity on the basis of Goethe’s text, and then without further ado apply it to what is going on around us right now, or what we clearly remember from our most recent past? Here we need a more comprehensive view. The Old Testament makes use of the – long-since clichéd – image of the thorn in the eye. Goethe not only takes up the image, however, but also does more. The small hill is important for the dramatic action, since it had previously offered the wanderer a safe escape from the raging sea at the home of the hospitable old couple. Those familiar with Ovid’s Metamorphoses will rediscover, in this hill and chapel, the hallowed heights of the Canaanites, as well as the

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temple which the gods had erected as thanks for the couple’s hospitality. Goethe ﬁts these biblical and classical preﬁgurations together to create a scene with many associations, and the ancient names of the old couple are meant as their own contribution to the whole scenario: a timeless image of helpfulness and peace before it is overtaken by the brutal murder and ﬁre enforced by Faust, the military general, and his thugs. As long as poet worship has been restricting us to questions concerning the poet’s intention, huge efforts have been made by scholarship to research ‘sources’ or ‘precursors’ and, as here, to measure Goethe’s artistic powers against these. Today, scholarship for many reasons no longer pays serious attention to the writer alone, but also to the audience and readers, as it is only they who continually bring the text alive in a new and different way. Therefore scholars who deal with those inferable images no longer look at a text’s origins only, but also at its future – indeed, its lease on life, granted ever anew by readers from different parts of the world or generations to come. To the literary work worth reading they bring memories and images from their own sphere of life, and sometimes even recognize the universal validity of their own experiences when they encounter the images and symbolic actions of an attentively examined text. Albrecht Schöne gives the text this kind of new life in his own way. In expressing what has in the meantime come to concern us all and is of importance for many of us, he demonstrates that poetic texts always have possible subject-matters far beyond that determinable common ground they may share with earlier works of world literature. This is because of their power of imagery – one might also call it creative power – whose very medium, language, at all times makes room for new meanings. Nobody knows this better, incidentally, than a judge who, for a new case with no exact precedent, is obliged to make use of laws whose application has not yet been tested. Poetic texts, on the other hand, which are actually calculated to have multiple signiﬁcances, are meant to make us aware of what they bring to us from the world of the author. At the same time, when we listen to them or engage in close reading, they hold up a mirror to our own lives. Goethe was a master of this mirroring technique, and Faust is possibly the greatest and most multifaceted hall of mirrors of the human condition – even in those minor passages which did not necessarily aspire to any special signiﬁcance. But of course there are limits to this where misuse begins, and that is wherever a portion of the text is cast adrift from its context and used as a weapon in a feud, to make one’s own opinion prevail, or just to instruct modern life. Here, however, Schöne uncovers and reclaims, in an important

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scene for the text itself, additional meaning for our day. That is exactly what a text requires in order for it to remain alive and signiﬁcant. Shadowy clouds drift over the balcony from the smoke of the burning cabin in which Philemon and Baucis lose their lives, that balcony on which Faust gazes out over the conﬂagration. These clouds become the four grey crones – Want, Debt, Care and Need – of whom Faust sees only three continue on their way. With the material problems in Want, Debt and Need as well as a guilty concience unable to reach him, he then ﬁnds Care in his palace; she can enter any time she likes. She herself says as much: she ‘slips in through the keyhole’ (11391). This may have always been the place in popular belief where demons and spirits of all kinds made their entry, but here it is particularly appropriate. This last test which Faust undergoes and the manner in which he deals with it bring us to a key point in the tragedy. Accordingly, this scene has become the object of numerous studies. The Deutsche Vierteljahresschrift, for a long time the most important journal in Germany for literary and intellectual history, began its ﬁrst issue in 1923 with a lengthy essay by Konrad Burdach on ‘Faust und die Sorge’ (Faust and Care).7 Max Kommerell wrote a large study on the same topic, and Heidegger alludes to it, together with Goethe’s source, in his Sein und Zeit (Being and Time), where he devotes a whole chapter to Care as the existential foundation of being.8,9 He too makes reference to the two meanings of the word cura in Latin, that is, as a state of being (‘worrying about something’) and as active doing (‘taking care of something’). And how does Faust understand Care in the drama itself? Already in the very ﬁrst night scene in his study he spoke of how the high ﬂight of the imagination and all the power given to man to feel as the ‘image of the godhead’ (516, 614) was dragged down into the dust by Care, which nestles ‘deep within the heart’ (644), where it hides ‘secret sorrows’ (645). She disguises herself ‘as house and home, as wife and child . . . / As ﬁre, water, dagger and poison’ (648–9). In short, she appears to him as the sum of all that can prevent the individual’s self-realization. Both as care for others and as tormenting worry she becomes for him the worst impediment to his own path through life. From the moment Wagner disturbs him in his study right up to the prison scene, Faust seems to be concerned only about himself, and Mephistopheles supports him in this. The consequences are felt by Gretchen’s brother, a soldier, later a whole army of soldiers, and in the end a whole army of workers. All of them, as well as the many whom he falsely leads to believe in the swift acquisition of wealth with his invention of paper money, pave the way to his ﬁnal goal. And even this goal – here we

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have the decisive about-turn from Faust i to Faust ii – is transformed from a striving for the recognition of ‘what holds the world together in its very essence’ (382–3) into a boundless yearning for wealth and land ownership. Does Care stop him at the very end, or make him understand? Many important interpreters believe the latter, because Faust responds to the blindness with which Care afﬂicts him with the memorable lines: Die Nacht scheint tiefer tief hereinzudringen, Allein im Innern leuchtet helles Licht

(11499–500)

The night, it seems, turns deeper still, And yet within me gleams a brilliant light.

This motif of illumination, which God grants to man as ‘inner light’, has a long tradition in European mysticism, especially from Jakob Böhme on. At the time of the First World War, Thomas Mann praised this as German ‘inwardness’, which tends to lower one’s opinion of the external world for the sake of one’s own internal values. But after his ‘republican turn’ he portrayed it as a burden inherited from past history that has tragically blinded the Germans. And yet many admirers of Faust, that very German dramatic hero, did not go along with this change of direction. Thus Wilhelm Emrich wrote in 1943, and maintained until 1981: ‘Blindness here stands for the deepest, most joyful act of mercy’ because it ‘points him to the eternal creative power of the inner being’.10 Thomas Mann’s contemporaries already discovered what this kind of disregard of external reality in favour of lofty goals could mean for entire nations. For that reason it is highly important to note what follows these two lines in Goethe’s text. Faust’s ‘inner light’ does not lead him to new insights. Immediately after, and bound up by rhyme with the previous line, Faust goes on with renewed zeal: Was ich gedacht, ich eil’ es zu vollbringen; Des Herren Wort, es gibt allein Gewicht. Vom Lager auf, ihr Knechte! Mann für Mann! Laßt glücklich schauen, was ich kühn ersann. Ergreift das Werkzeug, Schaufel rührt und Spaten! Das Abgesteckte muß sogleich geraten. Auf strenges Ordnen, raschen Fleiß Erfolgt der allerschönste Preis; Daß sich das größte Werk vollende, Genügt ein Geist für tausend Hände. (11501–10) The darkness seems to press about me more and more, But in my inner being there is radiant light;

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I’ll hasten the fulﬁlment of my plans – Only the master’s order carries weight. – Workmen, up from your beds! Up, every man, And make my bold design reality! Take up your tools! To work with spade and shovel – What’s been marked off must be completed now! Prompt effort and strict discipline Will guarantee superb rewards: To complete a task that’s so tremendous Working as one is worth a thousand hands.

Once again Mephistopheles the overseer obeys promptly and gets the digging done, with shovels clattering. Faust presses further: ‘Overseer!’ Mephistopheles responds ‘Here!’, to which Faust then comes back with: Wie es auch möglich sei, Arbeiter schaffe Meng’ auf Menge, Ermuntere durch Genuß und Strenge, Bezahle, locke, presse bei! Mit jedem Tage will ich Nachricht haben, Wie sich verlängt der unternommene Graben.

(11551–6)

Use every means you can And get a plentiful supply of labourers; Use beneﬁts and discipline to spur them on, Make payments, offer bonuses, conscript them! And day by day I want to be informed How the canal I’ve started is advancing.

It is Faust’s blindness that makes the complete delusion possible: what Mephistopheles has dug out is not a trench (Graben), to drain the last swamp before the mountains, but his grave (Grab). Since Faust had never been concerned about his own death, Mephistopheles’ preparations give Faust’s delusion a universal quality. His last speech, which ends with the foretaste of ‘the highest moment’ of his life, reveals again, but now to the gravedigging beat, his great impatience. The marshland which threatens to contaminate the new lands is to be cleared so that ‘an earthly paradise’ for many millions can arise, green, fertile and defended by all against the might of the sea. This is to be a free territory on which he would stand ‘with a free people’. Then he would have his ﬁnal assurance: ‘My path on earth, the trace I leave within it / Eons untold cannot impair’ (11583–4). And with that Faust’s ‘appropriation of the world’, as Max Kommerell calls it, is rendered complete for all time to come. But does this exist anywhere other than within his own head?

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For Goethe, more than for any other author, observation (Anschauung) was a great deal more than mere seeing; rather, it was the sole path to secure judgement and the discovery of truth. He deliberately made the Augenblick (the moment, or literally the blink of an eye) decide Faust’s life. If we take this word not only metaphorically but also literally, as the expression of what one has to have truly seen at a glance in order to gain an insight, then Faust’s blindness completely blocks all such insight. He therefore cannot take pleasure in the moment itself but only in its Vorgefühl, the presentiment of it – Goethe’s text reﬂects this precisely. There is no mention any more of a Verweilen (lingering) of this moment. There is no need therefore to engage in the tedious controversy as to whether Mephistopheles has won the wager, or whether it has never been brought to its conclusion. Faust’s blindness makes any true fulﬁlment of the pact impossible. That is not to say, however, that his redemption will follow. At the core of the wager are the words ‘should ever I take ease upon a bed of leisure, / May that same moment mark my end!’ (1692–3). These words had been spoken when the wager was ﬁrst made. Right up to the point when Faust sinks down into a natural death, he has not succumbed, and it is worthwhile looking back now on both parts of the tragedy to see whether he ever achieved a calm and true insight into the reality unfolding before his eyes. Even in Act 5 itself his ﬁrst words are a curse upon the damnable bellringing that does not permit him the enjoyment – ‘before [his] eyes’ (11153) – of his boundless new realm, but rather quite spoils it for him. The highest look-out point which Faust seeks at the beginning of the fourth act in ‘High Mountains’ leaves him at best with some awareness that the cloud which had brought him there takes with it, as it moves away, images of past happiness which had been hastily registered but not held on to (10066). But this opportunity for reﬂection is quickly shattered by the appearance of Mephistopheles. When Lynceus in Act 3 has seen and understood the full extent of Helena’s beauty and loses his speech, Faust places him in chains (9191–212), instead of understanding the enormous widening of his horizon to include other times and the depth of the ancient world. Even when he calls out ‘Have I still got eyes?’ (6487) he remains blind when he thinks that he recognizes in this Helena (whom he himself has conjured up) the same magical image he had seen earlier in the mirror of the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’. Long before he was physically blinded, Faust was and remained blind to everything that magic offered him to see, blind to whatever insight he might have gained from it. And this is true of the entire union with Helena, this

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great phantasmagoria of Faust, including their son Euphorion’s fatal crash from the sky. While he understands himself as the great master of a union between antiquity and modernity, the unexpected demise of Euphorion and the physical dissolution of Helena are met without a single word that might reveal any insight. He remains mute for the rest of the great Helena act (9987–10038), and the conclusion only employs Phorkyas– Mephistopheles and the chorus, with which Goethe, as he says himself, stages yet another ‘symphony’ of all the spirits of nature (FK 637 note 5). But even nature, of which Faust says in the famous ‘Forest and Cave’ scene that she ‘suffered me into her inner depth, / To gaze as in the bosom of a friend’ (3223–4), is incapable of holding him for one moment of satisﬁed contemplation. Even here his unstilled yearning for enjoyment, derived from an image in his own head, swiftly destroys the opportunity to gain selfknowledge through the contemplation of nature, since he believes that he already has that knowledge. Already at this point – in the signiﬁcant pause which Goethe has inserted between the blissful and the disastrous phase of the Gretchen drama – Faust is no less blind to everything outside himself than at the end of his life. And he is no less in pursuit of an inner light. Only here, more or less at the beginning of his journey, he makes Mephistopheles responsible for the restlessness of his desires. And yet the very ﬁrst scenes in his study had already shown him in this same frame of mind. Indeed, from a dramaturgic point of view and seen from the perspective of the conclusion, these scenes are indeed the ‘Omnipotence Chapters’ which Jean Paul required of a good novel or a good play. So, from Faust’s very ﬁrst words – ‘Habe nun, ach! Philosophie’ (354, I have pursued, alas! Philosophy) – Goethe himself, in reworking the old folk play about Faust the magician into a tragedy representative of his own age, wanted to portray the doctor of all disciplines as a blind man, just like Oedipus, the model of all tragic heroes – one who looks only inward and perceives nothing outside himself, one who therefore cannot bear the Earth Spirit, caring for nobody but himself. Whatever visions he has on this journey through life, and what repeatedly attracts the admiration of readers and audiences, have the effect of what the Lord in the ‘Prologue’ prescribes for Mephistopheles, who ‘stimulates and acts, and must create in his own devilish way’ (343). But we must pay heed to the divisions throughout the whole play. Faust speaks for the most part, even though often in despair, in a manner that is constructive, winsome and pious. Yet wherever he takes action, he causes harm not to himself but to others.11 The exception – and this is all too often overlooked – is when he is engaged, with Mephistopheles, in entertaining himself and the theatre

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public in a masterful and adventurous way with masquerades, Walpurgis nights, magic lantern games and great phantasmagorias. Goethe’s sources for Faust’s various actions are mostly from his legendary material, but he repeatedly emphasizes the problems and demands of his own time, and in this he appears today as a reﬂective writer critical of that time. For the dramatic core of Faust i he chose one of the most controversial conﬂicts of his age: society’s punishment of the murder of children born out of wedlock. The very fact that public understanding reduced it to a societal offence inspired the ‘Sturm und Drang’ generation of writers to produce numerous stories and plays in which women who had murdered their babies were publicly exposed. While crimes of this kind, despite their gravity, rarely became known in the circle of court mistresses, the condemnation of serving maids, farmers’ daughters or daughters within the houses of student landladies always occurred in a very public place, accompanied by a large procession. Moves had just been made to abolish various methods of capital punishment that had been in place since the sixteenth century, such as burying alive, impaling or drowning, replacing them with more merciful forms of execution. At the time, this very crime had ﬁred up Enlightenment discussion about circumstances that might alleviate or heighten the punishment, though without lessening the public contempt for women who had committed infanticide. For this reason too, preference was often given to execution. Goethe himself had many dealings with judgments on child murderers, both as a law student and in his later Weimar posts, and his decisions were varied. Seen in this light, the last scene cannot just be read as a psychological study, but also as a drastic condemnation of the accepted law: Goethe hands Gretchen over not only to the judge but also to madness, expressing his sympathy only by means of a celestial ‘saved!’ (4611). Even a pardon would have made her an outlaw, and she would have been delivered up to starvation or prostitution. The last scenes of Part i, however, are also a graphic example of how although Faust can talk with glowing sympathy about Gretchen’s horriﬁc torments in gaol and her abandonment to a ‘judging, unfeeling mankind!’ (HA 3, 137), his actions let her down instead of coming to her rescue. It is with this in mind that we must evaluate the conﬂict between Faust’s last deed – the land reclamation by means of evacuation and slave labour – and the vision of a peacefully developed space where many millions of people might live in brotherly coexistence ‘on acres free among free people’ (11580), in a state of prosperity secured through diligence and public spirit. Mephistopheles soon makes it known that the marshland will not be drained dry, having already determined, when the last precious shiploads

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arrived, that war and piracy are an inevitable part of the proﬁtable trade from the newly built harbour. But above all, and tellingly enough just decades after the American Declaration of Independence and the French Revolution, the ground remains ‘free’ only for the one who owns it. The free nation can at best refer at this time to the yeomen freed from bondage, who pay for the acquired land with a lifetime of work and with the mercenary services of their sons. After that, they have to emigrate in droves because they are forced out of work by growing mechanization. Goethe’s critical view of these offshoots of early industrial development has been documented often enough.12 Like his misgivings about thoughtlessly printed paper money, his criticism affords a proper balance to his productive interest in the land reclamation of Dutch and Friesian dyke-builders, and to the great arterial waterways of the Panama and Suez Canals. Seen in this light, it is not altogether wrong if Faust’s utopian speech is interpreted a century later, and even today, as a vision of a future nation living together in freedom, or even of the democratic constitution of whole nations in contexts different from those Goethe had in mind. It is, after all, part of the fullness and strength of this great stage play that it allows us to hear wisdom and even watchwords that have an ongoing impact. But there is a risk in laying claim to these as conﬁrmation of one’s own actions, or of the situation in which a society ﬁnds itself, without giving due thought to the consequences which have been, at the endings of both Part i and Part ii, staged as a reversal of things. To do so is to miss their meaning and do harm not only to the play, but also to its audiences. It is signiﬁcant that the ‘upgrading’ in the nineteenth century of Faust’s ‘capacity for action and the justiﬁcation for his deeds’ as the expression of his titanic striving parallels the transition in the history of philosophy from the good to the great human being, as reﬂected by Carl Jacob Burckhardt and celebrated by Nietzsche.13 Before and after the turn of the century, Faust was apostrophized without hesitation as ‘a true member of the master race’ or even as a ‘superman’.14,15 But this elevation of ‘Faustian man’ achieves its full virulence only with the chorus of voices which, beginning with Schelling, declared Faust to be ‘the characteristic German poem’ and which, since then, have seen it as a reﬂection of ‘German enthusiasm for the true dignity of man, German tenacity and vigour, and all of German life’.16,17,18 Today we distance ourselves from the enthusiasts who, after 1870, took Faust’s titanic striving as proof that ‘God still has great plans for this nation’.19 By the 1870s, Goethe’s drama had already been declared to be ‘the most sacred work of all our national literature’, representing the very ‘life principle of the Germanic family of nations’, as August von Loeper, the co-founder of the Weimar

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edition of Goethe’s works, had announced in his introduction to Faust ii in 1871. In this way the myth of ‘Faustian man’ spread to the point where it was declared, by Alfred Rosenberg in his Mythus des 20. Jahrhunderts (1930), to be the German myth, thereby setting it up for Germans not as a path to selfunderstanding, but as an example to be followed. And Rosenberg was by no means alone. The author of a book with the title On Free Ground with a Free Nation (1944) sees the last acts of Faust ii as a testimony to ‘the masterful leadership in a grand style’ which Faust displays before his end.20 No less crass is the way in which these lines were later exploited for the state socialism of the German Democratic Republic (GDR), claiming Goethe as the intellectual forerunner of a post-bourgeois social order.21 Why then is this most popular hero of any German-language tragedy, who seduced Gretchen and then later became the seducer of a nation, saved in the end? And where does this salvation take him? Is old Menzel’s grim assumption accurate when he claims that Faust ﬁnds his sinecure in a Catholic heaven without any purgatory whatsoever? Before that point can be reached, Goethe presents one last piece of tomfoolery and stage magic in front of the theatrically gaping jaws of hell. Mephistopheles surrounds all the bodily oriﬁces of the corpse with his fat and thin devils in order to prevent Faust’s soul from ﬂying away. Yet a host of angels strew these devils from above with rose petals which burn them, outwitting Mephistopheles with their erotically attractive backsides. It is a stroke of theatrical genius for which even the far from prudish Mme de Staël did not forgive the arrangeur of this scene, even though it surely belongs, with all its sexual explicitness, to those ‘very serious jests’ (letter to Wilhelm von Humboldt, 17 March 1832, WA 4:49, 283) which Goethe talked about in quiet reﬂection at the end of his life. Thus it is not just anywhere, but here at the open graveside that the ascent or retrieval of Faust’s earthly remains can begin; the same Faust who ‘with his dark urge within’ (328) has served the Lord ‘only in clouded ways’ (308). In fact Goethe tells us in an occasional remark that the angels bear Faust’s soul to the mountain gorges straightaway, that the elevation – as the stepby-step raising of the soul, with the support of alternating voices and choruses – takes place from there, and that his soul will ﬁnally, beyond the mountain tops, ‘return to the ether’ (to Zelter, 19 March 1827, WA 4:42, 95).22 But what is the meaning of this return or ‘retrieval’, reconstitution or reconciliation, all of which are derived from the Greek apokatastasis pantōn (see Schöne, FK 788 ff.)? In his commentary Schöne refers to the doctrine, which historically became a heresy, of the Greek Church Father Origen. In this vision, all

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human souls originally existed in a state of perfection, and those who absorbed matter temporarily are puriﬁed step by step after their death, thus being raised to a blessed state of ‘one with the All’ – Goethe’s word Allverein occurs in the song of the angels (11807). This doctrine, with which Goethe was familiar in some considerable detail, did indeed link up almost seamlessly with his own doctrine of the metamorphosis of all beings, according to which Faust, as an indestructible creature but capable of change after death, can ﬁnd his way back to a higher communion of souls. Origen’s teaching has no intermediary judicial court such as Goethe had once planned in heaven for both Faust and Mephistopheles. Such a process of transformation and redemption is granted to all souls, and therefore its ﬁrst stages do not begin until after the liberation of the soul from matter. This is why Faust can remain blind for his whole life, up to and including his last breath, why he can be concerned only with himself right from his study up to his dictatorship over land and people – and yet be ‘saved’ nonetheless after his death. Of course, others are needed to bear him upwards, for nothing in these spheres comes about by means of one’s own power. Others must therefore bend down to him and lift him up to their level and teach him how he, once admitted to this Allverein, may also use his story to teach others. To all those who inhabit these spheres Goethe gave different names, even though a few are recognizable from the Christian tradition, or from the play itself. For that reason the ending does give the impression that we are dealing with a very late confession of faith in the Christian-Catholic concept of heaven. However, it is Goethe the playwright whose considerations have led him to such provisions. He explains this to Eckermann nine months before his death: Incidentally, you’ll admit that the ending, where the saved soul is raised upward, was very difﬁcult to do, and that in dealing with such supernatural, barely imaginable things it would have been very easy for me to get lost in vagueness, if I had not imposed some pleasantly limiting form and ﬁrmness on my poetic intentions by making use of the clearly deﬁned ﬁgures and concepts of the Christian church.23

A consideration towards his public, therefore, providing common ground for their ideas while facilitating his own shaping of the poetic vision, allowed those ‘higher spheres’ to which Faust is now to rise to turn into an almost Christian heaven. This too is the reason Gretchen, now under the impersonal name of ‘a Penitent’ (12069), is permitted to appear among those female Penitents

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familiar from the bible, while yet being rendered distinctive as a ﬁgure that inclines towards him in particular. In this way, the puzzle of the cloud formation at the beginning of Act 4 is ﬁnally resolved, where Faust believed he could acquire in the high mountains the most expansive look-out over the world. There he had already felt, for a ﬂeeting moment, ‘what when young I valued most’ (10059) in the form of a streak of mist rising higher to form a cloud: it will draw ‘the best part of my inmost self ’ (10066) up with it. What Gretchen’s appearance had managed to do there – namely, to convey to him the ﬁrst dim awareness of a higher reality – now enables her to carry Faust along with her towards a blessed union. No longer, however, as Gretchen, but as one of those who have arrived there – Gretchen is already ‘only a symbol’ (12105) of the ‘Eternal-Feminine’ (12110), which comes to the rescue of a man who has always thought only of himself. Women who at the end of an epos or drama come to the hero’s rescue have, since antiquity, been reserved for literature’s great wanderers – for Odysseus, for example, after a year of traversing the seas that lay between the known and unknown coasts of the world of that time; and still for Peer Gynt, to whom Ibsen even grants, with Anitra’s dance, a parodic elevation through ‘the Eternal-Feminine’, before he lets him bury his face in Solveig’s lap. Oedipus too, who blinds himself after having gained sight, belongs to the circle of such wanderers, given the reception among the gods that Sophocles accords him in a second play. Their authors make use of these wanderers in order to provide a world stage within and beyond the inhabited earth. And so, when all is said and done, Goethe’s Faust too must not be misunderstood as a play that ﬁnds its essence in the fate of its hero. Auspiciously, the Director had said in the ‘Prologue on the Stage’, even before the ﬁrst curtain: Ihr wißt, auf unsern deutschen Bühnen Probiert ein jeder, was er mag; Drum schonet mir an diesem Tag Prospekte nicht und nicht Maschinen. Gebraucht das groß’ und kleine Himmelslicht, Die Sterne dürfet ihr verschwenden; An Wasser, Feuer, Felsenwänden, An Tier und Vögeln fehlt es nicht. So schreitet in dem engen Bretterhaus Den ganzen Kreis der Schöpfung aus . . . As well you know, these German theatres Let everyone do exactly what he wants; Since that’s the case, this is no time to stint

(231–40)

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On scenery or stage effects. Put both the sun and moon to use, Be lavish with the stars and planets – Nor are we short of ﬁre or water, Of precipices, birds or beasts. So now on our modest stage act out Creation in its every aspect. . . .

In this drama with the brief title Faust: A Tragedy – from the ‘Prologue on the Stage’ through to the ‘Walpurgis Night’, the great carnival procession, the path to the Mothers, up to the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ – more than one-third of its lines are devoted to an unbridled theatre of hundreds of mythological, ghostly and folksy ﬁgures, as well as those born of the imagination and surrounded by hundreds of choral voices, not even counting the great phantasmagoria of the Helena act. In view of this, everything that scholarship, criticism and religious, anthropological and political debates have ever distilled from this drama is as insufﬁcient, after all, as all the attempts to ﬁll the universe of the play with life on the stage. not es Translated by Deirdre Vincent. 1. Jean Paul, Sämtliche Werke, Part i, Leipzig: Zentralantiquariat, 1977, v, 262. 2. Johannes Falk, Goethe aus näherem Umgange dargestellt, Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1832, 217. For this and following evidence of the historical impact of the work, see Andreas Anglet, ‘Faust-Rezeption’, in Goethe Handbuch, ‘Dramas’, ed. Theodor Buck, Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 1996, ii, 478–521; also Bernd Mahl, ‘Bühnengeschichte von Goethes Faust’, ibid., 532–8. 3. Recurring judgement in the Faust criticism of Friedrich Theodor Vischer, cited by Anglet, ‘Faust-Rezeption’, 483. 4. Ernst Beutler, Essays um Goethe, 4th edn, Wiesbaden: Diederich, 1948, i, 367–8. 5. FK 722. See also Chapter 1 above. 6. FK 726. 7. Konrad Burdach, ‘Faust und die Sorge’, Deutsche Vierteljahresschrift 1 (1923), 1–60. 8. Max Kommerell, ‘Faust Zweiter Teil. Zum Verständnis der Form’, Corona 7 (1937); also in Max Kommerell, Geist und Buchstabe der Dichtung. Goethe, Schiller, Kleist, Hölderlin, Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1940, 9–74. 9. Martin Heidegger (ﬁrst published 1927), Sein und Zeit, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1986; cf. especially para. 42: ‘Die Bewährung der existentialen Interpretation des Daseins als Sorge aus der vorontologischen Selbstauslegung des Daseins’, 196–200. 10. Wilhelm Emrich (ﬁrst published 1943), Die Symbolik von Faust ii. Sinn und Vorformen, 5th edn, Königstein: Athenäum, 1981, 397. See Albrecht Schöne’s

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commentary (FK 740). Hans-Jürgen Schings has passed harsh judgement on the ‘defenders’ of this kind of ‘heroic-creative self-assertion’ – see ‘Faust and the “God of the Modern Age”. Goethe as Critic of the Faustian Urge’, GoetheJahrbuch der Goethe-Gesellschaft in Japan 43 (2001), 33–43. 11. See also Gert Mattenklott, ‘Faust ii’, Goethe-Jahrbuch, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1996, ii, 454 note 2: ‘All that is best in Faust’s inner being always has to remain out of play when he gets ready to act.’ 12. Hans-Jürgen Schings compares ‘Faust’s Vocabulary’ in his last monologue with the basic tenets of the Saint-Simonists in ‘Faust and the “God of the Modern Age”’, 37–42. 13. Andreas Anglet, ‘Faust-Rezeption’, 485. 14. Jeannot Emil Grotthuß, Probleme und Charakterköpfe, Stuttgart: Greiner & Pfeiffer, 1897, 9 f. 15. Bertold Litzmann, Goethes Faust, Berlin: Fleischel, 1904, 164. 16. The term ‘Faustian’ and its susceptibility to be used in the service of ‘every ideology’ is dealt with by Günther Mahal, taking into account Hans Schwerte’s book; see Gunter Grimm (ed.), ‘Der tausendjährige Faust. Rezeption als Anmaßung’, in Literatur und Leser, Stuttgart: Reclam, 1975, 181–95, esp. 182 and 189. See Schings, ‘Faust and the “God of the Modern Age”’. 17. Ernst Beutler, ‘Der Kampf um die Faustdichtung’, Essays um Goethe, 3rd edn, Leipzig: Dieterich, i, 365. 18. Heinrich Düntzer, Goethes Faust, Leipzig: Dyk, 1850, 117. 19. Heinrich von Treitschke, Deutsche Geschichte im 19. Jahrhundert, Leipzig: Hirzel, 1879, i, 317. 20. Hans Volkelt, Auf freiem Grund mit freiem Volke stehen. Goethes Faust und Deutschlands Lebensanspruch, Leipzig: Psychol.-Pädag. Institut d. Univ., 1944, 1. 21. See Paul Michael Lützeler, ‘Goethes “Faust” und der Sozialismus. Zur Rezeption des klassischen Erbes in der DDR’, in Basis. Jahrbuch für deutsche Gegenwartsliteratur 5, Frankfurt: Athenäum, 1975, 31–55. Lützeler begins with a speech by Walter Ulbrich to the National Assembly that draws widely on Faust’s last monologue, making connections between ‘marshland’ and ‘free ground’ with West Germany and the GDR, and setting the pattern for the ‘creative’ treatment of this ‘legacy’. See Albrecht Schöne, FK 749–52 and 760 f. Schöne also attributes a ‘utopian energy’ to ‘Faust’s powerful last lines’ but without ignoring Goethe’s own remarks of 1830 on ‘real and fantastical errors’ in ‘striving for the absolute’. 22. Goethe to Zelter, 19 March 1827, WA 4:42, 95. See also FK 787. 23. Goethe to Eckermann, 6 June 1831; FK 783.

chapter 8

From Faust to Harry Potter: discourses of the centaurs Gisela Brude-Firnau

It may be called daring, or merely naïve, to relate Faust, the crown jewel of German-language literature, to Harry Potter, a series of seven children’s books.1 The pressure to justify oneself that sets in when one takes Rowling’s novels seriously as literature can also be seen in the qualifying titles of some of the publications that have so far appeared: Why Nabokov Would Have Liked H. P., or The Charm of H. P.; another subtitle is On the Trail of a Charming Bestseller.2 All these titles try to vindicate Rowling’s novels as a relevant subject for academic analysis.3 Although a publicity machine of global dimensions may raise suspicions, popularity is not in itself a disqualiﬁcation; it cannot change the text. Anyone able to ignore the media vortex and concentrate on the text will ﬁnd sufﬁcient quality to induce him to read further; and very quickly, Germanists will stumble across parallel motifs that practically invite the comparison with Faust. For the young magician Harry Potter, who learns and practises sorcery at Hogwarts Boarding School, has more in common with the magician Faust than merely his ﬁrst name, since German Heinrich is English Harry; more, too, than the academic milieu and the encounter with evil; and although Harry never concludes a pact with the devil, there exists a mysterious and life-threatening relationship between him and the Evil Lord. Faust and Harry both see the object of their deepest desire in a mirror, and both are air-lifted from their conﬁning quarters by adapted versions of a magic carpet: Faust on Mephisto’s coat, Harry Potter in his friend’s ﬂying car. Both ride safely on the back of a centaur at night through magic terrain. There are similarities in the supporting characters as well: Harry’s best female friend at school is named Hermione, exactly like the daughter of Helen, whom Goethe mentions only once (8859).4 Just as Helen exists ‘outside of all time’, Rowling’s Hermione has at her disposal a Time-Turner that can transport her back in time (Azkaban, 426). Both protagonists have 113

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to put up with bothersome Philistines, but enjoy dealing with their students. Harry, as much as Faust, is keenly aware of his ‘two souls’ and gains insight into his own self while the sun is slowly rising – the alchemist’s symbol of enlightenment (Phoenix, 728–40). Both experience the empowering truth of ﬁction and poetry, ‘a power beyond the reach of any magic’ (Hallows, 568). Both texts emphasize that, in the end, it is not magic techniques that change the world; rather, every human being possesses the mental strength with which he can oppose the power of evil. In both, the main characters emerge victorious from war and struggle. And yet where Faust avails himself of the devil, Harry must above all use his courage and laboriously learned magical powers to wrestle with the exponent of black magic, as well as the aid of fellow students, teachers and mythical creatures. The course of his vita ultimately leads to a bourgeois family life, not in the least comparable to the metaphysical ascent of the great individualist Faust. Similarly, the fundamental differences hardly need to be mentioned: the two works belong to different periods and genres, to different levels of literature, and they thus make different statements. It would be absurd to overlook these circumstances and to compare such unequal texts with one another in terms of aesthetics, for instance, or intellectual content. Likewise, it cannot be denied that Rowling’s novels suffer from a certain schematic quality in their construction. There are also some concessions to juvenile tastes shaped by television; again and again, for example, adventure and battle episodes follow one another in much too rapid succession. What keeps such a comparison from falling into absurdity, however, is the conspicuous analogy of numerous themes and their respective constellations. The reference of both texts to the European literary tradition leads to a striking multiplicity of similar themes, both central and peripheral, whose signiﬁcance varies. In any case, Rowling’s novels remain complex texts, crafted according to the maxim that children’s books that appeal simply to children are just not good enough: there is one reading code for young readers and a decidedly different code for adults.5 It is the code for adults that we wish to pursue here. Let us recall on the other hand that parts of Goethe’s Faust do not deny their chapbook origins; that the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ is seen by several critics as fairy-tale drama; and that there are numerous other scenes that deﬁnitely appeal to the ‘culturally less competent perception’ of young people.6 There is more common ground if we remember that some of the best examples of youth literature, as for example Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, are considered part of world literature. Furthermore, Heinrich Faust and Harry Potter are born of texts, and as such they are bound to a number of literary and subliterary sources: both are

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nourished from medieval spell-books, alchemists’ handbooks and fairy tales from the entire European literary tradition. More importantly: in both works elements of Graeco-Roman mythology abound. This chapter will therefore concentrate speciﬁcally on one motif, the mythologem of the centaurs that trot lively through both texts. And we shall pose the question: what additional signiﬁcance do these half-and-half creatures gain in Goethe’s ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ and, on the other hand, in Rowling’s novels? What speciﬁc insight do we obtain from the comparison of the two literary realizations? This comparative attempt in mythopoetics does not establish any direct relationship between the two texts, and it would be futile to maintain any inﬂuence as long as the author declines to answer any enquiries.7 Our venture therefore rests on the premise that comparative observation leads to scholarly knowledge. Thus Gerhard R. Kaiser, too, asserts that ‘scholarship begins with the comparison’ and explains its importance for comparative literature, which goes beyond the usual bounds of national literatures or literatures bound to one linguistic community. Kaiser discusses the signiﬁcance of such a ‘complex confrontation’ between literary texts and concedes: ‘Here too comparison, in Hegel’s and Gadamer’s sense, ultimately remains a subordinate means in the service of a speciﬁc historical knowledge; and yet one that is implemented somewhat more consciously than others, and is capable of doing particular justice to literature, which is both diverse in a speciﬁc way and yet a single object of research.’8 Therefore we proceed from the assumption that the two texts, similar in aspects of their plots and in their complexes of motifs but otherwise thoroughly disparate, can be placed side by side with the aid of a method that is ‘subordinate’ in this sense, but particularly well suited to literature. It is to be expected that a comparison of the centaur motif grounded on the common mythological basis will lead to insights into each speciﬁc depiction and their correspondences with one another. The resulting gain in knowledge ought ultimately to speak to the value of the method. To be sure, it must be kept in mind that the myth that both centaur characters have in common also represents no methodologically clear-cut or stable basis. For a myth has neither a primary source nor a single authoritative text. Since a myth usually has no beginning and no end, every author who creatively appropriates a mythologem adds new meaning to it. We therefore agree with the deﬁnition of Carl Kerényi, for whom mythology consists of ‘tales already well known but not unamenable to further reshaping. Mythology is the movement of this material: it is something solid and yet mobile, substantial and yet not static, capable of transformation.’9

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Mythology is thus twofold: the handed-down material and the shaped material, the literary work; and the task at hand is to observe the pendulum of the author’s creativity as it swings back and forth between the two. Thus Goethe, for example, oriented his basic concept of the centaur Chiron towards Karl Philipp Moritz’s Götterlehre; he consulted Hederich, and knew Homer and Dante, as well as other texts in which the motif appears; moreover, in Italy he had seen the famous depictions of centaurs recommended by his guide, Johann Jacob Volkmann, among them the Pompeiian fresco in which Chiron instructs the youthful Achilles on the lyre, which continued to occupy Goethe into the last years of his life.10 But in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ the mythologem is expanded by means of a new variant: Chiron appears as the ironic, self-reﬂexive teacher, whose discourse transforms Faust into a poet. Rowling, by contrast, whose sources of mythological information have not yet been determined, takes the centaur Firenze well beyond the status of the self-reﬂexive teacher: she makes him an ethical sceptic, and a rebellious critic both of his origins and of the system that offers him shelter and security – a system that he nonetheless defends with all his might in the crucial battle (Prince, 598, Hallows, 489, 530, 597). In order to contextualize the following comparison of centaurs, we need to cast a brief glance at the signiﬁcance attributed to Greek myth in both texts: it is essential that – besides a few semi-divine beings – there are practically no Olympian gods in Goethe’s ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. Instead there are numerous mythical creatures, such as nymphs, sphinxes, tritons, sea-gods and others, also originating from other mythologies. With regard to the Helena act, Goethe considers them intermediaries, best suited ‘to mediate the encounter between gods and humans’.11 Instead of the one narrated myth, as for example in Iphigenia, elements from various mythological strands are interwoven with new ﬁctitious parts; thus disparate time dimensions intersect. Instead of the pronouncements of binding ethics, dialogues sparkle with wit, irony and satire; they burst with encyclopaedic knowledge. The author is no longer shaping the myth, but transforms it as he pleases. Jamme stresses that this is ‘a myth already disrupted by interpretation, because it consciously relativizes classical antiquity by equating it with Nordic and Oriental classicism’.12 While Goethe’s use of Greek myth has been well analysed and discussed, the mythological elements that can be found in all seven volumes of the Harry Potter novels have so far received little or no attention; thus a more detailed description seems required in order to show the context and the relevance of the centaur motif. Here the integration of mythologems is

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decidedly less complex, although ironic scepticism and self-doubt or caricaturish depiction raise several characters far above the level of stereotypical unambiguity. Quite noticeable is the lower realm of magical creatures, populated with hippogriffs, a phoenix, a basilisk, werewolves and owls, used to deliver the post. Fluffy, the three-headed dog, is a genuine Cerberus, and Argus Filch, the evil and rather shortsighted keeper of the castle, is a caricature of the Greek many-eyed model. This grand mythological game then widens into a cosmos of its own: headmaster Albus Dumbledore, on the basis of his ﬁrst name alone, appears as Zeus, the bright one, the radiant. He is described with such qualiﬁers as these like a leitmotif (Stone, 113, 144, 318; Secrets, 86, 283, passim). On feast days, therefore, the meals at Hogwarts are Olympian banquets in a gigantic hall whose ceiling shows an ever-changing image of the real heavens (Stone, 129). The students dine off golden plates (Stone, 128), and Zeus–Dumbledore is enthroned ‘at the centre of the High Table, in a large gold chair’ (Stone, 134). In anger, he also hurls thunderbolts of mental energy (Fire, 736, 767). His element is ﬁre, and accordingly he possesses a phoenix, which climbs into the sky in a pillar of ﬁre at Dumbledore’s funeral, an image that could also be read as the ﬁery ascension of the deceased into heaven. This character could easily ossify into a stereotype,13 were that not prevented by ironic touches. But he remains wise and commands respect, embodying the elder Zeus, who in an imperceptible manner tries to steer Harry’s life. Yet ultimately even the Zeus-like Dumbledore is ‘demythologized’ when he confesses to Harry the failure and sin of his youth. Thus, however, he strengthens his now almost grown-up pupil with courage and selfconﬁdence (Hallows, 572–9). Minerva McGonagall, a Scottish Athena-ﬁgure, is equally protective. In her care for Harry the emancipated woman lives up to her mythical model, for Athena too raised a child that she had not borne. Dolores Umbridge, a virginal but formidable caricature of Artemis–Diana, is as little at home at Hogwarts as Artemis initially was on Mount Olympus. Just as the Taurian Artemis was originally offered human sacriﬁces (a source of conﬂict in Goethe’s Iphigenia), so the Spartans used to scourge their boys before the image of Artemis Orthia until they bled. Dolores Umbridge attempts to gain Harry’s respect in a more modern, but no less bloody fashion, by carving her rules of behaviour into the backs of his hands over and over again. She viciously pursues all who do not bend to her will, particularly the keeper of magical creatures, Rubeus Hagrid, an Orion-ﬁgure with bow and arrow (Stone, 153, 270) who is gigantic in size and good-hearted, and has a gift with dragons, hippogriffs and winged horses. These teachers are not

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allegories; they are less identiﬁable as Olympian gods by external accessories. Instead, they incorporate the actions and reactions, values and patterns of behaviour of their models: they exist up to a certain point ‘in the form of mythical identiﬁcation, of mnemonic survival, of following in the footsteps’, as Thomas Mann perceived the characters of his Joseph und seine Brüder.14 Although these pedagogues are steeped in irony and caricature, they are conceived ad usum delphini and lack any kind of ribaldry. Consequently, there is no attempt to depict or even hint at a metaphysical realm. Similarly, the magical abilities of the professors are not comparable to the might of Greek gods, but rather they are based on educated intelligence and practice; they can be taught. Thus the students are not dependent upon their teachers to the same degree as the Greek heroes are upon the gods. Some of the other teachers are disguised adherents of evil and are well integrated into the background plot that runs through all seven novels: the opposition between the humanistically oriented wizards and the adherents of destructive evil, represented by the black magician Lord Voldemort. His name has its origin in Judaeo-Christian myth: vol de mort, a ﬂight of death, is the deadly fall of the angel of evil who fell away from God, the ‘dragon’ of Revelations who ‘saw that he was cast unto the earth’.15 Mythologems of various origins are here intertwined. How, then, does Harry Potter himself ﬁt into this mythological universe? Similar to Goethe’s Faust and Thomas Mann’s Leverkühn–Faustus, he is a ‘highly synthetic ﬁgure’. For he possesses traits of different mythologies, yet at the same time he is also a modern and quite loveable teenager. Rowling’s protagonist is conceived according to a well-known mythologem that Carl Kerényi describes as the ‘primordial’ or ‘divine’ child which existed ‘in the older strata of Greek religion’ (Essays, 65). Such a child enters the world in diverse forms, often as orphan and foundling under mortal threat; often humiliated, he grows to become a hero or a saviour. Rowling’s protagonist almost exactly parallels Kerényi’s well-known deﬁnition: the infant Harry was orphaned when his parents fell victim to the evil Voldemort. The mother, as Kerényi deﬁnes it, has ‘a peculiar part to play: she is and is not at the same time’ (Essays, 28). Rowling realizes this mythological paradox by means of the death of Lily Potter, who sacriﬁces herself to save her child’s life and thus imbues him with a protective enchantment. This mystical absence–presence of the mother is described as ‘an ancient magic’ and Harry’s ‘strongest shield’ (Phoenix, 736), reminiscent of Kerényi’s ‘older strata of Greek religion’. The little foundling growing up in his aunt’s family, humiliated and pestered by all, remains enigmatic and contradictory: magical occurrences take place around him. More and more,

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particularly at the school, he takes on the traits of heroes of various mythologies: Harry is cunning like young Hermes, courageous like Perseus, gifted like Orpheus (Stone, 36); he solves the riddle of the Sphinx like Oedipus (Fire, 683); he has an Invisibility Cloak and a wondrous sword like Siegfried (Stone, 218) and he also kills a Basilisk (Secrets, 343–4). Like the Saviour in Judaeo-Christian mythology, Harry is pure of heart (Phoenix, 743); he withstands the temptations of the Evil One (Stone, 316; Secrets, 17, 167) and is prepared to sacriﬁce himself for others, which brings about his rescue (Hallows 566–7). Yet, like the primordial child, he is at once the lowest and the highest, until he achieves the ﬁnal victory (Hallows, 506, 595–6). To summarize Rowling’s ﬁctional integration of Greek mythologems: they are on both the lower and the Olympian level an essential element and tie the various parts together with an encompassing iconographic system, thus creating a more universal level of understanding. The integrated mythologems have little predeterminative function and do not cancel out the individual’s responsibility for his actions. This is particularly true for the protagonist, who as a realization of Kerényi’s ‘divine child’ seems to be mythologically overdetermined. But being at the centre of the allembracing struggle between good and evil, he has to overcome the associated difﬁculties more by means of reﬂection and courage, more with the help of his friends and teachers than with the help of magical arts. Narratologically, mythologems constitute another level of ﬁction, in that they refer to a possible earlier reality; they increase the credibility of the plot. In Goethe’s as well as in Rowling’s text, the encounter between the protagonist and the centaur takes place within the respective mythological contexts: both meet the man-horse at night in magic terrain and gratefully ride on his back to safety. Neither of the two episodes, to our knowledge, has received the attention it deserves. Goethe, who every night during his work on the ‘main business’ habitually reﬂected on and laid out the next day’s composition, opined on 24 January 1830, regarding Faust’s encounter with Chiron: ‘I hope that the scene will succeed at my hands.’ And a mere three weeks later, he afﬁrmed that he was making daily progress on the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ ‘and that he was producing wondrous things, beyond expectation’.16 The Chiron scene in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ depicts the third stage of Faust’s journey through a ‘fable-land’ (7055). His goal is Hades, whence he intends to fetch Helen (7319–494). Strangely enough, we never see or retrospectively hear whether Faust arrives in the underworld and addresses Persephone with the great petitionary speech Goethe had

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planned. I maintain that Faust’s dialogue with Chiron made Goethe realize that this speech had become obsolete. During the exchange with Chiron Faust had been transformed into an artist who would then re-create Helen as a poetic work of art. He did not have to implore the gods once he had become aware of his own god-like creativity. The text will have to corroborate our thesis. Referred to Chiron by the Sphinxes (7198–9), Faust believes himself to be experiencing a unique marvel (7324) when ‘the famous son of Philyra’ (7329) appears. By invoking the name of the nymph Phylira, Faust alludes to the immortal Chiron’s ‘halbgöttliche’ (7362) or semi-divine status, which differentiates him from other centaurs. While riding on Chiron’s back, Faust invokes the achievements of the mythic teacher and physician. However, what is intended as a captatio benevolentiae is little more than the encyclopaedic accumulation of formulae. Accordingly, Chiron corrects the recitation with high-handed irony and his own better knowledge, unmasking it as mere ﬂattery. He refutes his own myth with a mythologem, referring to Pallas Athena, who had no lasting success in teaching. Goethe’s Chiron is obviously no longer the pedagogue-ﬁgure of the ancient myth, who does not call his own story into question. The traditional mythic hero acts and believes; Chiron reﬂects and doubts. He appears as a consciously modern, fragmented mythologem, attempting to shatter Faust’s book-learning. Similarly unexpected is the answer to Faust’s next question, about the greatest hero among the Argonauts. Chiron – a sceptic and not a poet – tries to undo mythological illusions. Therefore his answer is not the adventure story of an Argonaut-superman, but rather a didactic poem about the senselessness of the hero cult. The lesson: ‘Danger is best endured in company with others: / What one achieves obtains the praise of all’ (7379–80). Solidarity and consensus, Chiron concludes, are as important as the individual deed. This interpretation is again anti-mythological, since it ignores both the typical deeds of the lonely hero and the crucial metaphysical intervention. Two constitutive mythological dimensions are replaced by social ones: co-existence and reciprocity. Faust’s third question, ‘And aren’t you going to mention Hercules?’ (7381), is unexpectedly answered by Chiron with a classical lamentation about an extraordinary being and its ephemerality. Sorrow replaces the attitude of ironic rationality. Chiron depicts Hercules as the ideal of masculine beauty – ‘When with these eyes I saw before me / What all men worship as divine’ (7386–7) – which neither the visual arts nor poetry are capable of reproducing. This lamenting paean remains within the

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tradition of mythic hymnic poetry, communicating the picture of an apotheosized demi-god. Here myth is taken seriously as a bygone world, a narrated realm of exceptional beings who occupy mind and soul. Only now does Faust dare to enquire about ‘the greatest beauty’ (7398), referring unequivocally to Helen. The answer given is a treatise on aesthetics: using concepts from Schiller’s philosophy, Chiron explains that it is not beauty, but rather grace, that is the highest aesthetic value in a woman, mentioning his encounter with Helen as a paradigm. Faust’s book-learning, however, knows of no such encounter, as his exclamation testiﬁes: ‘You carried her?’ (7406). In response, Chiron further elucidates the example for his thesis. Schiller’s deﬁnition of grace as ‘beauty in motion’ is translated into the description of Helen’s movements and actions.17 One might consider this a short treatise in verse, demonstrating the adaptability and usability of myth for other realms of thought, such as aesthetics. Even now Faust has understood little of the true character of myth demonstrated to him so far, as can be seen from his interjection ‘And only ten years old!’ (7426), referring to the beautiful Helen’s ride on Chiron’s back. Once again he appears as the eager know-it-all who seeks to impress with book-knowledge. Again Chiron ironically reprimands Faust, and all scholars who at the time considered similar chronological calculations as serious scholarship. Reﬂecting the Enlightenment, however, Chiron explains that they are nothing but self-deceptions, overlooking the essence of mythological ﬁgures: their timelessness. His conclusion, that ‘poets ignore the constraints of time’ (7433), draws a line between poetry and all other ﬁelds of knowledge. He maintains nothing more than that Kant’s thesis, which states that the category of time is a component of all perception, is not valid for the literary work of art. This section thus represents an abbreviated mythopoetics, explaining it as ‘a language of the imagination’ according to which mythologems are not the object of an exact science, but rather inspiration for poets.18 They remain independent of place and time; they develop and reveal their essence in the freedom of the poetic imagination. The verses reﬂect upon their own content: for Chiron becomes the promulgator of possible modes of reception of the myth. He reﬂects upon and – sometimes mockingly – distances the material upon which the dramatic plot is built and of which he himself is a part. He remains the didactician of the mythological process to which he owes his existence.19 Thus, however, he remains a contradiction: himself a part of mythology, Chiron gives an account of the Argonauts, Hercules and Helen as real, active beings whom he has actually encountered in some indeterminate past. In conversation with Faust, by contrast, he himself

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belongs to a more recent period, in which the ﬁgures of myth are nothing more than poetic evocations. His consciousness swings back and forth between mythic occurrence and contemporary poetic re-creation. This is the literary game that Helen articulates in the next act, because it confounds reason and sense (8838–40, 8875, 8880–1). Chiron’s observations thus summarize Goethe’s mythopoetic process in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ as a great ‘Self-reﬂection of art’.20 Faust has ﬁnally understood and does not ask any further questions. Instead, his exclamation testiﬁes to his transformation. He makes Chiron’s words his own, but with a difference: the teacher’s conclusion, ‘poets ignore the constraints of time’, becomes in Faust’s words ‘Then time shall not constrain her either!’ (7434). To Chiron’s rational conclusion Faust replies with an emotional exclamation, to the distancing irony with a ﬁery enthusiasm; instead of a logical summation, Faust utters a desire and an invocation. Likewise, he has changed registers and strikes up a paean to Helen, anticipating some of the most beautiful lyrical stanzas he will recite in the third act. This is the summary as well as the creative application of all of Chiron’s indirectly communicated instructions. Faust ﬁrst conﬁrms the mythopoetic lesson, but then also surpasses it: he understands mythological timelessness and knows that the myth will enable him to vanquish time and death. Chiron’s ﬁrst reprimand has helped Faust achieve a sovereign attitude towards mythological characters and the events surrounding them.21 The lamenting paean to Hercules inspires Faust’s hymn to Helen; but where Chiron mourns the past, loss and bereavement, Faust is assured of the future. In contrast to Chiron’s condemnation of all artistic depictions of Hercules, Faust feels himself capable of making Helen become real as a work of art. In disputing with the tutor of demi-gods, scientists and heroes, Faust has become a poet. However, as such he is beyond the understanding of his teacher, who diagnoses: ‘In mortal realms you may be just exalted, / But in the spirit world the way you act seems madness’ (7446–7). Since ecstasy is a disorder of the mind for those who cannot share in it, Chiron expects the seer Manto to heal Faust from his insanity. Goethe, at a time when he had just completed and sealed the Faust ii manuscript, declared his own poetic productivity conditioned by ‘a mysterious psychological transformation’ which, he continues, ‘Aristotle and other prosaic minds would ascribe to a kind of madness’.22 Goethe thus raises Faust to his own rank by endowing him with the ‘Muses’ madness’ that Plato declares to be the mental state which alone permits poetic creation. The Chiron scene, following Goethe’s

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own self-assessment, may therefore be called the drama of Faust’s ‘psychological transformation’: he has become aware of the same potential with which his author created him. The seer Manto eventually conﬁrms this by comparing Faust, ‘the man who wants what cannot be’ (7488), to the poet Orpheus (7493). Faust, on the other hand, having been transformed from hypnotized lover into loving poet, gains the certainty that he can re-create even Helen, a ﬁgure of Hades. He no longer has to go there and plead with the gods. His entrance into the tunnel leading to Persephone has thus changed into a mere ﬁnale to his hike through the mythological realm; it is now a ‘blind motif’, not needed for the intellectual content of Act 2 or the development of Act 3.23 The change in perspective from Goethe’s Chiron to Rowling’s Firenze is something like the landing of an astronaut: unbounded space is followed by terrestrial limitation – with the understanding, of course, that this limitation is by no means monotonous. Centaurs appear in the ﬁrst, ﬁfth, sixth and seventh volumes of the Harry Potter novels. Close to the mythological tradition, they appear as members of a collective in the Forbidden Forest, secretive yet argumentative. At ﬁrst they seem to be guided by pride and self-interest, yet when the all-encompassing struggle intensiﬁes, the centaurs act as good guardians (Prince, 600, 602; Hallows, 583) and valiantly ﬁght against the dark forces (Hallows, 587, 588). Further, the image of a centaur is part of the sculpture at the ‘Fountain of Magical Brethren’ (Phoenix, 118). We shall focus here on Firenze, the one centaur who leaves the collective, since he almost demands comparison with Goethe’s creation. However, Firenze is distinguished not by a nobler birth, but by his sense of responsibility, which is already indicated by his name. It derives – I assume – from Florentius Radewin, the promoter and teacher of a chapter of the ‘Brothers of Communal Living’ active in the Netherlands and in Northern Germany from the twelfth to the sixteenth centuries.24 These societies distanced themselves from church orthodoxy in order to lead a more liberal religious community life. Similarly, Firenze, his modern Italianized namesake, is a responsible teacher as much as a moral rebel: after ﬁrst saving Harry from a murderous attack by Lord Voldemort, he carries him, not unlike Chiron, through a ‘fable-land’ called the Forbidden Forest and back to safety. This, as well as his alliance with Dumbledore, is seen as a betrayal by his fellow centaurs, who threaten him with death, so that he has to ﬂee the forest and work as a teacher at the School of Wizardry. There his ﬁrst class is ‘the most unusual lesson Harry had ever attended’ (Phoenix, 532), for Firenze is concerned less with content than with attitudes. First, he tries to instil in

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the teenagers respect for the dignity, the intelligence and the wisdom of beings different from themselves: ‘Centaurs are not the servants or playthings of humans’ (Phoenix, 530). Then he explains the centaurs’ prophecies by causing a starry sky to appear above the classroom and emphasizing how very different these prophecies are from the absurd astrology of humans. However, Firenze’s teaching remains a pedagogical paradox: he puts in question not only all didactic methods, but even his own instruction. And although he predicts a war for wizardkind from reading the stars, he assures them that scepticism towards cherished beliefs and towards magic in general is needed – for, as he says, ‘it was foolish to put too much faith in such things, anyway, because even centaurs sometimes read them wrongly’ (Phoenix, 532). Ultimately, it is of little importance to him that none of the students see the signs that he causes to rise from the smoke of a ﬁre, because the content of his lesson is less important than the underlying convictions and values. Scepticism and doubt are at the centre of Firenze’s teaching, and he calls all pedagogical effort into question: ‘His priority did not seem to be to teach them what he knew, but rather to impress upon them that nothing, not even centaurs’ knowledge, was foolproof ’ (Phoenix, 532). He thus reﬂects on the realistic plot strand that constitutes the school novel, the teaching of magic at Hogwarts School of Wizardry. The novel here reﬂects critically upon itself: the centaur, a mythological character who belongs to an older tradition than ﬁction, hints at the uncertainty and ﬁctitiousness of magic, the main reason for the existence of the school and of the novel. However, Firenze is a doubter not on principle, but rather on the basis of modern humanist convictions. He knows that intelligent beings have the freedom to decide, just as he made use of his own freedom and is willing to ally himself with humans in order to combat the Evil Lord (Stone, 279). Firenze the teacher knows that neither the social status nor the qualities of a human, nor prophecies of any kind, exert as much inﬂuence on one’s life as the everendangered ability to doubt, from which independent decisions are born. In the School for Wizardry, the centaur Firenze teaches a freedom that is proof against all determinism, be it of magical, mythological or natural origin. We have seen that our experiment relating the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ and the Harry Potter novels yields new insight into each text. The comparison makes clear that both texts are ﬁrmly embedded in the fabric of Western literature and reactivate a considerable number of the same mythological elements. Playing with congruence and difference has drawn our attention to the many potential interrelations of texts and opened up their ‘communicative dimension’.25 Our reading of one text has inﬂuenced

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the understanding of the other, and the more the pendulum of our attention swang back and forth, the more the function of the centaur as selfreﬂective teacher came to the fore. In conclusion, however, it remains to ask what we have learned about the Chiron myth from our comparison. In what way do the two texts extend and surpass the established mythologem? First of all, both attest to the vitality and plasticity of the Chiron mythologem.26 They corroborate Kerényi’s deﬁnition of mythology as something ‘substantial and yet not static, capable of transformation’ (Essays, 2–3). Since antiquity, the intellectual man-horse seems to illustrate the paradigmatic balance between nature and culture – one of the goals of education; thus both characters are ideally suited to teach and bring about their pupils’ transformation. Unlike their classical model, both centaurs are conceived as intellectual mavericks, without the security of a collective or faith in a metaphysical realm. On the basic pattern of the humanistically oriented teacher, both authors have constructed the ﬁgure of a modern sceptic and doubter who strives above all to dismantle stereotypes, even his own: Chiron’s rhetoric liberates the encyclopaedically petriﬁed images of mythic ﬁgures into a new poetic conﬁguration. Firenze, by contrast, teaches his less mythologically literate pupils that even what is outwardly wholly other deserves respect and indeed admiration. True to his model Florentius, he remains the radical moralist for whom there is no inviolable truth except the struggle against evil. Chiron and Firenze belong to modernity, in that they teach scepticism towards everything that is conventional and held to be true. However, while Chiron, who lives in two eras, is still sure of his own experiences and opinions, the more simply and unambiguously conceived doubter Firenze is closer to Brecht’s Galileo, who himself despairs on account of doubt and yet goes on teaching doubt. The ‘transformation’ described by Kerényi can be seen in the manner in which the two characters treat the myth. Chiron, the narrator of myth, has learned from both the Enlightenment and the historical and comparative mythological research of the Romantics, and he demonstrates that both myth and mythological ﬁction are to be understood as a language of the imagination. Chiron’s reﬂection on the myth, and its presentation anew, effect Faust’s transformation from pining lover to loving poet. Rowling’s centaur is composed of elements of myth and of the historical vita of a ‘Brother of Communal Living’. His individuality is narrowly limited by his origins and his occupation; and limited, too, is the contribution that Firenze the teacher makes to his pupil’s transformation. And yet his didactic intelligence, coupled with an unshakeable humanistic attitude, make him a ﬁgure that may be placed beside Goethe’s teacher Chiron as a simpler counterpart.

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1. J.[oan] K.[athleen] Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, London: Bloomsbury, 1997, cited in text as: Stone; Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, London: Bloomsbury, 1998, cited as: Secrets; Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, London: Bloomsbury, 1999, cited as: Azkaban; Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, London: Bloomsbury, 2000, cited as: Fire; Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, London: Bloomsbury, 2003, cited as: Phoenix; Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Vancouver: Raincoast Books, 2005, cited as: Prince; Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Vancouver: Raincoast Books, 2007, cited as: Hallows. 2. Michael Maar, Warum Nabokov Harry Potter gemocht hätte, Berlin: Berliner Taschenbuchverlag, 2003; Sandra Bak, Harry Potter. Auf den Spuren eines zauberhaften Bestsellers, Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2004; Paul Bürvenich, Der Zauber des Harry Potter. Analyse eines literarischen Welterfolgs, Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2001. 3. The Institute for Applied Children’s Media Research at the Stuttgart Media University judges the Harry Potter novels to be ‘entertaining and of good literary quality’, although it also claims that many children are overtaxed by these ‘aesthetically complex’ books and will not read them all the way through. See Sigrid Tinz, ‘Spaghetti mit Gruselsoße’, Die Zeit 59, Sonderbeilage 19 (April 2004), 15. Undergraduate courses on the Harry Potter novels have been introduced in various universities in North America and the UK. The academic discussion is rather polarized between Harold Bloom’s condemnation of Rowling’s prose as ‘governed by clichés’, and on the other hand English Literature professor John Granger, who evaluates the series as ‘classics – and not just “kid-lit” but as classics of world literature’. Other critics compare Rowling to Dickens, Lewis Carroll and Rudyard Kipling. See ‘Harry Potter. Criticism, Praise and Controversy’ – Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Harry_Potter 4. All further references to Faust are by line numbers to HA. 5. Forty per cent of Rowling’s readers are between 25 and 40 years of age. The publishers release a portion of each edition with a cover speciﬁcally designed for adults. 6. Pierre Bourdieu, ‘Künstlerische Konzeption und intellektuelles Kräftefeld’, in Soziologie der symbolischen Formen, trans. Wolfgang Fietkau, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1974, 106. 7. The author is seemingly unable to answer questions ‘due to an extremely hectic schedule and ﬁghting to ﬁnd time writing’. Reply of Ms Rowling’s personal assistant, 15 September 2004. 8. Gerhard R. Kaiser, Einführung in die vergleichende Literaturwissenschaft, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1980, 9. 9. Carl Kerényi, ‘The Primordial Child in Primordial Times’, in Essays on a Science of Mythology. C. G. Jung and C. Kerényi, Princeton University Press, 1973, 2–3. Cited as: Essays.

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10. Ernst Volkmann, ‘Gestalt und Wandel der Kentauren-Idee bei Goethe’, in Lebendiges Erbe. Festschrift für Dr Ernst Reclam, ed. E. Reclam, Leipzig: Philipp Reclam, 1936, 123–37. 11. Myrons Kuh, HA 12, 136. 12. Christoph Jamme, ‘“Alter tage fabelhaft Gebild”. Goethes Mythenbastelei im Faust ii ’, in Interpreting Goethe’s Faust Today, ed. Jane K. Brown et al., Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1994, 207. 13. This was the case in the otherwise successful ﬁlm version of the Prisoner of Azkaban (dir.: Alfonso Cuarón, 2004). 14. Thomas Mann, ‘Freud and the Future’, in Essays of Three Decades, trans. H. T. Lowe-Porter, New York: Knopf, 1947, 426. 15. Revelations 12:13. See also Maar, Warum Nabokov, 60. 16. Hans Gerhard Gräf, Goethe über seine Dichtungen. Versuch einer Sammlung aller Äußerungen des Dichters über seine poetischen Werke, Part ii, Frankfurt am Main: Rütten & Loening, 1904, repr. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1968, 538. Critics have been sharply divided in their estimation of the Chiron scene: for example, Hans Arens declared the ﬁrst half as ‘functionally superﬂuous . . . an insigniﬁcant little scene’ (Kommentar zu Goethes Faust ii , Heidelberg: Carl Winter Verlag, 1989, 454). Erich Trunz had stressed four decades earlier that ‘Faust’s conversation with Chiron and Manto is one of the greatest poetic achievements of the later Goethe’ (HA 3, 637–8). 17. Friedrich Schiller, ‘Über Anmut und Würde’, dtv-Gesamtausgabe, ed. Gerhard Fricke, Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1962, xviii, 7. 18. Karl Philipp Moritz, Götterlehre oder mythologische Dichtungen der Alten, ed. Horst Günther, Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1999, 9. The treatise, published in 1791, was produced in Rome in close collaboration with Goethe. 19. As genre the exchange corresponds paradigmatically to Goethe’s deﬁnition of didactic poetry, which he considered ‘a hybrid creature, between poetry and rhetoric’. ‘Über das Lehrgedicht’, WA 1:41, 2, 225. 20. Jamme, ‘“Alter Tage fabelhaft Gebild”’, 216. 21. Faust claims that Achilles met Helen at Pherae (7436) instead of Leuke; he does not object to Chiron calling Manto not Tiresias’ but rather ‘Aesculapius’ daughter’ (7451). 22. Goethe to Wilhelm von Humboldt, 1 December 1831, WA 4:49, 166. Cited following the translation in Faust: A Tragedy. Backgrounds and Sources, the Author on the Drama, Contemporary Reactions, Modern Criticism, ed. Cyrus Hamlin, trans. Walter Arndt, New York: Norton, 1976, 430. 23. The paralipomenon 123 C of 17 December 1826 outlines the Hades scene with Manto pleading for Faust. Goethe abandoned this plan only after 18 June 1830. Albrecht Schöne assumes that he eventually gave it up for structural reasons: FK 52–28. 24. Thomas à Kempis, trans. J. P. Arthur, The Founders of the New Devotion. Being the Lives of Gerard Groote, Florentius Radewin and Their Followers, London: Kegan, 1905. Florentius Radewin, head of the order from 1384, died in 1400.

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25. Karlheinz Stierle, ‘Werk und Intertextualität’, in Das Gespräch, ed. Karlheinz Stierle and Rainer Warning, Munich: Fink, 1984, 50. 26. For the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the electronic edition of Kindlers neues Literatur-Lexikon lists the centaur as a motif or character in nine novels, one narrative, one epic and one play, as well as in several poems.

chapter 9

Mistra and the Peloponnese in Goethe’s Faust ii Wilhelm Blum

introduction The year 1204 and the Frankenburg of Mistra By 13 April 1204, the so-called crusaders had conquered Constantinople, the capital of the Byzantine empire, which they systematically plundered over the course of the following days. The area of the former empire was carved up by the victors, each of whom tried to obtain as much as possible. The Greeks had withdrawn to Asia Minor to found the empire of NikaiaNymphaion, and it was not until 1261 that Emperor Michael VIII Palaiologos could take his capital back. The Peloponnese peninsula had also fallen to the crusaders and was granted to the Villehardouin family. In 1249, Wilhelm II de Villehardouin built a Frankish fortress above the city of Mistra, 7 kilometres north-west of Sparta. But already in 1261 or 1262, William, Prince of Achaia, had to relinquish the fortress to the emperor. Therefore, relatively soon after its foundation by the Franks, the fortress became Greek and was to remain so until 1460. In the political reality of the thirteenth century, Greek and Frankish culture came together in the town of Mistra. It is this fortress that qualiﬁed as the location of Goethe’s third act of Faust ii. Goethe never mentions Mistra, only Sparta. But it is clearly Mistra that he intends.1 Goethe and Mistra Already towards the end of 1800, Goethe had intensively studied the history of Sparta. We know, for, example, that he read La Guilletière’s Lacédémone ancienne et moderne at that time. It took over a quarter of a century before he completed the Helena act. On 25 January 1827, Goethe tells Eckermann that the Helena act is at last ﬁnished. It takes place in Sparta–Mistra. In its fortress, Faust meets Helena, and the city of Mistra becomes the centre of 129

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‘Arcadia’. Goethe never visited the Peloponnese, but his studies had provided him with a thorough knowledge of Mistra. the centaur chiron and helena In the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ at the end of Act 2 – which is played out in Thessaly, not the Peloponnese – Faust is already searching for Helena (7070–9). He even asks the Sphinxes if they have seen her (7196), and they suggest he should speak with Chiron. This Chiron is, according to the ancients, ‘the justest of the Centaurs’ and, most importantly, a teacher and educator of Achilles, Asklepios, Jason and many others.2,3,4,5 In Goethe’s text he is ‘the noble pedagogue’ (7337). Faust is carried by the Centaur (7332–6), who tells him during the ride that he had once carried the beautiful Helena (7405–25). This is very important, since he is therefore Helenephóros, which is phonetically identical with Hellenephóros, the ‘carrier of the Greeks’. For Goethe, Helena is the embodiment of Hellenism, the symbol of everything Greek.6 Goethe himself used the pun Helenen–Hellenen in the ﬁrst stanza of a poem in honour of Lord Byron (1829):7 Stark von Faust, gewandt im Rath, Liebt er die Helenen; Edles Wort und schöne Tat Füllt sein Aug’ mit Thränen.

(HA, 1, 349)

Of mighty ﬁst and shrewd advice He loves Helena; Spirited speech and noble deed Fill his eyes with tears.

Obviously, the play on ‘Helenen’ and ‘Faust’ is the very point of these four lines.

the meaning of sparta–mistra In Act 3 of Faust ii, Helena enters the stage in Lakedaimon (8547). Phorkyas describes the land in detail (8984–9002) so that nobody can have any doubt about the location.8 It is not Sparta, the city in the valley, but the mountain of Mistra, where the Franks have ‘raised a towered fortress that no one can scale’ (9001). Mistra stands for the land of Ancient Greece, for Hellas, as Helena stands for the Greeks.

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We should ask why Sparta–Mistra is the centre of Ancient Greece for Goethe, and not the much more famous Athens. There are many reasons for this, within the context of classical antiquity, the Middle Ages and Goethe’s own life. On 22 October 1826, he wrote in two letters to Wilhelm von Humboldt and Sulpiz Boisserée, and in almost identical words, that his play deals with ‘the richness of the times, a full three thousand years so far, from the demise of Troy to the conquest of Messolonghi’ – the decisive event of Greek history in Goethe’s own time. Goethe’s main reasons for his choice of location are these: (1) Menelaus, the husband of Helena and brother of Agamemnon, is King of Sparta, not of Athens. (2) The Spartans, a Doric tribe, were considered more hardened and robust throughout antiquity than all other Greek tribes. (3) There is only one temple to Helena, and it is in Sparta.9 (4) It has often been said – and already in antiquity – that the Peloponnese are the real Greece, and that the peninsula should be called its Acropolis.10 The fact that the fortress was built on the mountain of Mistra in 1249, and was still intact in Goethe’s time, is of great importance. Medieval Athens had Frankish governors as well, but no remarkable building survived from those times. (5) We should not lose sight of Goethe’s own time. In the Greek wars of liberation against the Turks (1821–9), the ﬁrst Greek victories were won on the Peloponnese. Mistra was one of the very ﬁrst cities to be liberated. In 1825, however, Ibrahim Pasha was to destroy Sparta and Mistra, and only King Otto, the son of King Ludwig I of Bavaria, had Sparta rebuilt, in 1834. (6) The fate of Athens was quite different, and Goethe certainly knew it. In 1821, the garrison of the Acropolis capitulated. Whereas the later capital was unable to cast off the Turkish yoke, the Peloponnese, along with Sparta and Mistra, had been instantly victorious. Hellenism had stood its ground.

building the frankish fortress, according to goethe Phorkyas explains the construction of the Frankish fortress as well as the origins and civilization of these Franks (8994–9024). The mountain and valley had stood deserted when suddenly:

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wilhelm blum Dort hinten still im Gebirgtal hat ein kühn Geschlecht Sich angesiedelt, dringend aus cimmerischer Nacht, Und unersteiglich feste Burg sich aufgetürmt. Back in those mountain valleys, quietly, bold men Have settled, a horde emerging from Cimmerian night, And raised a towered fortress that no one can scale.

The castle of Mistra was established by a Frankish ruler from the French– Latin West. Goethe, however, speaks of ‘cimmerischer Nacht’, referring to the nation of the Cimmerians. According to Homer, these were the inhabitants of the farthest western lands, while Herodotus claims that they had migrated to Asia Minor.11,12 They are identiﬁed as the Cheimérioi, the nebulous ones. They were from the edge of the world. The Franks who built the fortress were, in the eyes of Phorkyas, no brigands and – more importantly for Greek ears – no barbarians. Their buildings are not ‘cyclopic’, everything is ‘vertical, horizontal and regular’ (9020–2). Twenty years they had needed for the construction, which was executed with the greatest skill. This praise of the western people in the mouth of Phorkyas should not be ignored. Speciﬁcally, it should be noted that ‘one is the master’. Helena learns from Phorkyas that Faust (whose name she does not yet know) is the leader, a monarch. This praise of monarchy was already sung by the ancients. Homer had coined the phrase ‘The rule of the many is not good, one must be master.’13 And Aristotle had quoted this very line, in order to reason the existence and rule of one god, the unmoved mover.14 Monarchy achieves the virtue of regularity. In Goethe’s view, the monarchies of the Western nations in the Middle Ages were more viable than the democracy devised and practised by the Greeks. Goethe always believed in this: he always appreciated Karl August of Weimar in his role as sovereign of his state. mistra and the franks With these explanations by Phorkyas, the encounter between Faust and Helena is prepared. The meeting and subsequent marriage take place in the land of Helena, of Hellenism, but in medieval times. Faust appears in the knightly attire of the Middle Ages. The time of the crusades takes shape on the Peloponnese peninsula, on the fortress mountain of Mistra. In his brilliant synthesis, Goethe has connected a place and time which lie so far apart and yet belong so closely together. In Mistra everything is concentrated: Helena’s marriage with Faust, and the birth and death of Euphorion, the son of Frankish leadership and Greek beauty.

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the partition of the peloponnese Faust rules as a prince, and so he divides the Peloponnese among his vassals. The previous ruler was Helena, the queen, but now this privilege is taken from her. Faust reviews his war heroes (9443–81) and assigns to each of these heroes a territory. We have seen that the conquerers were called Cimmerians, and when Faust turns to the ‘youthful blossoms of the north’ and to the ‘abundant strength of the east’, he emphasizes that the Cimmerians ‘who came out of the fogs’ have their admirable virtues. The various dukes are to govern, as Faust decrees, the various provinces of the Peloponnese: the German duke is to rule over Corinth, the Goth over Achaia, the Frank over Elis, the Saxon over Messene, the Norman over Argolis and Faust himself over Sparta, ‘the queen’s former seat’. This distribution makes the whole Peloponnese more Frankish-Western, or more exactly it becomes German and then Western European. Lines 9466–73 represent, if we look more closely, 1,000 years of German and European history condensed into a few verses:15 (1) The German is the symbol of the time between the ﬁrst and the third centuries ad. The ﬁrst encounters between the Romans and the Germans occurred towards the end of the second century (the actions against the Cimbri and Teutons), but the great coup was the battle in the Teutoburg forest of ad 9. The conﬂicts with the Germanic tribes continued throughout the second century under Emperor Marcus Aurelius, who battled against the Quades and the Marcomanni. (2) The Goth symbolizes the time between the third and the ﬁfth centuries. For the ﬁrst time, we hear about the invasions, in 238, of the Goths into the imperium romanum. The ﬁrst catastrophic event for the Romans was the battle of Adrianople (today’s Edirne) of 378, where the Emperor Valens was killed. It was surpassed only by the events of the year 410, profoundly shocking to the world of that time, when the Goths under Alarich stood on the Capitol. (3) The Franks prospered in the time of the Merovingians and Carolingians, i.e., between the ﬁfth and the beginning of the tenth centuries. Around 500, Chlodwig had vanquished the Goths and other tribes, and established the Frankish kingdom comprising parts of today’s France and Germany. The fulﬁlment of this kingdom came with Charlemagne, who led the Franks, being crowned ‘Emperor of the Roman Empire’, to unforeseen heights of glory. (4) From 911 to 1024, the Saxons rule the empire. Otto I the Great had again been crowned emperor by the pope and became the founder of the

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‘Holy Roman Empire of the German nation’. His son, Otto II, married the Byzantine princess Theophanu, niece of Emperor Johannes I Tzimiskes, in Rome. This was the momentous joining of the two imperial houses of the Greeks and the Germans.16 (5) Historical logic would lead us now to expect the Salic and Hohenstaufen houses, yet Goethe chooses the Normans. This is based on the fact that the Normans’ political activity was much more extensive than that of the German emperors in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Their real entry into the history of Europe, where they had so far settled in northern France, was the victory of their Duke William over King Harold II at Hastings in 1066. He was crowned king of England and became ‘William the Conquerer’. Yet this was not all – in a brilliant campaign the Normans took Sicily from the Arabs and spread, under Roger II and William II, their political and cultural inﬂuence.17 Emperor Henry VI married a daughter of Roger II, who gave birth to a son who became Emperor Friedrich II of Hohenstaufen. (6) After his partition of the Peloponnese, Faust commands: ‘Yet Sparta shall rise above your highest throne.’ Faust himself will rule from the Frankenburg. Helena’s Greece will be at his feet; Greece and Germany will live as one. May we not ask whether, according to Goethe’s chronology and its climax, Faust’s reign becomes a symbol for the universalist empire of Friedrich II? It is not unlikely, since of all Western emperors Friedrich II is the one who established the most extensive and intensive connections with Hellenism.18 He was the only one who spoke Greek. Moreover, there is the political dimension of Friedrich’s kinship.19 The Hohenstaufen and the Greeks are related to each other, but also to the Frankish family of the Villehardouin. It becomes more obvious that Faust, in this act, represents the great Hohenstaufen emperor Friedrich II, who was the climax and the end of the Middle Ages at the same time. the landscape of arcadia ‘Arcadia was disvovered in 42 or 41 bc’, the classical philologist Bruno Snell says in a famous article.20 He means that Arcadia as a literary landscape was introduced by Virgil. At the end of the fourth century bc, the poetess Anyte of Tegea (from Arcadia!) accidentally started pastoral poetry, yet the real founder of bucolica is Philetas of Cos. His successor Theocritus then raised pastoral poetry to unexpected heights. However, these poets see Sicily as the land of the shepherds, whereas in the novel Daphnis and Chloe by Longus,21

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from the third century ad, it is the island of Lesbos. But only Virgil made the ﬁctive Arcadia a place of fulﬁlment, a poetic paradise. After Virgil, Arcadia remains the locus amoenus, and so the famous motto of Goethe’s Italian journey was ‘Auch ich in Arcadien!’ (I, too, in Arcadia!).22 The Renaissance celebrated this land of joy and peace as well. We think of the Neapolitan Jacopo Sannazaro (1456–1530) and his pastoral novel Arcadia, or of the Pastor ﬁdo by Guarino (1538–1612). Goethe hailed this tradition in the splendid vision of his prize song (9514–73): things are good and beautiful in this country, here ‘in the shaded stillness the warm ﬂow / Of mother’s milk provides for lamb and child’, all are ‘immortal where they are’, here in ‘the ﬁrst world’, in that Golden Age of which Hesiod and Ovid sang.23 Faust’s vision of Arcadia, the earthly paradise, culminates in a pure utopia: ‘Our thrones shall now become a bower, / Our happiness Arcadian and free.’ helena and euphorion Here in Arcadia, the union of Faust and Helena is consummated (9586–93), and here their son is born.24 Euphorion himself knows that he is ‘in the centre of Pelops’ land’ (9825), in Mistra, the heart of the Peloponnese. Here he ﬂies high up in the air, and here he falls ‘to his parents’ feet’. 25 And here his mother Helena also dies, understanding that ‘beauty and happiness can form no lasting union’ (9940). Arcadia and Mistra, as its centre, is the purpose, the culmination and the end of the third act, the place of creation and destruction, the centre of the earth. In the background of Faust ii, Act 3, there is the long history of conquests of Greek–Byzantine lands. But this was also Goethe’s chance: he could make Sparta–Mistra the location of his Helena act, because Western–Frankish history has such a strong role in it. In the medium of literature, a reconciliation of West and East, of Orient and Occident is achieved. Such a reconciliation was always a matter of great importance for Goethe. We think about the West-östlicher Divan, which appeared in 1827, the year of the completion of the Helena act. Such reconciliation, however, is also Christian and (Ancient) Greek.26 It permeates the Helena act, which takes place in the Frankish–Greek–Byzantine knight’s castle of Mistra. not es Translated by Hans Schulte. 1. For the history and sights of Mistra, see Ernst Kirsten and Wilhelm Kraiker, Griechenlandkunde, Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1967, ii, 393–4 and 410–15. See

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also Steven Runciman, Mistra. Byzantine Capital of the Peloponnese, London: Thames & Hudson, 1980. 2. Homer, Iliad xi, 832; Ovid, Fasti v, 413. 3. Iliad xi, 832; Hesiod, Fragments 96, 48–55 Rzach. This Hesiod fragment is of special importance in our context, since it concerns the courting of Helena by Menelaus. 4. Pindar, Pythian Odes 3,5–7, and Nemean Odes 3, 54 f. 5. Hesiod, Theogony 1001; and Fragment 19 Rzach. 6. Here we remember the Helenephória, the feast and celebration, in Brauron, in honour of Artemis, and the Helène, the torch or light. Helena shines for Greece, is the light of Greece. 7. Gerhard Schulz, Die deutsche Literatur zwischen französischer Revolution und Restauration, Part ii, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1989, 672. 8. Mephisto assumes the identity of Phorkyas. Ernst and Erika von Borries comment: ‘As the representative of ugliness and chaos, Mephisto can help reveal the beautiful as the polar opposite. Chaos is necessary for the creation of order and harmony, and beauty can only be formed out of contrasting ugliness.’ Deutsche Literaturgeschichte, Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1991, iii, 290. 9. Herodotus, Histories, vi, 61.3. 10. Strabo, Geographica, 8, 1.3. 11. Homer, Odyssey xi, 12–19. 12. Herodotus, Histories, i, 15. 13. Homer, Iliad ii, 204. 14. Aristotle, Metaphysics xii, 10: 1076, a4. 15. Goethe speaks of world history but really means German and European history when he talks, to Eckermann, 25 January 1827, about the ﬁnished Helena act: ‘The modern, romantic part is very difﬁcult, with half of the world’s history behind it.’ 16. Today, as in Goethe’s time, the tomb of the Empress Theophanu rests on German soil, in the church of St Pantaleon in Cologne. 17. Line 9472: ‘Norman, clear the seas!’ Goethe appreciated Norman rule on the two great European islands. 18. See Michael B. Wellas, Griechisches aus dem Umkreis Kaiser Friedrichs II, Munich: Arbeo, 1983. 19. Konstanze, daughter of Friedrich II, marries the emperor of NikaiaNymphaion, Johannes III Vatatzes. Manfred, Friedrich’s son and king of Sicily, marries a daughter of Michael II, prince of Epiros, with the name of Helena. He was also a brother-in-law of Wilhelm II of Villehardouin. And this prince of Achaia (1246–78) with his seat in Mistra, builder of the Frankenburg, was the husband of Anna, sister of the Helena of Epiros mentioned above. 20. Bruno Snell, ‘Arkadien. Die Entdeckung einer geistigen Landschaft’, in Antike und Abendland, Berlin: Watter de Gruyter, 1945, i, 26 ff. 21. Goethe valued this novel very highly. See his conversations with Eckermann of 9 and 20 March 1831, and Eckermann’s report of Goethe’s conversation with Soret of 15 March 1831.

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22. See Ernst Robert Curtius, Europäische Literatur und lateinisches Mittelalter, Berne: Francke, 1967, 199. 23. Hesiod, Erga, 109–26; Ovid, Metamorphoses i, 89–112. 24. The name Euphorion is easy to translate: the son of Euphoros, the well-carried, the noble sufferer – both Helena and Faust had been carried by the Centaur Chiron. The ﬁgure of Euphorion may have been invented by Ptolemaios Chennos (ﬁrst to second century ad): his Euphorion is a son of Achilles and Helena, and he is killed with a lightning-strike from Zeus. 25. See the stage directions to 9903: Goethe erects a monument, in the character of Euphorion, to Lord Byron, who died in 1824 in Messolonghi, Greece. 26. As for the Christian perspective, see Paul, Letter to the Colossians, 1:20 and Letter to the Romans, 5:10. For early Greek culture, see Homer’s Odyssey (xxiv, 541–8), where the reconciliation is afﬁrmed by oath, in a sacred bond. The Odyssey is also of more fundamental importance. Eckermann was the ﬁrst to see that Faust ii is comparable to Homer’s work. See Dieter Borchmeyer, Goethe. Der Zeitbürger, Munich: Hanser 1999, 339–40.

chapter 10

Goethe and the grotesque: the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ Angela C. Borchert

introduction In the past two decades a new direction has emerged in the interpretation of Faust ii. While earlier interpreters, like Wilhelm Emrich and Heinz Schlaffer, produced primarily complex symbolic and allegorical readings, the commentaries to the new editions of Faust ii by Albrecht Schöne and Ulrich Gaier illustrate how recent work has focused on material contexts, on media technology and on the performative character of the theatrical spectacle.1 Scholars have examined, for example, Goethe’s inter-medial references to the iconography of the Renaissance masque and seriously considered the impact of modern media techniques like the panorama, the laterna magica and its development into the phantasmagoria.2,3 As a consequence of this new direction in interpretation, the ambiguous, deceptive character of certain scenes has gained more signiﬁcance (FA 1:7.2, 466). This new interpretive direction has, however, not yet been fully pursued with regards to the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ in Act 2, even though the scene begins with a thematization of the media of aesthetic presentation. Mephistopheles hopes to see ‘as if through ancient casements in the wild and dismal North, very horrid ghosts’ (7044–6) on the ancient battleﬁeld.4 To his surprise, however, the medium is deceptive. He feels alienated (7081) by the masses of suspicious ﬁgures that surround him (7757). Yet these ‘throngs’ (7648) serve as a reﬂective medium for the actions of Faust, Mephistopheles and Homunculus. Indeed, in their double characteristic as amorphous and shaped, the masses present a poetical key for the whole spectacle. The aesthetic category that unites the Janus-facedness of chaos and shape, of ghost and body, of contourlessness and contour, is the grotesque. The grotesque has not yet been discussed as an interpretive principle for the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, although scholarship has noted the presence of the element of the grotesque, particularly in descriptions of the heterogeneous ﬁgures and in the contourlessness and deformation of many 138

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ﬁgures.5,6 The ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ is usually read by primarily focusing on Bildung (self-development). Karl Reinhardt’s classic interpretation in the tradition of Ernst Robert Curtius remains representative;7 Arens has recently called it ‘Bildungsdichtung’.8 For Reinhardt, the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ unites a collection of humanistic knowledge with scientiﬁc and philosophical thinking, mythic remains gathered from primarily late sources and pure poetic inspiration, all shimmering with greater or lesser complexity through a mass of Bildung.9 In fact, the commentaries by Schöne and Gaier illustrate how the text seems to mention almost the entirety of knowledge around 1800 (FA 1:7.2, 28–9; FR-II, 12). In consequence, the discussion of Bildung in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ has, in the last few years, focused on knowledge; certain grotesque ﬁgures function as personiﬁcations of the discourse of knowledge or represent the sensual demonstration of ‘Bildungswissen’.10,11 I shall show how Goethe, rather than presenting us in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ with a history of ideas, employs the grotesque to offer us his own speciﬁc story of ghosts, spectres and phantoms as if viewed through an antique lens. The antique grotesques, ‘fabled shapes’ (7028) of the imagination, come to life in a very modern, multivalent media-savvy poetology. My thesis is that although the grotesque was an ambivalent subject for Goethe, he employs inter-medial references to the ornamental grotesque to choreograph the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ and plays with a very radical form of the aesthetic grotesque in Mephistopheles’ experience. I shall examine this thesis by exploring three questions. (1) What is Goethe’s understanding of the grotesque? (2) How does he employ the ornamental grotesque in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’? (3) What are the consequences of Mephistopheles’ experience of the aesthetic grotesque? goethe’s understanding of the grotesque Scholarship on Goethe’s grotesque has followed Wolfgang Kayser’s seminal work of 1957, Das Groteske.12 The reason can be easily exempliﬁed by a scene from the Masquerade. The poets are so eager to outdo one another that in their competitive jostling no one comes to speak. The Herald announces various Poets: Nature Poets, Court Singers, Chivalric Minstrels, Sweet Singers, and Rhapsodists; in the press of rivals competing for attention, none will allow another to declaim, although one manages to say a few words as he passes.

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angela c. borchert satiriker Wißt ihr was mich Poeten Erst recht erfreuen sollte? Dürft ich singen und reden Was niemand hören wollte. satiric poet Perhaps you’d like to know What most would please this poet? To be allowed to say What no one wants to hear.

Poets of Night Thoughts and Graveyard Poets beg to be excused, since they have just become involved in a most interesting discussion with a Vampire visibly fresh from his grave, which might possibly permit the development of a new poetic genre. The Herald cannot gainsay them. (5295–9)

Here, the grotesque functions on the boundary between the desire to speak and the performative representation of the inability to speak. Kayser would describe the aesthetic concept of this scene as an abrupt tipping-over from laughter into horror, from the comic into the abysmal, the ghastly, the frightful. He calls this phenomenon the Weltentwurf of ‘das Groteske’ and deﬁnes this aesthetic grotesque through several obviously contradictory emotions: a smile at deformation and a revulsion at something monstrous in itself. The basic feeling is astonishment, horror and a helpless anxiety when the world falls apart and nothing supports us.13 The aesthetic grotesque represents an existential experience of apocalyptic dimensions. Developed around 1750, in the so-called Sattelzeit (‘saddle’ or ‘threshold’ period), the almost sublime form of the aesthetic grotesque has, according to Kayser, dominated ever since.14 From this perspective, Kayser treats the ancient and Renaissance ﬁguration of ‘die Groteske’, the ornamental grotesque, as a mere precursor.15,16 He characterizes the ornamental grotesque as playfully joyful, full of carefree imagination, but at the same time harbouring something oppressive and eerie with respect to a world in which the order of our reality is discontinued: technical, plant, animal and human realms are no longer separated, while simultaneously the rules of statics, symmetry and natural order are suspended.17 Kayser is interested primarily in the similarity of effect and the resulting continuity between the ornamental and aesthetic grotesque; he does not emphasize that shock is the dominant existential experience of the aesthetic grotesque. In contrast, elements of ars combinatoria, of variation and surprise, characterize the ornamental grotesque. Furthermore, Kayser forgets here, as Günter Oesterle has recently argued, that the iconography and structure of

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the ornamental grotesque pattern books (Vorlageblatt), with their principle of the varied combinations of existing heterogeneous patterns, continue to create an effect within the aesthetic grotesque. The different structural elements of the ornamental grotesque can become productive inter-medially within the aesthetic category of the grotesque. The ornamental grotesque is thus continuously present in the aesthetic grotesque.18 In the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, Goethe explores all three possibilities of the grotesque, the aesthetic grotesque, the ornamental grotesque and the inter-medial reformulation of the ornamental grotesque within the aesthetic grotesque. The aesthetic grotesque comes to predominate around 1800. Recall Friedrich Schlegel’s famous dictum that the French Revolution was the most horrible grotesque of the time.19 Accordingly, at the centre of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, Goethe plays with the existentialist shock that the aesthetic grotesque creates for Mephistopheles. However, in contrast to Kayser, who has devalued the role of the ornamental grotesque after 1750, Goethe not only revives the ornamental grotesque in the representation of his ﬁgures and in the conﬁguration of the scene, but also attempts to banish the aesthetic grotesque through an inter-medial reformulation of grotesque elements. Before analysing these forms of the grotesque in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, it needs to be noted that Goethe never lost sight of the grotesque as a phenomenon of the boundary of the aesthetic. He dealt with it, analysed it and attempted to integrate it poetically in his work between 1786 and 1831. He thought the representation of the ugly in the Villa Pallagonia in Sicily embodied madness (FA 1:15.1, 260–5), and he translated Benvenuto Cellini’s representation of the grotesque as monstrous (FA 1:11, 67). And, adopting the more common term for the ornamental grotesque,20 he wrote a critique of the arabesque for Christoph Martin Wieland’s Teutscher Merkur (FA 1:15.2, 877). More important reﬂections may be found in his review of Nepomuk Strixner’s ‘Albrecht Dürers christlich mythologische Handzeichnungen’, which deals with inter-mediality (FA 1:19, 383), and his renewed engagement with the Pompeiian wall decorations following the publication of Wilhelm Zahn’s Die schönsten Ornamente und merkwürdigsten Gemälde aus Pompeji, Herculaneum und Stabiae. the ornamental grotesque in the ‘classical walpurgis night’ If we divide the history of the grotesque into a polemic against the grotesque from Vitruvius to Descartes and an apology for the grotesque from Vasari to Diderot, Goethe would not position himself simply on either of the two

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sides, but would take a more complex position. When Descartes discussed the dangers of the imagination in the Méditations, he used as an example traditional monsters from mythology like the Chimera to illustrate how the imagination is reproductive, only combining existing elements. Descartes wished to banish such grotesque deformities as the Chimera as paragons of the uncontrolled imagination. Goethe returns to Vasari and Diderot’s arguments that the grotesque is associated with the invention of the surprising, the new and the hypothetical. In his Lettre sur les aveugles, Diderot maintains that nature continually creates new monsters through chance combinations. Monsters are then not Chimeras but, as Vasari had already acknowledged, reality. Since they are reality, monsters can be imagined as normal in the past and future. On these premises, Diderot reconsiders the role of the imagination in the development of scientiﬁc hypotheses.21 Having refreshed his understanding of Vitruvius and Vasari, Goethe negotiates a position between the two sides in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’.22 Initially, Goethe explores a hypothesis based on Karl Philipp Moritz’s Götterlehre oder mythologische Dichtungen der Alten which he borrowed while working on his drafts.23 Moritz’s Götterlehre centrally acknowledges the function of the ‘boundless, chaotic, amorphous’ within antiquity.24 In the paralipomena, Goethe accordingly envisions Sphinxes and Griffons losing contour, reproducing and proliferating by seeming to unfold and develop from themselves.25 In the ﬁnal version of the scene, Goethe does not concretize this path of the imagination beyond maintaining the presence of masses. He moderates his vision to include ‘innumerable throngs’ (7659, 7648). Goethe also borrowed numerous volumes representing the grotesque and arabesque ornamentation of Herculaneum and Pompeii,26 a fact surprisingly not mentioned in the commentaries to Faust.27 These volumes of images are of particular inter-medial value, because they represent the ornamental grotesque. Inspired by these volumes, he playfully indulges in Diderotian inventio when he creates his lists of ‘monsters and deformed ﬁgures’ (P 419) with the hope of including ‘all the monsters of antiquity, Chimeras’ (P 442). Goethe told Johann Peter Eckermann that ‘without a life-long occupation with the visual arts, [this work] would not have been possible’ (FA 2:12, 447). With such an abundance of antique monsters the issue becomes how to choose the ﬁgures from the ornamental grotesque for the theatrical scene. Goethe emphasized the difﬁculty of selection: ‘The difﬁculty was to remain moderate with such bounty, and to reject any ﬁgures that did not ﬁt my intention’ (FA 2:12, 447). Scholars have argued for a wide range of – at times symbolic or allegorical – interpretations of Goethe’s intentions in the

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selection of grotesque ﬁgures.28 In contrast, I contend that Goethe began by rehabilitating the imaginative garnering of the combinatory power of the ornamental grotesque; then, in his ﬁnal selection of ﬁgures, he returns to Descartes’ admonitions regarding the uncontrolled imagination. Goethe does not develop the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ as an exploration of the grotesque per se. First, he limits the nature of the ﬁgures. He omits both the Chimera, which is characteristic of the form of the grotesque in antiquity, and the ‘birds of prey with feet for swimming’ (P 454) that he draws in the margin of the paralipomenon from December 1826. He restricts the parameters for the combinations based on two, rather than multiple, features. The ﬁgures combine primarily animal and human features, beginning with the Sirens, whom he draws as a bird with a female head, and ending with the many ﬁsh and human combinations that Homunculus encounters.29 These latter combinations tend more towards the arabesque, while the ugly women Mephistopheles encounters, ranging from Erichtho, Empusa and the Lamiae to the Phorcydes, all represent grotesque iconography outside the ars combinatoria.30 However, all the ﬁgures he chooses permit the ornamental grotesque to be inter-medially transformed into the theatrical spectacle of the antique phantasmagoria, exemplararily demonstrated by Peter Stein’s production.31 Secondly, he places the ﬁgures in a new constellation. In the paralipomena, Faust and Mephistopheles interact with the ﬁgures taken from grotesque iconography. Initially, Faust was to speak with the Sphinxes and the Griffons (P 453, 441, 459) and encounter the seductive Lamiae (P 461, 490). In the ﬁnal theatrical scene, however, many of the ﬁgures chosen from the multiple lists of the paralipomena change their interlocutor, so that not only the most grotesque ﬁgures, but also most female grotesque ﬁgures come to interact with Mephistopheles. While Faust encounters female and male ﬁgures associated with knowledge, such as the Sphinx and Chiron, Goethe employs the criterion of gender to focus the sensual issue of how to represent extreme ugliness. inter-medial figurations of the ornamental grotesque In the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, Goethe does not only negotiate a position between Diderot and Descartes regarding the ornamental grotesque. More fundamental is the inter-medial transformation of the ornamental grotesque as a principle for the structure of the scene. Goethe uses the concept of the

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ornamental grotesque, which spread through grotesque pattern books after the Renaissance, as a source of inspiration for his dramaturgic transformation of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. He adopts four main principles from the grotesque pattern books, which continue and summarize the repertoire of European grotesque iconography.32 The grotesque in Germany involved confrontation between two cultures: the antique, and the German Trollerie or witches’ tradition associated with Christoph Jamnitzer. Here the German grotesques, which Carsten-Peter Warncke calls ‘antikisch-tedeskische Grotesken’, develop beyond the Roman ornamental genres.33 Because of the similarity of the daemons and goblins of Germanic mythological tradition with the fauns and satyrs of ancient Roman grotesques, they were easily combined.34 In the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, Goethe not only confronts Mephistopheles’ Nordic world of witches with the ancient world, he also shows his familiarity with legends and mythology. With the Cranes of Ibykus there are direct references to grotesque iconography: the ‘fat-paunched-bow-legged villains’ (7669).35 The second principle of inspiration is the fundamental irony of grotesque ornament reﬂected in the persiﬂage of humanistic Bildungs-knowledge.36,37 In the paralipomena, Goethe already sketched general ironic allusions to allknowing, learned society: ‘one may speak oh-so-Greek / If a German hears it, he understands’ (P 484). The ﬁnal text develops the tradition of the reciprocal double-barrelled ironization of the northern and the ancient world of phantoms. One can ﬁnd a whole chain of satires, including the criticism of philology when Chiron informs Faust: ‘chiron: Philologists, I see, / Have led you, as they have themselves, astray’ (7427–8). The reciprocal ironization of the northern and the ancient world of phantoms ranges from the English Dilettanti and their preoccupation with antiquity (7117–21) to medical discussions about the health and illness of the Romantic and the antique (7148–51).38 After the confrontation of the German with the antique ghosts and witches and the persiﬂage of humanistic Bildungs-knowledge, Goethe allows himself, thirdly, to be particularly impressed by the structure of grotesque pattern books. The ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ permits itself to be described in words similar to those in the grotesque pattern books: a strange overview of a totally open row composition arbitrarily continued yet appearing closed, based on playful symmetry, careful balance and a grotesque presentation of individual motives.39 What scholars have called a review-like presentation, a ‘row composition’,40 had been given a more speciﬁc description by Goethe. The term that Goethe used to characterize the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ in the paralipomena was ‘boundless’ (P 436,

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440, 449); after completing the text, he conﬁrmed ‘that the Classical Walpurgis Night has tapered off into the boundless’ (FA 2:11, 300). The fourth principle is the permanent change of perspective, the ‘schweifen’, which could be translated as ‘roaming, meandering’, up to the point of being lost in a labyrinth (7079).41 The idea of ‘Verirren’ ranges from ‘being lost’ to ‘being bemused’, even ‘to err’ (7800). This constant metamorphosis implied in the changes of perspective through ‘schweifen’ is revealed by hard juxtapositions and unstable aesthetic perception. It is not the arabesque, graceful and wave-like ‘ﬂoating’ (8284) that Homunculus experiences in the ‘Rocky Inlets of the Aegean Sea’ scene. These four principles of the ornamental grotesque pattern books – the confrontation of the ancient and the Nordic witches’ worlds, the persiﬂage of humanistic Bildungs-knowledge, the open composition and the ‘schweifen’ – are all impressively transformed by Goethe dramaturgically when he allows his three Nordic protagonists, Mephistopheles, Faust and Homunculus, to experience the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ in radically different ways. Astonishingly, it is Mephistopheles and not Faust who is frightened by the impudence and heinousness of the antique phantoms. As he comes to experience the aesthetic grotesque, he feels ‘alienated’ (7081). faust’s perspective in the ‘classical walpurgis night’ Faust’s approach to the fantastic world of antiquity is distanced by memory.42 Filtered through Bildung and remembrance, he views the fantastic world of antiquity only as ‘the strangest’ (7078). He sees that ‘in ugliness there’s strength and grandeur!’ (7182). Greatness and the heroic past are also principles of selection for the antique personae he encounters: Auf Sphinxe bezüglich. Vor solchen hat einst Ödipus gestanden; Auf Sirenen bezüglich. Vor solchen krümmte sich Ulyß in hänfnen Banden; Auf Ameisen bezüglich. Von solchen ward der höchste Schatz gespart; Auf Greife bezüglich. Von diesen treu und ohne Fehl bewahrt. (7185–8) Regarding the Sphinxes: Long ago Oedipus stood facing one of these; Regarding the Sirens: These saw Ulysses writhe in hempen cords; Regarding the Ants: These gathered stores of treasure never equalled, Regarding the Giants: Of which these were the faithful guardians.

This constant idealization extends even to Chiron as the great pedagogue and mentor with his ﬁxation on heroic ﬁgures, and it is relativized by Faust’s encounter with Chiron himself.

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Faust succeeds in igniting a debate over the history of the most stalwart of heroes and the most beautiful of women, claiming that Hercules in his divinity is unrepresentable and that Helena as eternally young exists outside time. Both Chiron and Faust agree in their discussion about art, their Kunstgespräch, that Hercules is unrepresentable in song and in sculpture: chiron Vergebens mühn sich die Lieder, Vergebens quälen sie den Stein. faust So sehr auch Bildner auf ihn pochen, So herrlich kam er nie zur Schau.

(7393–6)

chiron In vain the lyre labours to evoke him, In vain the sculptors martyr stone. faust As much as sculptors [try to] shape him, So beautifully he has never been represented.

In this way, Faust projects the ideal of the beautiful and the great; Mephistopheles, on the other hand, will experience this in the most ugly and in the grotesque. Through his remembrance of heroic antiquity Faust is clearly immunized against any experience of the grotesque.43 In the whole fantastic ‘turbulence’ (7483) he only pursues one goal, which he mentions several times. The goal is simply deﬁned: ‘And where is She?’ (7056). Even when Chiron declares Faust ‘mad’ (7447), he perseveres. Almost like a ‘fairy tale hero’, he believes in the ‘marvel’ (7324) of his destiny.44

mephistopheles’ experience of the aesthetic grotesque In Faust’s journey, Goethe employs grotesque ﬁgures like the Sphinx and Chiron as Faust’s interlocutors to explore the possibilities of representation. In contrast, Mephistopheles’ journey begins with the ethnological clash of the cultures of southern antiquity and northern modernity, establishing the experience of the aesthetic grotesque. The antique mythological creatures see him as the ‘uninvited witch’s son’ (7787) from the north, the ‘nasty one’ (7139) with the ‘shrivelled horse’s hoof ’ (7150). He in turn experiences the ulteriority of the ancient ghost world unﬁltered and without distance. He ‘wanders’ (7080) aimlessly through the ‘labyrinth of ﬂame’ (7079), initially seating himself with ironic self-consciousness between two Sphinxes – expressions of an antique–modern grotesque (7111) – then becoming more and more besieged

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both haptically and phonetically by the antique phenomena. ‘As if intimidated’ (7224) and ‘vexatious’ (7798), Mephistopheles says ‘What I touched gave me the willies’ (7798). Nevertheless, he gets mixed up against his better judgement with the Lamiae, who erotically entrap him. Faced with the unfamiliar, ‘naked’ (7082), lifelike appearance of these ancient seductresses, Mephistopheles loses his ironic superiority and his cynical security. Instead of the clear differentiation between the ‘gloomy’ north (6975) and ‘sinful pleasures’ (6974) of the south, he himself experiences the radical anxiety, insecurity and disorientation of the aesthetic grotesque.45 Indeed, he feels himself totally ‘alienated’ (7081) because he clearly cannot move adroitly (7329) in the foreign space, in these antique ‘horrifying circles’ (7788). Left without orientation, the self-conﬁdent prancing ‘gallant’ (7764) metamorphoses into a comically grotesque gawk. Not only does he lose his way (7800), he also loses his footing. This is related from the perspective of his ancient seductresses, the Lamiae: Mit starrem Fuße Kommt er geholpert Einher gestolpert; Er schleppt das Bein, Wie wir ihn ﬂiehen, Uns hinterdrein.

(7704–9)

With such stiff feet He only can hobble And stumble along; We keep escaping While he pursues us, Dragging that leg.

He actually becomes that which he pretends to be in front of his ancient questioners, namely ‘Old Iniquity’ from the ‘Mysterien’ plays.46 In a paradoxical reversal the ancient phantoms dismiss him in a manner tainted with Christian traits. In the context of the ‘healthy heterogeneous beings’ (7149), the ‘uninvited’ (7787) Nordic witch’s son is unmasked as a ‘double-dealer’ (7148), who refers in a quite suspiciously Romantic vein to heart and sentiment (7177). Thus different antique mythological beings twice demand that he of all people must do penance (7148, 7155) and not get off too ‘cheaply’ (7790). In this emergency, Mephistopheles’ only choice is to agree to face the most excruciating challenge of ancient horror: to survive an encounter with the most ugly of the ugly, the Phorcydes.

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Mephistopheles’ encounter with the Phorcydes must be understood against the background of the contemporary controversy between the classical and the Romantic. At the climax of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, during the encounter of the Nordic Mephistopheles with the antique ‘Daughters of chaos’ (8028), something quite surprising occurs: the antique primordial ugliness of the Phorcydes surpasses to a large extent all Nordic extremes of ugliness, like for example the ‘vilest forms of sin’ (7973) or ‘mandrakes’ (7972). Mephistopheles now comes to know, in the face of this ugliness, that which has previously been unknown to him, the primary principle of aesthetic grotesque reception: ‘astonishment’ (7969),47 the shock of perception of a totally ulterior order: mephistopheles Ich sehe was, und staune. So stolz ich bin, Muß ich mir selbst gestehn: Dergleichen hab’ ich nie gesehn, Die sind ja schlimmer als Alraune . . . Wird man die urverworfnen Sünden Im mindesten noch häßlich ﬁnden, Wenn man dies Dreigetüm erblickt? Wir litten sie nicht auf den Schwellen Der grauenvollsten unsrer Höllen. Hier wurzelt’s in der Schönheit Land, Das wird mit Ruhm antik genannt.

(7969–79)

mephistopheles What I now see astounds me! Although it hurts my pride, I must confess That I have never seen such creatures – They’re worse by far than mandrakes. Can one who sees this monstrous trinity Still ﬁnd the vilest forms of sin In any way repulsive? We wouldn’t even let them stand beside the door Of the most dreadful of our hells. When such things ﬂourish in this Land of Beauty, They’re gloriﬁed as classical.

aesthetic grotesque, ornamental grotesque and their inter-medial integration In the face of this all-surpassing ﬁgure of antique ugliness, in the face of the aesthetic grotesque, Mephistopheles reacts with appropriate devilishness.

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He breaks into ‘delight’ (7993) in order to react then with cunning adaptation to the daughters of chaos. Symmetrical to the conversation about art, the earlier-cited Kunstgespräch between Chiron and Faust, Mephistopheles poses the central question for the aesthetic boundary phenomenon of the grotesque. With its proximity to chaos and its hybrid position between shapelessness and deformation, it evades artistic aesthetic representation as an overall phenomenon. Mephistopheles says: ‘Still, I’m surprised no poets sing your praises. / And tell me how it is I’ve never seen / Such worthy subjects treated by an Artist?’ (7995–7). The three female ﬁgures of the Phorcydes share among them one tooth and one eye. At any time one or two Phorcydes have neither an eye nor a tooth. How then can the threedimensional, unsightly ugliness in its mixture of being without contour or shape be ‘transferred’ (8013) into an image, onto stone, onto paper or even in a process like mimicry from person to person?48 In Goethe’s ingenious solution to this problem, Mephistopheles’ mimicry of the ‘monstrous trinity’ (7975) of the Phorcydes becomes possible through the about-face from a frontal view to the proﬁle. In proﬁle the primal ugliness gains contour. The monstrous trinity divides into two dimensions: in proﬁle the monstrous becomes condensed, and thus transferable and ready for reproduction. Here, the ornamental grotesque tests the boundaries of different media in the form of a three-dimensional space and a plane surface, hovering between them.49 Reproducibility is its precondition. In this way, Mephistopheles can use the ornamental grotesque to banish the feeling of alienation that resulted from the experience of the aesthetic grotesque. His devilish trick pushes back the horror in favour of the surprise effects resulting from the play of variation. In a draft, Goethe imagines Mephistopheles saying ‘it is, if it succeeds, the most cunning of my tricks’ (P 517). Part of this cunning trick is the inter-medial integration of the ornamental grotesque into the aesthetic grotesque. Mephistopheles’ mimicry not only elicits an irresolvable and paradoxical double determination between the fantastic and sensual, between the mimetic and amimetic, between illusion and delusion;50 it maintains at the same time the aesthetic grotesque. Mimicry represents a formation of the grotesque as an attempt to banish the demonic from the world by evoking it.51 Goethe thus does not see the discontinuity that Kayser posits between the ornamental ﬁgure in visual arts and the aesthetic grotesque. In fact, Goethe actually considered the possibility of representing Mephistopheles’ mimicry of the ugly in art: Ich eile nun und such im vollem Lauf Der neuesten Tage kühnsten Meisel auf

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angela c. borchert Mit Gott und Göttin laßt euchs dann gefallen Gesellt zu stehn in heiligen Tempelhallen.

(P 523)

In haste I hurry forth and rushing seek The most courageous chisel that these times can yield; Allow yourselves the pleasure then to stand With god and goddess in holy temple halls.

Goethe, however, omitted these lines in the ﬁnal version, not because ‘poetic metamorphosis’ is generally unrepresentable,52 but because he wanted to avoid ridiculing the effect of the aesthetic grotesque created by the imitation of the Phorcydes in mime. Had he allowed this, he would have shifted to the comic, just as if he had allowed the Sphinxes to see the transformation of Mephistopheles, as originally planned (P 509). The desired effect – the comic tipping into horror characteristic of the aesthetic grotesque – is better achieved by Mephistopheles’ exit lines: ‘Since I must hide from public view / I’ll go and scare the devils down in hell’ (8032–3). With this statement, however, the grotesque spiral turns back to the ornamental. One of the structural elements of the ornamental grotesque that informs the aesthetic grotesque here is the combination of different cultures in media.53 Mephistopheles, himself an incarnation of the Nordic grotesque with his shrivelled horse’s hoof, had experienced the aesthetic grotesque encountering the grotesque ﬁgures of antiquity in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. But Mephistopheles not only meets Homunculus’ challenge: ‘Romantic spectres are the only ones you know / But any proper ghost has to be classical’ (6946–7); he exceeds it when the Nordic devil mimics antique ugliness. This imitation seemingly erases both the ethnological differentiation of north and south and the gender differentiation between Mephistopheles as ‘Chaos’ well-loved son’ (8027) and the Phorcydes as Chaos’ daughters (8028). This is how antique ugliness needs to be hidden. However, this means frightening the Nordic devils through Mephistopheles’ mimicry of antique ugliness. Goethe employs the structural potential of the ornamental grotesque to perpetuate the experience of the aesthetic grotesque through repetition. Through his use of space, of surprise and recognition, opposition and uniﬁcation, Goethe moves the play to another level of organization. This is seen in the ornamental grotesque in the invention of festive processions. Going beyond Geoffrey Harpham, Günter Oesterle reads arabesques as an artiﬁcial suspension between the modus of the ornamentation and the modus of the image, which changes, often with unnoticeable transitions from one dimension to the next. It is a complicated

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interplay of creative factors that demand and hinder illusions. Oesterle emphasizes the arbitrary yet calculating transition from one method of representation to the other, from one logic of perception to the other.54 Mephistopheles’ plan to scare his Nordic compatriots provides the transition banishing the aesthetic grotesque by exploring the ornamental grotesque and its metamorphic integration into the arabesque in the experiences of Homunculus. conclusion Throughout his life, Goethe had and expressed a great interest in and ambivalent relationship to the arabesque and the grotesque. He admired the artistic and ludistic potential of the grotesque, but was at the same time alarmed by its character as a boundary phenomenon of the artistic. In the Propyläen he even speaks of the arabesque as ‘sins of antiquity’ (FA 1:18). As a reaction to the alarming disquiet of the grotesque, one can ascertain moves to integrate it or at least to theoretically attenuate it. Is this also true for the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’? While working on Faust ii, Goethe allowed himself to be inspired by collections of images from the Renaissance on the one hand and on the other by the masques which he himself organized at the Weimar court. We can see this inspiration – if not in the iconographical details, then in the overall composition of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, the dramatic confrontation of Nordic and antique ghost worlds, the persiﬂage of humanistic Bildungs-knowledge, the sequence of ﬁgures, and ﬁnally the meandering ramble, the ‘Schweifen’. The ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, however, does not consist only of the grotesque representation of the conﬂict of cultures between the ancient and the Nordic ghost worlds. The three adventurers experience three quite different ‘marvels’ (7069).55 There is ﬁrst the world of Faust, for whom the grotesque appearance of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ reduces itself to the colossal and the archaic heroic. There is, on the other side, Homunculus, who does not experience his process of becoming as a grotesque phenomenon, since it is appropriate to the process of metamorphosis found in nature. These two world-views – Faust’s world-vision ﬁltered through memory and the world of arabesque and metamorphosis appropriate to evolution for Homunculus – are not grotesque. Both are interwoven as bodies of text by the grotesque confrontation of the Nordic with the ancient world of ghosts. But, for both, this world of the grotesque is highly selective, in that it limits itself to the non-ugly. Thus one could ﬁrst

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consider this a classicist cushioning of the grotesque. But this is only true to a limited extent. Incited by the polemic confrontation with the Romantic, Goethe dares to create a grotesque ﬁgure that surpasses the Romantic grotesque. The antique grotesque chaos is in its hermaphroditic mixture of shapelessness and ugliness larger than the Nordic grotesque. The potential of the antique grotesque proved to be signiﬁcant. We can trace its far-reaching effect into the twentieth-century controversy about a non-Eurocentric, non-Nordic grotesque. When Ernst Bloch reviews Carl Einstein’s programmatic work Negerplastik (1915), he demands that an ulterior grotesque be developed similar to the Australian aboriginal grotesques. Bloch characterizes these as ‘extinct sins, before which the vilest phantasies are mute’, and thus echoes Mephistopheles’ surprise at the sight of the Phorcydes: ‘Can one who sees this monstrous trinity / Still ﬁnd the vilest forms of sin / In any way repulsive?’ (7973–5).56 Goethe’s antique grotesque becomes one key to an aesthetic conception of modernity. notes 1. Wilhelm Emrich, Die Symbolik von Faust ii. Sinn und Vorformen, 5th edn, Königstein: Athenäum, 1981; Heinz Schlaffer, Faust Zweiter Teil. Die Allegorie des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1981; Albrecht Schöne, Faust. Kommentare, Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1994; Ulrich Gaier, Kommentar, Faust ii, in Goethe. Faustdichtungen, Stuttgart: Reclam, 1999; cited as FR-II. 2. Jane K. Brown, Goethe’s Faust. The German Tragedy, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986, 156–62. 3. Helmut Schanze, Goethes Dramatik. Theater der Erinnerung, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1989, 179–82. 4. All further references to Faust are by line number from FT. Stuart Atkins’ 1984 translation of Faust ii is referenced, modiﬁed if necessary. Apart from Faust ii, all translations are mine. 5. Hans Arens, Kommentar zu Goethes Faust ii, Heidelberg: Carl Winter Verlag, 1989, 417; Schanze, Goethes Dramatik, 184; Steffen Schneider, ‘Mnemonische Imaginationen in Goethes Faust ii. Eine Lektüre der Klassischen Walpurgisnacht’, Goethe-Jahrbuch 119 (2002), 77; Luciano Zagari, ‘Natur und Geschichte. Metamorphotisches und Archetypisches in der Klassischen Walpurgisnacht’, in Bausteine zu einem neuen Goethe, ed. Paolo Chiarini, Frankfurt am Main: Athenäum, 1987, 156. 6. Zagari, ‘Natur und Geschichte’, 179. 7. Ernst Robert Curtius, Europäische Literatur und lateinisches Mittelalter, Tübingen: Francke Verlag, 1948; Karl Reinhardt, ‘Die klassische Walpurgisnacht. Entstehung und Bedeutung’, in Tradition und Geist. Gesammelte Essays zur Dichtung, ed. Carl Becker, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960, 309–56.

Goethe and the grotesque 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

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Arens, Kommentar, 406. Reinhardt, ‘Die klassische Walpurgisnacht’, 309–10. Schneider, ‘Mnemonische Imaginationen’, 77. Schanze, Goethes Dramatik, 184. Wolfgang Kayser, Das Groteske. Seine Gestaltung in Malerei und Dichtung, Tübingen: Stauffenburg Verlag, 2004; see also Dominique Iehl, ‘Goethe et le grotesque’, Litteratures 12 (1985), 95–106; Peter Firchow, ‘Conrad, Goethe and the German Grotesque’, Comparative Literature Studies 13 (1976), 60–74. Oesterle’s edition of Kayser’s Das Groteske provides an up-to-date bibliography of scholarship (xxxi–lii). 13. Kayser, Das Groteske, 32. 14. Ibid., 472–94. 15. Ibid., 20–9. 16. The grotesque is a form of antique ornamental pattern found ﬁrst in excavations in Rome in Nero’s Domus Aurea after 1480. With the discovery of Herculaneum in 1738 and Pompeii in 1748, the great interest in the grace and brilliance of the antique arabesque and grotesque plant and animal ornamentation developed into a decorative fashion across Europe. The ornamentation permeated everyday culture and the culture of festivities. See Elisheva Rosen, ‘Grotesk’, trans. Jörg W. Rademacher and Maria Kopp, in Ästhetische Grundbegriffe. Historisches Wörterbuch in sieben Bänden, ed. Karlheinz Bark et al., Weimar: Metzler, 2001, ii, 881; Günter Oesterle, ‘Arabeske, Schrift und Poesie in E. T. A. Hoffmanns Kunstmärchen “Der Goldne Topf”’, Athenäum. Jahrbuch für Romantik 1 (1991), 273. 17. Kayser, Das Groteske, 22. 18. Günter Oesterle, ‘Zur Intermedialität des Grotesken’, introd. to Kayser, Das Groteske, xviii. Mikhail Bakhtin’s conception of the grotesque is developed on the basis of the work of François Rabelais (1494–1553), whose Pantagruel can be read as an intertext to the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. See John R. Williams, ‘The Flatulence of Seismos. Goethe, Rabelais and the “Geranomachia”’, Germanisch-Romanische Monatsschrift 64 (1983), 106–10. However, the intermedial component is lacking from the outset in Bakhtin’s conception of the grotesque. 19. Kayser, Das Groteske, 55. 20. Ibid., 50–1. 21. Andreas Gipper, ‘Von wirklichen und eingebildeten Monstren. Über die Rolle der Imagination in Diderots Lettre sur les aveugles’, in Historische Anthropologie und Literatur, ed. Rudolf Behrens and Roland Galle, Würzburg: Königstein & Neumann, 1995, 167. 22. Elise von Keudell, Goethe als Benutzer der Weimarer Bibliothek. Ein Verzeichnis der von ihm entliehenen Werke, Weimar: H. Böhlaus Nachf., 1931, 350, 354. 23. Keudell, Goethe als Benutzer, 324. 24. Karl Philipp Moritz, Götterlehre oder mythologische Dichtungen der Alten, ed. Horst Günther, Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1999, 23. 25. Keudell, Goethe als Benutzer, 426, 442.

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26. Ibid., 285–6, 331–2. 27. See Arens, Kommentar, 405. 28. Reinhardt, ‘Die klassische Walpurgisnacht’, 314; Dorothea HölscherLohmeyer, Faust und die Welt. Der 2. Teil der Dichtung. Eine Anleitung zum Lesen des Textes, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1975, 206–77; Arens, Kommentar, 561–2. 29. FR-II, 801. 30. Carsten-Peter Warncke, Die ornamentale Groteske in Deutschland. 1500–1650, Berlin: Spiess, 1979, 28–53. 31. See Roswitha Schieb, ‘Probentagebuch’, in Peter Stein inszeniert Faust, ed. Roswitha Schieb, Cologne: DuMont, 2000, 144–51. 32. Warncke, Die ornamentale Groteske, 20–78. 33. Ibid., 54–5, 78, 82, 86–7. 34. Frances Barasch, The Grotesque. A Study in Meanings, The Hague: Mouton, 1971, 40. In fact, the word ‘grotesque’ only begins to replace ‘antique’ or ‘anticke’ in sixteenth-century England at the time when Christopher Marlowe (1564–93) published his Doctor Faustus. ‘Faustian grotesquerie’ produces an ‘old comic chill’ in ‘ludicrously horrifying situations’ (Barasch, The Grotesque, 47). The term ‘antiquus’ is furthermore an adjective for the Christian devil, whose protean characteristics link him to the antique representation of chaos. See Rainer Lengeler, Tragische Wirklichkeit als groteske Verfremdung bei Shakespeare, Cologne: Böhlau, 1964, 25–7. 35. Stuart Atkins, ‘Goethe, Aristophanes and the “Classical Walpurgisnacht”’, Comparative Literature 6 (1954), 76. 36. Friedrich Piel, Die Ornament-Groteske in der Italienischen Renaissance. Zu ihrer kategorialen Struktur und Entstehung, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1962, 79–83. 37. See Reinhardt, ‘Die klassische Walpurgisnacht’, 355; Thomas Gelzer, ‘Aristophanes in der Klassischen Walpurgisnacht’, in J. W. Goethe. Fünf Studien zum Werk, ed. Anselm Maler, Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1983, 80; Andreas Anglet, ‘Der reﬂektierte Mythos in Goethes “Klassischer Walpurgisnacht”’, Jahrbuch des Freien Deutschen Hochstifts 32 (1992), 142–4. 38. See FR-II, 729–31. 39. Warncke, Die ornamentale Groteske, 87. 40. Anglet, ‘Der reﬂektierte Mythos’, 153, 159; Arens, Kommentar, 403; Zagari, ‘Natur und Geschichte’, 161. 41. See Kayser, Das Groteske, 24. 42. Katharina Mommsen argues that Faust experiences the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ as a dream. See Natur- und Fabelreich in Faust ii, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1968, 117; Luciano Zagari calls it a voyage into collective memory (163–4). Gaier’s Kantian approach considers Faust to be split between reproductive imagination (memory) and productive imagination (dreams) (FR-II, 669), allowing the focus to move to perception. 43. With regards to the plan that Faust would encounter Medusa (P 449), and with it new forms of the grotesque, please see Chapter 11 in this volume. 44. Mommsen, Natur- und Fabelreich, 119. 45. See Kayser, Das Groteske, 36.

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46. FR-II, 748–9. 47. Kayser, Das Groteske, 199. 48. The more common interpretation is that an actual mask is created, so that Mephistopheles puts on a mask like an antique actor (Anglet, ‘Der Reﬂektierte Mythos’, 139) or creates a mask by his own mimicry (FR-II, 670). 49. See Oesterle, ‘Intermedialität’, xxi. 50. Angela Borchert, ‘Grotesque’, in Feminist Encyclopedia of German Literature, ed. Friederike Eigler and Susanne Kord, London: Greenwood Press, 1997, 221. 51. Kayser, Das Groteske, 203. 52. Friedmann Harzer, ‘“Hinweg zu Proteus!” Goethes “Poetische Metamorphosen” in der Klassischen Walpurgisnacht’, in Goethe nach 1999. Positionen und Perspektiven, ed. Matthias Luserke, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2001, 36. 53. Oesterle, ‘Intermedialität’, xx. 54. Oesterle, ‘Arabeske, Schrift und Poesie’, 90–3. 55. See Arens, Kommentar, 415. 56. Ernst Bloch, ‘Negerplastik’, in Die Argonauten. Eine Monatsschrift, ed. Ernst Blass, Heidelberg: Verlag von Richard Weissbach, 7 (1915), 10–20. The exact quotations are, for Bloch, ‘ausgestorbene Sünden, von denen selbst die verworfensten Phantasien [. . .] versagen’ (13) and, for Goethe, does one ﬁnd ‘urverworfenen Sünden / Im mindesten noch häßlich / Wenn man dies Dreigetüm erblickt?’ (7973–5).

chapter 11

Re-deﬁning classicism: antiquity in Faust ii under the sign of the Medusa Ernst Osterkamp

This chapter enquires into the image of antiquity which Goethe employed in order to come to terms with the experience, central to his age, that the horrors of history seem not to decline over time but to increase. Classicism generally assumes not only that antiquity represents the aesthetic model for modernity, it also offers an ideal of human perfection that modernity must emulate. The classicist understanding of artistic representation prevalent in Goethe’s time was, however, challenged by the apparent failures of two tenets of philosophical thought: the striving after human perfection, and the humanism of the optimistic Enlightenment. If the underlying picture of antiquity was to serve as an artistic mirror of even the most advanced aesthetic, political and social problems of the age, it would have to incorporate the historical resistance to the Enlightenment’s very concept of humanity. Goethe experienced the nineteenth century not as increasingly humane but, on the contrary, as increasing in its horrors. In the paralipomena to Faust ii, he captured this experience in an image that gave an ancient myth a striking modernity: the image of the incessantly growing Medusa. The picture of antiquity he developed in the second and third acts can be understood as an aesthetic attempt to adapt classicism to the historical realization that the growing Medusa could not in his time be stopped. The ﬁrst part of this chapter locates the Medusa image in the original conception of Faust ii ; the second part describes the conception of history implied by this image and its consequences for Goethe’s understanding of antiquity as he develops it in his play. In the paralipomena to the second act of Faust ii, Goethe sketched an ‘aesthetics of horror’ up to a point the surpassing or transgressing of which would have literally brought about the death of the audience. In 1827, Goethe decided to publish the completed third act of Faust ii in volume iv of the Ausgabe letzter Hand under the title Helena, klassisch-romantische 156

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Phantasmagorie. Goethe was therefore obliged to explain how the plot of this ‘interlude to Faust’ related to the already published Part i. On 15 December 1826, he sketched a short introductory note to the Phantasmagoria based on several brief drafts for the second act that he had written a month previously. In this sketch, he detailed for the ﬁrst time the plot and motifs of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. Just two days later, on 17 December, he revised and greatly expanded this introduction, adding several important scenes. These drafts and introductions, with a teeming abundance of characters and episodes, were created in just six weeks (readers are seldom given the opportunity to follow so closely Goethe’s creativity in actu). Goethe decided to confront Faust and Mephistopheles with ‘all the monsters of antiquity’ (P 123C, 442). Here, his creativity, supported by all his knowledge of antiquity, advanced with obvious pleasure to areas it had hitherto carefully avoided. Following the principle of escalation, Goethe wanted to increase the horror in the second act. The act takes the audience from Wagner’s laboratory via the dark moonlit ﬁelds of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ to Hades, where Faust, as a ‘second Orpheus’, pleads with Proserpina for the release of Helena (P 123B, 430). In December 1830, Goethe ﬁnally abandoned this concept, when Galatea’s maritime celebration of life and love replaced Proserpina’s realm of the dead. Already in the earliest version of his introductory note, Goethe developed the panoply of the ‘monsters of antiquity’ which Faust and Mephistopheles would meet in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ (P 123B, 426). What Faust would have encountered in Hades, however, if he had come to ‘Proserpina’s throne’ is only vaguely suggested (P 123B, 430). This was certainly due to the absence of literary precedents for the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’; the image of the journey to Hades, by contrast, had been prepared by literary tradition. By using the key phrase ‘second Orpheus’, Goethe had already given sufﬁcient clues as to how he intended to elaborate the Hades scene, namely, as the ﬁnale of an opera enriched with ‘boundless incidences’. But he must have quickly realized that the enrichment of the Hades scene by these ‘boundless incidents’ would pose a genuine artistic problem. The underworld of the nineteenth century could no longer be what it had been under the ancien régime; the well-ordered movements of a Gluck-like ballet of furies could no longer offer an aesthetically plausible image of Hades in a world full of political strife and social conﬂict, revolutions and wars. So, in the few hours he had in the two days between the ﬁrst and second versions of his introductory note, Goethe worked both on emphasizing the ‘tumult’ (P 123C, 444) of the ancient ‘monsters’ (P 123B, 426) and on grappling with

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the task of visualizing the horror that awaits Faust on his way to the Orcus. To boost the tumult of the monsters in the ‘Walpurgis Night’ was to humorously neutralize the threat posed by any individual one. By contrast, the death that reigned in the underworld created an absolute horror that could only be captured by an image of the highest existential seriousness; multiplying the horrors in individual episodes would have meant relativizing each at the same time. In the second version, Goethe therefore condensed the horrors of Hades into a single picture of absolute terror. In the text of the introductory note, it was Manto, daughter of Tiresias, who guided Faust into the underworld: All of a sudden Manto covers her protégé with the veil and pushes him off the path against the rocks, such that he fears he will be asphyxiated and die. Upon uncovering him soon after, she explains this precaution; the head of the Gorgon, growing bigger and wider with each century, had been coming towards them through the canyon; Proserpina likes to keep it away from the festive plateau because the congregated ghosts and monsters, unnerved by its appearance, would quickly disperse. Manto herself, of much talent, would not dare to look at it; if Faust had faced it, he would have been destroyed at once, such that, of his body and soul, nothing would be found again in the universe. (P 123C, 449)

The origin of this vision of absolute horror, unequalled anywhere in Goethe’s oeuvre, has of course long been known to philologists: it is the ninth Canto of Dante’s Inferno. What Odysseus, in the Nekyia episode of the Odyssey, merely feared – that Proserpina would send the horrendous Gorgon to meet him1 – is actually experienced by Dante. When Dante suddenly encounters the Medusa, it is Virgil who covers his eyes: ‘Turn thyself round, and keep thine eyes closed shut, For if the Gorgon appear, and thou shouldst see it, No more returning upward would there be.’ Thus said the Master; and he turned me round Himself, and trusted not unto my hands So far as not to blind me with his own.2

To convey the horror of the ancient Hades, Goethe returned to the imaginary inventory of a Christian epic that was otherwise alien to him, an epic that had created a vision of the horrors of the Christian hell by populating it even with demons of antiquity. Thus the Medusa, mythologically enriched with the terrible suffering depicted in the Inferno, enters Goethe’s Hades. Goethe pushed Dante’s imaginary world, however, to a poetic extreme that was supported neither by ancient myth nor by Christian theology; instead, it responded to his experience of his own

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historical age. This extremity of horror was physically transferred to Faust’s experience in the presence of the Medusa, even though he never actually sees her himself. In fact, throughout the entire play, Faust never comes as close to a violent death as in this unwritten scene. Goethe heightened the horror of the Medusa in a threefold manner. Whereas Dante integrated the Gorgon into the Inferno’s well-organized apparatus of suffering, Goethe isolated her from the other mythological ﬁgures, the ‘ghosts and monsters’ (P 123C, 449). Among the monsters she has no equal. Were she to appear, she would disrupt at once the festivities of the ‘Walpurgis Night’. The horror she emanates is absolute, not relative. Secondly, whereas in ancient mythology the look of the Medusa turns those she sees into stone, so that the living body becomes a dead sculpture and is immortalized, the look of Goethe’s Gorgon has the power of ultimate destruction, approaching the effects of a nuclear bomb. It dissolves body and soul into nothingness. This is no longer the ancient Medusa, but a highly modern force of destruction, equipped with the annihilating aim of a laser gun that eliminates not only the individual, but also any concept of the individual. Thirdly, although the devastating powers of the Medusa are already beyond comprehension, her destructive potential continues to grow. This vision of horror, created when Goethe was 27 years old, is eternally expanded and drawn into a totalizing perspective – when Manto observes that the head of the Gorgon has been ‘growing bigger and wider with each century’. Goethe’s imagery was seldom closer than it was here to a fundamental historical pessimism. Proserpina may have been keeping the Gorgon in Hades, but the Medusa is vigorously pushed forward into the canyon that leads from the underworld into the dark ﬁelds of history, ﬁelds that would be depicted as battleﬁelds in the second act of Faust ii. This mythical picture suggests that the destructive horror of the Medusa cannot be kept at bay by the Enlightenment; it grows uncontrollably, and with it grows the sum of historical destruction that endangers not just bodies, but souls. It comes as no surprise, then, that even Faust is scared to death, for any pact with the devil will seem harmless in comparison with an annihilating power that develops its destructive potential independently of all contractual rationality. None of the changes Goethe made to Dante’s invention are explained by the mythological tradition; nor do we ﬁnd a draft for those changes in Goethe’s most important source for mythological knowledge, namely, Benjamin Hederich’s Gründliches mythologisches Lexikon. The changes are understandable, I am suggesting, only as a response by Goethe to his experience of his own historical times.

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That Faust’s encounter with the Medusa is crucial for Goethe’s understanding of the journey to Hades is further evidenced in the few lines he actually sketches of their encounter. We hear Faust asking, ‘Why are you covering me in your coat? And pushing me violently off the path,’ and Manto answering, ‘I’m saving you from greater harm. / Honour wise guidance’ (P 161, 531). It is difﬁcult to know how Goethe actually envisaged the theatrical realization of this encounter with the Medusa. The drafts suggest only that Faust was to be in the immediate vicinity of her. Goethe may have planned to let her appear on stage, just as many decades before he had staged the Earth Spirit. This possibility is further supported by another paralipomenon from Goethe’s hand that is connected to the scene when Faust sees ‘something giant and long’ protruding from the dark (P 160, 530). That Goethe might have wanted this would have meant that the audience would have suffered what Faust was spared having to face: the petrifying image of the Medusa. This highlights how radical Goethe’s idea was: in meeting this mythical picture of absolute horror, the audience would have been confronted with the ever-growing horror of history from which one cannot turn one’s gaze. It is suggestive that Goethe envisaged the encounter in the Hades scene with Proserpina, Queen of the Underworld, very differently. Two drafts for the second act, dictated in February and June 1830, show that while the horrible head of the Medusa appears on stage, the ﬁgure of Proserpina always remains veiled (P 125, 510; P 157, 525). The ﬁrst draft indicates the reasons for this: ‘Head of the Medusa / Proserpina veiled / Manto celebrating her beauty’ (P 125, 510). Proserpina is veiled because she is beautiful, yet beauty has no place in the underworld; hence Proserpina reveals her beauty only when she returns periodically from the underworld to the light of day. In the draft for the Hades scene, Goethe casts Medusa and Proserpina as contrasting ﬁgures. The horrors of the inferno appear with all their power, while beauty hides itself. Yet Hades is the place where Helena is also housed, so that Medusa and Helena, absolute horror and absolute beauty, can be seen as contrasting ﬁgures. Proserpina and Helena both show that the earthly existence of beauty is only of short duration, that beauty must eventually return to the underworld. Horror, however, continually grows, and there is no Perseus in sight to halt its destructive force. Towards the end of 1830, Goethe decided to ﬁnish the ‘Walpurgis Night’ act not with Faust’s journey to Hades, but rather with Galatea’s maritime festivities. As a result, the appearance of the Medusa was dropped, and with it a motif that was meant to connect the ‘Walpurgis Night’ of Faust i signiﬁcantly with the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. In the German ‘Walpurgis Night’, Faust encounters ‘a pale, lovely girl’ (4184) with ‘the

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eyes of someone dead’ (4195).3 To stop Faust from recognizing that the girl is an image of the dead Gretchen, Mephistopheles pretends that it is really the ‘magic image’ (4190) of the Medusa: Ihm zu begegnen ist nicht gut; Vom starren Blick erstarrt des Menschen Blut, Und er wird fast in Stein verkehrt, Von der Medusa hast du ja gehört.

(4191–4)

It is dangerous to meet up with it; Its stare congeals a person’s blood And almost turns him into stone – You’ve surely heard about Medusa!

For Mephistopheles – whose limited competence in matters of classical mythology is demonstrated, for example, by his use of the relativizing adverb ‘almost’ – Medusa is nothing but a mythical quotation, known from hearsay. As such, she poses no real historical threat. The recall of the ancient myth is only supposed to cover up the horrendous reality for which Faust bears responsibility. In the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, on the other hand, the myth of the Medusa becomes an allegory for the destructive force of history that can no longer be tamed. In the ﬁrst part of the tragedy, the Medusa myth functions as a deceptive image; in the second part, the myth reveals its power as an interpretation of history by condensing the destructive potential of history into a single, tight image. It would have been surprising had Goethe ignored the Medusa when he planned, in December 1826, to introduce ‘all the monsters of antiquity’ (P 123, 442) into the ‘Walpurgis Night’ scene, because, in that year, he was particularly affected by the magic of her. On 21 December 1825, Goethe ﬁnally received a long-awaited copy of the Medusa Rondanini. While in Rome he had owned a plaster copy. Having received the new copy, as a present from the Bavarian King Ludwig, Goethe shared this ‘high pleasure’ with many visitors and friends.4 The new copy reminded him of his early period in Rome, yet his thank-you letter to the king shows just how dramatically his view of the Medusa Rondanini had changed. In place of the psychologizing view with which he had sought earlier to capture the ‘antagonism between death and life, between pain and pleasure’ (MA 15, 642) in Medusa’s expression, he now combined historical and symbolic observations so as to sustain his more mature aesthetic vision, which takes the depth of the image’s symbolic content to derive from the original age of the sculpture. The Medusa Rondanini was an early imperial copy of a Gorgon mask dating back to the ﬁfth century bc. But Goethe referred to

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it in his letter to the king as a ‘signiﬁcant, ancient image’ (WA 4:40, 194), hence a work of art with manifold symbolic content that stems from a ‘mythische Urzeit’. ‘I lift my eyes and see the ominous ﬁgure. The head of Medusa, otherwise threatening in its disastrous effects, appears to me beneﬁcent and therapeutic’ (WA 4:40, 195).5 Apparently, the poet could do what Faust was forbidden from doing: he could look at the Medusa and recognize in her an ‘uraltes’ (ancient) image, which nonetheless symbolized as ‘ahnungsvollste Gestalt’ (most ominous ﬁgure) the problems of his own times. It was precisely the closeness that the image had to a ‘mythische Urzeit’ that guaranteed its contemporary historical signiﬁcance. That this was so explains, moreover, why only archaic and sub-Olympian mythological ﬁgures appear in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, and why the cultivated and reﬁned world of Olympus is excluded. The head of the Medusa, so threatening in the myth, turns into a ‘signiﬁcant, ancient image’ and, as art, becomes ‘wohlthätig und heilsam’ just because it displays the power to interpret history. It is no surprise, then, that this extreme example of an ancient aesthetics of horror should have assumed a signiﬁcant place in the ‘Walpurgis Night’ scene. The process I have described was characteristic of Goethe’s general artistic attitude towards the mythical creatures in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’: he used the timelessness of myths for his own purposes and transformed the archaic creatures into contemporaries. These ﬁgures, rather than Olympian gods, assumed a signiﬁcant and ominous appearance. Goethe sees in them what he sees in the Medusa: signiﬁcant ancient images that reﬂect upon his own age. Thus Faust, upon initially encountering the mythical appearance of ‘what’s ugly and fantastic’ (7157) – the Sphinxes and Sirens, the Ants and Griffons that populate the Pharsalian Fields – relives the experience that Goethe himself had when he unwrapped the copy of the Medusa Rondanini. Seeing the archaic monsters is not threatening. Rather, it proves surprisingly beneﬁcial and therapeutic; they are signiﬁcant symbols of humanity’s unresolved problem. Faust says: Wie wunderbar! Das Anschaun tut mir Gnüge, Im Widerwärtigen große tüchtige Züge. Ich ahne schon ein günstiges Geschick; Wohin versetzt mich dieser ernste Blick? . . . Vom frischen Geiste fühl’ ich mich durchdrungen, Gestalten groß, groß die Erinnerung. (7181–90) How strange that contemplation satisﬁes me thus – Even in ugliness there’s strength and grandeur! Transported by this solemn spectacle,

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I sense already that the future is auspicious. . . . I feel sustained by new vitality – The forms are grand, and grand what they recall.

Faust looks at the archaic and sub-Olympian creatures of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ as instantiating the central notion of Goethe’s morphology, namely, Gestalt. From his letter to King Ludwig we know Goethe saw the Medusa similarly. The creatures may be ugly, yet they are fully shaped, organic wholes. Faust expresses their special signiﬁcance by using in just a few lines of description the epithet ‘grand’ three times and the term ‘strength’ once. Goethe could not have expressed his appreciation with higher words. But just as Goethe projects his own positive view of the ‘ugly’ mythological creatures onto Faust, who is so hungry for beauty, so Mephisto’s sarcastic response to Faust’s sudden sympathy for the archaic and fabulous creatures could just as well have been aimed at Goethe: Sonst hättest Du dergleichen weggeﬂucht, Doch jetzo scheint es dir zu frommen . . .

(7191–2)

Time was you’d have abominated shapes like these Yet now you seem to thrive on them.

Mephistopheles is right about both Faust and Goethe – both would have ‘abominated’ such images in times past. At the time of the Propyläen, when Goethe wrote the ﬁrst draft of the Helena act as a ‘Satirical Drama’ with the title ‘Helena im Mittelalter’ (Helena in the Middle Ages), his classicism combined the notion of Gestalt with principles of internal law and harmony. The notion of form thus coincides with the notion of ideal beauty. In the 1798 introduction to the Propyläen, Goethe wrote: ‘Comparative anatomy has united all organic natures under one idea; it leads us from form to form, and while we contemplate near or far-removed natures, we rise above them all, to see their individualities in one ideal’ (MA 6:2, 15).6 The aesthetic classicism implied here was intended to force upon the human ﬁgure more beautiful proportions, ‘the nobler forms, the higher characters’, and stay within ‘the circle of symmetry, excellence, signiﬁcance and perfection’ (MA 6:2, 17).7 From this perspective, the irregular, the ugly and the repulsive conﬂicted with the notion of Gestalt. During and after his classicist decade, Goethe’s conception of Gestalt was dominated by a notion of ideal beauty that he drew from antiquity. He went so far as to say that German artists who are unable to draw on ancient art or copies of such art would ﬁnd ‘the transition from the Formless to Form . . . hard, nay almost impossible’ (MA 6:2, 19).8

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In the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, the situation changed fundamentally. Among the panoply of mythological ﬁgures which Goethe ordered onto the stage, one certainly looks in vain for beautiful proportions and noble shapes, regularity and perfection; we do not see these again until we reach the ﬁnal scene, ‘Rocky Inlets of the Aegean Sea’. And yet, in their ultimate ugliness and irregularity, these creatures embody the grandeur and liveliness, i.e., the very characteristics of the forms that Goethe, in his classicist period, attributes to ideal beauty. Thus Mephistopheles’ objection that ‘Time was you’d have abominated shapes like these / Yet now you seem to thrive on them’ is completely justiﬁed. What has changed here? Did Goethe give up his classicist credo to propound in Faust ii a romantic aesthetics of ugliness? This is unlikely, not least because, if that had been his intention, he would have avoided the world of antiquity altogether. Instead, both the second and third acts are dominated by the encounter of modernity with the ﬁgures of antiquity. Goethe radically expands the range of characters drawn from antiquity to reach beyond the scope of ideal beauty. He reveals the fundamental change in the relation of modernity to antiquity and by doing so redeﬁnes his classicism. This change was a necessary response to something apparently urgent in Goethe’s view, the fact that in his artistic endeavours he had to accommodate his contemporary historical experience, the sort of experience, I have been arguing, that he put into the image of the Medusa. During the classical decade, Goethe’s classicism was primarily founded on Johann Joachim Winckelmann’s work, which idealized Ancient Greece. Yet Goethe also paid close attention to, and absorbed into his work, the rapid advances and conclusions of contemporary archaeology. Despite the strongly normative component that remained part of Goethe’s art criticism until his death, the concept of antiquity he used was dynamic and ﬂexible, caught up, as it was, in the tensions between classicist aesthetics and aesthetic historicism. Goethe remained surprisingly faithful to the maxim that ‘we are to depart as little as possible from classical ground’ (MA 6:2, 9),9 the maxim he offered in the introduction to the Propyläen. But the archaeological ground was rapidly expanding and being restructured; its excavation led to many surprising discoveries. Goethe proﬁted enormously from this expansion; it deeply affected the understanding of the classics during the early decades of the new century. One could almost think of the ‘classical ground’ Goethe did not want to depart from as volcanic terrain; and yet Goethe, the anti-volcanist, stood steadfast on the shifting ground, continuously enriching his image of classical antiquity with the newest discoveries.

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Goethe was remarkably open to any new ﬁnding or discovery, even if it contradicted his aesthetic maxims. He stood in sharp contrast to dogmatic classicists like Johann Heinrich Voß, who focused on Homer and the autonomy of Greek mythology and wanted to maintain the purity of the classical ground. In his battle with Friedrich Creuzer’s romantic investigation of myths, Voß declared that all images of demons with wings, grimaces and mixed imagery were post-classical signs of aesthetic decline.10 Goethe was willing, rather, to adapt his principles to the ﬁndings, so that his Greece of 1830 could not be what it had been in 1800.11 Following the archaeological advances, Goethe began to see Greece as more archaic and historical than he had hitherto; his view, one might say, became less idealized and more scientiﬁc or empirical. Goethe must have been pleased with this development: the more scientiﬁc approach to Greece accorded well with Winckelmann’s general research programme. The new archaeological surveys of the classical ground shaped the aesthetic form of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. In its textual landscape, one ﬁnds both an archaic and a historical terrain; each of the ‘ugly and fantastic’ ancient monsters that return, if not to light then at least to life, demonstrate the depths of their archaic existence. Yet they also accord with modern archaeological knowledge. No surprise is it then that these ﬁgures are all ironists, for how else could one bridge the gap between the archaic and the modern consciousness of being archaic? The ancient ghosts are, on the one hand, timeless, like archaic pre-classical myths; on the other hand, they are historical through and through, because philology has ﬁnally come to recognize them as the archaic pre-classical, and, as they are not timebound, they are completely aware of being identiﬁed as archaic. ‘Our line died out before her time’ (7197) is how the Sphinxes respond to Faust’s question about Helena, which is to say, self-reﬂexively and conscious of their historical position. On the other hand, Chiron, when confronted with Faust’s bookish knowledge about Helena’s age, offers a sharp aside about the ‘philologists’ (7426) and insists on the timelessness of myths protected by the creative power of poetry: ‘poets ignore constraints of time’ (7433). This double character of the ancient monsters, their archaic timelessness and historical self-consciousness, means that Faust and Mephisto must struggle to position themselves in the ironic textual landscape of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. Without a guide, they would be lost. But if the archaic and the historical jointly deﬁne the landscape of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, there is no room in it for the classical notion of ideal beauty: in the second act, Proserpina only appears behind veils, while Helena has no place at all.

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For Goethe, the ‘ugly and the fantastic’, the ‘repulsive’ and demonic cannot be expelled from the classical ground in the way Voß suggested; instead, all of Goethe’s efforts aim aesthetically at integrating the counterclassical moment into the classical. This is consistent with the high accord the ﬁne arts ﬁnd in Goethe’s image of antiquity. Winckelmann’s notion of ideal beauty was shaped by the canon of sculptures from the fourth century bc that were passed on to Goethe’s contemporaries through Roman copies of the Greek originals. This notion, however, became indefensible in the face of the discoveries, publications and exhibitions of Greek originals – the Parthenon sculptures, the Bassae temple frieze in London, the archaic Aegines in Munich, to mention only the most prominent examples. However great Goethe’s misgivings were about the aesthetic appearances of some of these works, he was always willing in the end to modify his judgement and accept the empirical evidence. In a conversation with Eckermann on 21 February 1831, in which Eckermann praised him for the ‘Sharply outlined individualities’ of the ghosts, Goethe acknowledged the importance of the ﬁne arts for his conception of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. Here one sees that Goethe’s judgement is derived from new evidence he has of antiquity’s artworks. ‘Without a life-long interest in the ﬁne arts, Goethe said, this would have been impossible for me’ (MA 19, 417). Using the ancient artworks as examples, his mythological monsters now gain their plastic physicality. They gain a sensual presence and precisely the same ‘ahnungsvollste Gestalt’ (most ominous ﬁgure) that Goethe saw and praised in the Medusa Rondanini. For Goethe, such characteristics differ sharply from the more formless and amorphous ones of the romantic ghosts of the north. Goethe underscored the point to Eckermann on 24 January 1830, stating that for the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ he chose only those mythological ﬁgures ‘that made the right kind of ﬁgurative impression’ (MA 19, 535). ‘Figurative’ refers here to the fully formed bodily presence that the arts of antiquity gave to all mythical ﬁgures, and through which Goethe was able to integrate the ‘ugly and fantastic’ into his dramatic universe. As he said to Eckermann on 21 March 1830: ‘I have striven to show everything in clear outline, in the ancient sense; and that nothing vague, uncertain be present that may be agreeable to the romantic method’ (MA 19, 367). Goethe’s guidance from antiquity was not limited to his depiction of individual mythological characters; he also tried to ﬁnd ways to expand the canon of representation, to include the ugly and the repulsive, without abandoning the examples set by antiquity. Goethe’s ‘Letter to Counsellor and Director Sickler’, written in 1812, is particularly important for understanding Faust ii. Here, Goethe develops an iconographic interpretation of a

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three-piece stucco relief which Sickler had found in 1809 in a tomb near Cumae. Two of the reliefs show a woman dancing before an audience, although the backdrops in each differ; the third depicts three skeletons also in a dancing pose. Goethe regarded the reliefs as the plastic decoration of the tomb of a female dancer. In the ﬁrst picture, she is a beautiful young woman who is the ‘crowning attraction at a banquet’; in the second, she performs a sort of death dance ‘in the dismal realm of the lemurs’; ﬁnally, in the third, she is in the underworld. Here she has regained her beautiful body and dances in tragic poses (MA 9, 621).12 Goethe became intensely interested in the reliefs again in October 1831 when better copies were made available. The lemurs of the ﬁnal act, ‘patched-together, half-live creatures / Of sinew, ligament and bone’ (11513–14), were particularly vivid reminders of the inﬂuence the piece would have on Goethe’s conception of Faust ii. For our purposes, the most important consequence of this case was the aesthetic conclusions which Goethe drew from the relief, for they contrasted strongly with the classicism of the Propyläen, which had demanded that art be exclusively guided by the classical notion of ideal beauty. In his letter to Sickler, Goethe thus wrote: Art, which is god-like in that it ennobles and elevates, will not reject the repulsive and the loathsome. It is here where it will exert its divine prerogative. But it has only one way of doing so: art can only master ugliness by treating it comically. Zeuxis comes to mind, who is said to have died from laughter at his supremely ugly rendering of Hecuba. (MA 9, 624)

Faust’s author was sticking to the maxim, borrowed from antiquity, that through the comic even ugliness can be subjected to the ‘divine prerogative’ of ‘god-like’ art. He did not die of laughter while he wrote the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’; and yet, this act, populated by the ugliest creatures that appear anywhere in his oeuvre, is one of the merriest of Goethe’s texts. In Faust, humour, satire and irony became the means to integrate ugliness into art. The principles of representation that shape ancient artworks, such as the Medusa Rondanini and the reliefs from Cumae, expand Goethe’s classicism to allow it to assimilate unbeautiful works of art. These works stand outside the classical canon. Their force rests on two features: on the one hand, on the plasticity of form that the monsters display and, on the other hand, on the transformation of the ugly by the comical. Goethe’s maxim to ‘depart as little as possible from classical ground’ gives him licence to incorporate into the classical the ugly and the repulsive. Throughout, Goethe was fully aware that the continuous expansion of the classical paradigm and the increasing historicizing of ‘classical ground’ which had

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resulted from the advances of archaeology were going to undermine the traditional norms of classicism. He fully acknowledged this in his article on the tomb of the female dancer, and by doing so helped further to historicize antiquity. ‘Indeed, I must confess that the lemurian jest simply does not seem genuinely Greek to me. I am more inclined to say it dates back to those times from which the older and the younger Philostratos got their more or less ﬁctive stories, their poetic and rhetorical descriptions.’13 The norm of the ‘genuinely Greek’ is undermined by history; Goethe contributed to this undermining when, in 1818, he published his version of Philostratos’ thirdcentury descriptions of a picture gallery. His aim here was to make antiquity attractive to the young artists who had joined the Romantic camp. Quite simply, he did this by bringing to their attention pictorial themes from late antiquity that had put the horrible, discordant and ugly centre stage.14 The tensions between the ‘genuinely Greek’ and the ‘lemurian jest’, between ideal beauty and ugly form, between norm and history that Goethe identiﬁed in the three reliefs had a real impact on Faust ii. They appeared as the artistic upshots of an increasingly historicized ‘classical ground’; he modelled Faust ii on what he had learned. He called the combination of the three reliefs a ‘humorous stroke of genius from antiquity, whose magical power interposes a ghostly farce between a human drama and a spiritual tragedy, interjects a grotesquery between the beautiful and the sublime’ (MA 9, 624). One could similarly describe the artistic constellation of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ as a humorous stroke of genius from antiquity. This scene is the ‘ghostly farce’ between the ‘human drama’ of the ﬁrst part of the play and the ‘spiritual tragedy’ of the Helena act. The ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ is the ‘grotesquery between the beautiful and the sublime’; it is the humorous intermezzo that mediates between the historical world of Faust i and the timeless norm of ideal beauty that brieﬂy appears in the Helena act. Goethe not only borrowed the humorous integration of the ugly and the repulsive from the ancient arts, he also took over their modes of representation in order to achieve a dramatic integration of disparate elements. The second part of Faust ii is marked by the connection of humane drama and grotesque tragedy, of mythical and historical action. Although the tragedy may seem extremely modern, and certainly appears an unlikely instance of classicism, its author never sensed that he had departed aesthetically or artistically from the ‘classical ground’. The role that antiquity plays in Faust ii does not just reveal the internal dynamics of Goethe’s conception of classicism; as a moment in the history of theatre, this is also when classicism is ﬁnally displaced by historicism. In

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Faust ii, Goethe borrows from antiquity in the same way contemporary architecture and painting help themselves to the unlimited reservoir of past ideas and pictures, of historical material and past styles. Friedrich Schinkel added a Greek temple façade to his design for a Gothic cathedral; similarly, in Faust ii, antiquity, the Middle Ages and modernity are so closely interconnected that archaic monsters can only make themselves understood if they use the modern idiom of verse rhyme. It is certainly true that for a very long time historicism did not shed the idea that antiquity was a particularly privileged period in the history of art and humanity; yet historicism could not and would not derive a normative conception of art from this conviction. This is the stylistic attitude expressed in the antiquity that ﬁgures in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ and the Helena act. In Faust, antiquity is still a happy period for humanity; yet it does not reveal a standard for future aesthetics; nor does it offer an understanding of ideal beauty that could be binding. Both aesthetic norms and standards of beauty submit to the universal pressure towards historicizing the past. One can thus justiﬁably say that Faust ii is the greatest poetic masterpiece of aesthetic historicism. How does this aesthetic historicism affect the notion of ancient ideal beauty that had dominated Goethe’s poetic oeuvre and aesthetic thought for half a century? Could such a notion still inﬂuence an age in which the Medusa grows inexorably, in which ugliness advances from all sides? It is a sign of the genius of Goethe’s tragedy that it focuses on the situation of beauty in modern times with an unparalleled analytical clarity. Here, beauty becomes a phantasmagoria. The ancient notion of ideal beauty and kalokagathia no longer counts as an aesthetically adequate representation of the ultimate goal of a fulﬁlled humanity that classicism transposed from the utopian Ancient Greek past to modernity. At best, these are historical quotations or residues of classicist dreams. The relation between the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ and the Helena act reveals the precarious situation of classical ideal beauty under conditions of modernity. When, in 1830, Goethe imagined where the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ would be set, he did not think of it as a mythical but as a historical Greek location (the only exception is the ﬁnal scene in the rocky inlets of the Aegean Sea, where the mythical creatures transform into symbols of natural forces). This shift from the mythical to the historical reﬂects the actual condition of Greece at the time: as a country, it was no longer deﬁned by the longings of German artists who, instead of visiting it, consumed its literature and art. Greece had entered the historical stage. In February 1830, the political powers of Europe agreed to the constitution of the independent

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state of Hellas. ‘Realpolitik’ had substituted history for ideals. The play mirrors the reality insofar as it characterizes the Greece of the ‘Walpurgis Night’ as a battleﬁeld – as Greece had been a battleﬁeld for more than a decade in the wars of liberation against the Turks. The ﬁrst location for the ‘Walpurgis Night’ is the plain near Pharsalus, where in 48 bc the civil war between Caesar and Pompey was decided. The second location, on the Peneus, is – incorrectly – described by Chiron as the battleﬁeld where Macedonians and Romans met in 168 bc: ‘Between the Peneus, on our right, and on our left, / Olympus, Rome confronted Greece’ (7465). Ancient Greece is thus rescued from the timelessness of the ideal and drawn into the movement of history. There, all countries are subject to the same laws recited at the start of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ by the Thessalic witch Erichtho: Wie oft schon wiederholt sich’s! Wird sich immerfort In’s Ewige wiederholen . . . Keiner gönnt das Reich Dem Andern, dem gönnt’s keiner der’s mit Kraft erwarb Und kräftig herrscht. (7012–15) How often it has been repeated! And it must Recur eternally. Each wants to rule alone And, holding power gained through power, neither yields It to the other.

In these lines, Greece loses its special status as the home of a utopian past; Ancient Greece disappears in the ‘darkness’ of universal history. Here is an example of ‘how power always meets some power greater still’ (7019). The characters that inhabit the landscape of the ideal transformed into history correspond to this vision of the world. The realistic, historical ground can no longer give birth to ideal Gestalt, although Goethe can still bring forth from it the ancient ghosts that remain in tense harmony with the discoveries of archaeology. These archaic-pre-classical creatures are mythical virtuosi of disillusionment; they clean out the classical dream of an ideal beauty that originated on Olympus; they do so all the more easily because this dream was never dreamt in their mythical realms. They mirror the expansion of the classical canon that was achieved by historical research into myths. As a result of the bitter feud between Friedrich Creuzer and Gottfried Hermann, this research was itself a battleﬁeld, but this made it all the more impossible to ignore the mythological ﬁndings. Archaeology had made it impossible to limit the representation of Greek antiquity to the Olympian aristocracy and its beau idéal. More and more layers of myths came to the surface, and the ever-growing range of mythical creatures from

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all the different historical layers contributed to the displacement of the old European ideal of beauty by a pluralistic, historicized aesthetics. Goethe was aware that this aesthetic development mirrored the simultaneous political process by which modern republicanism displaced the monarchies. After all, the revolutionary fervour of July 1830 in France was already in the air when Goethe had conceived of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. As Eckermann noted on 21 February 1831: ‘The old Walpurgis Night, said Goethe, is monarchical, since the devil is there respected throughout as a decided leader. But the Classical Walpurgis Night is thoroughly republican; since all stand equally beside one another, so that each is as prominent as his associates, and nobody is subordinate to or affected by the rest’ (MA 19, 416). Historicism’s stylistic pluralism is the aesthetic result of the displacement of monarchy by republicanism. Here, one style is as prominent and valuable as another; the ‘strange’ (7078) can stand near the ‘ugly and fantastic’ (7157), the ‘repulsive’ (7182) is on a par with the sensually pleasurable; anyone can show their own ‘strength and grandeur’ (7182). The second act of Faust ii preﬁgures the aesthetic ‘Walpurgis Night’ of the historicist and bourgeois nineteenth century that had been brought about both by art history and archaeology and by fundamental political revolutions. Below the surface of the new century, however, Goethe already saw the Medusa growing. The third act answers the question of how the beautiful ideal could survive the stylistic pluralism of historicism and the simultaneous increase in historical conﬂict. In the modern age, the classical, and with it the notion of ideal beauty, turns into phantasmagoria. As the Helena act shows, it takes a gigantic effort to revive the ancient ideal of beauty under the conditions of modernity. The effort must be at least as great if we are to keep it alive for any amount of time against the modern dominance of ugliness exempliﬁed by Mephisto–Phorkyas. Goethe gave the subtitle ‘Classical-Romantic Phantasmagoria’ to the ﬁrst edition of the Helena act, and, indeed, the effect is dreamlike and deceptive when Goethe revives the highest beauty of antiquity in a Middle Ages that are themselves already a modern phantasmagoria. All is ‘a dream, and time and space have fled’ (9414) – this is how Faust puts it at the end of his conversation with Helena, the embodiment of ideal beauty. And just before the fall of Euphorion, Helena and Faust jointly ask, ‘Is the joy we share a dream?’ (9883). In Goethe’s ﬁnal great work, the classical ideal of beauty, the normative standard for all the classical ideas of artistic and philosophical renewal, becomes real – but only as a phantasmagoria. The ideal is conjured up in

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the play like the central hope that nostalgic lovers do not want to part with, although they recognize that it is not realizable. In this historic tumult of stylistic quotations ideal beauty has no chance of survival. Helena, as representative of ideal beauty, is revived repeatedly by the nostalgic followers of the classical ideal of humanity who inhabit schools and universities, theatres and academies; but she has lost her power. The historical resistance to the realization of the humanistic dreams that inspires the German classics grows in conjunction with the sum of all things ugly and repulsive. The dream may be conjured up over and over again; ultimately it disappears in the Hades of classical proverbs. The Helena act shows how the dream of ideal beauty, the embodiment of perfect humanity, descends into the shadowy realm of intellectual programmes. All the while historical reality follows the completely different laws that are depicted in Acts 1, 4 and 5 of Faust ii – the laws of economy, of military might and of technological progress. The dream of realizing the ideal of humanity gains, in modernity, the reality status of a classicalromantic phantasmagoria. Helena descends inexorably into the underworld. And inexorably the Medusa grows. notes I would like to thank Daniel Viehoff for his kind help with the translation of this essay. 1. See Karl Reinhardt, ‘Die klassische Walpurgisnacht. Entstehung und Bedeutung’, in Tradition und Geist. Gesammelte Essays zur Dichtung, ed. Carl Becker, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960, 309–56; esp. 312. 2. Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, trans. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, New York: AMS Press, 1966, 61–2. 3. All further references to Faust are by line number from FT. 4. See the accounts in Ernst Grumach, Goethe und die Antike, eine Sammlung, Potsdam: Walter de Gruyter, 1949, ii, 539–42, and in Max Wegner, Goethes Anschauung antiker Kunst, Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1944, 53 f. The quote from the thank-you note to the king is taken from Grumach, Antike, ii, 541. 5. Quotation follows Grumach, Antike, ii, 541. 6. Translation follows J. W. Goethe, Essays on Art, trans. Samuel Gray Ward, Boston: James Munroe and Company, 1845, 9. 7. Ibid., 12. 8. Ibid., 15. 9. Ibid., 2. 10. Johann Heinrich Voß, Antisymbolik, Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 1824 and 1826. See Reinhardt, ‘Die klassische Walpurgisnacht’, 338. 11. For an overview of the change in Goethe’s perception of antiquity leading up to Faust ii that is still readable today, see Richard Alewyn’s essay ‘Goethe und die

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Antike’, in his Probleme und Gestalten. Essays, Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1982, 255–70. 12. Goethe’s Essays on Art and Architecture, ed. John Gearey, New York: Suhrkamp, 1986, 29 ff. 13. Ibid., 627. 14. See Ernst Osterkamp, Im Buchstabenbilde: Studien zum Verfahren Goethescher Bildbeschreibungen, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1991, 185–223.

chapter 12

Diabolical entrapment: Mephisto, the angels and the homoerotic in Goethe’s Faust ii W. Daniel Wilson

The major works of German erotic literature in the eighteenth century included crucial homoerotic moments, and sometimes much more than moments. The most important of these are: Christoph Martin Wieland’s Comische Erzählungen of 1765, one of which was the tale Juno und Ganymede, omitted in later editions; Wilhelm Heinse’s notorious novel Ardinghello, not to mention his translation of Petronius’ Satyricon with a translator’s preface defending homosexuality;1 Goethe’s Römische Elegien, one of the central works of Weimar classicism; and Friedrich Schlegel’s novel Lucinde, the major document of sexual liberation in the Romantic generation. To be sure, these works generally portray ‘Greek love’ as contrary to nature and valorize heterosexuality; homosexuality is often treated only as a stepping-stone in the hero’s development to heterosexual safety. The only work that openly treats homoerotic love on a par with heterosexual love is the obscure novel by Duke August of Saxe-GothaAltenburg, Ein Jahr in Arkadien (1805). However, the canonical authors obviously felt compelled to include homosexual love among the varieties of sexuality, even if they ultimately adopted a traditional Christian stance towards it. Goethe has something of a special place in the various intersecting discourses on homosexuality, both in his life and his works. It is now generally agreed that Goethe had a remarkably liberal attitude towards ‘Greek love’ – commensurate with his reputation as a pagan. Most striking is the letter from Italy to his close friend, Duke Carl August of Weimar, at a time when he was confronted with uncloseted homosexuality on a large scale in Rome. Here he remarks on: a peculiar phenomenon that I’ve never seen as prominent as here: love between men. Assuming that it is rarely pushed to the highest degree of sensuality, but rather remains in the middle range of affection and passion, I can say that I’ve been 174

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able to see with my own eyes the most beautiful manifestations of it, which we only know from Greek sources (see Herder’s Ideen, vol. iii, 171). I have been able to observe its physical and moral aspects as an alert observer of nature. It is a subject that can hardly be talked about, much less written about, so I’ll save it for future conversations.2

While Goethe seems to explain homosexual love as a replacement for unavailable heterosexual contacts, and of course takes on the air of a distanced researcher, complete with a learned reference to his friend Herder,3 he shows remarkable appreciation of the homosexual scene in Rome and obvious fascination with it. This fascination is also apparent among others in his early Weimar circle. Recall that in his ﬁrst few months there, Goethe, the 18-year-old duke, Carl Ludwig von Knebel, Carl von Seckendorff and others staged a full-ﬂedged revolt against courtly propriety, riding around the countryside raising hell and sleeping together under the stars in the woods – a more prototypical male-bonding, homosocial experience can hardly be imagined. The relationship between Goethe and Carl August was apparently especially intimate and has been described by the psychoanalyst Kurt Eissler as latently homosexual.4 And a still-unpublished letter of Carl August to Knebel (who had been the duke’s tutor) shows that homoerotic love must have been discussed in this group: ‘I want to tell you about a bon mot of D’Ablancourt: At a certain place Jupiter says of Ganymede: “qu’il vouloit lui donner dix baisers.” Now, the translator says in a footnote . . .: “il n’y a dans l’original que deux baisers, mais dix ont plus de force”.’5 Even before he came to Weimar, Goethe had published his famous poem ‘Ganymed’ – although the homoerotic discourse is still rarely mentioned in commentaries on the poem. Around the same time, Goethe had also written a nasty satire on Wieland entitled Götter, Helden und Wieland, and here, alluding to Wieland’s previously mentioned story Juno and Ganymede, which, as we saw, supposedly provoked a ﬂowering of gay culture in Germany, Goethe refers obliquely to Wieland as ‘Ganymede’s tutor’ (MA 1:1, 683).6 In the context of the play, this passage seems to have a mildly homophobic ﬂavour,7 but it also shows the almost casual treatment of this theme, which is typical for the eighteenth century. The catalogue of Goethe’s collection of priapic and erotic art and objects (ﬁrst published in 1992) includes a drawing of a man being penetrated anally by a typical ancient statue of Priapos. The editors suggest it is a rape scene, consistent with a tradition of erotic poetry to which Goethe also contributed in the aforementioned passage of the Römische Elegien. However, the man’s hat and stick are neatly leaning against the statue, and his arm is wrapped

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around the statue’s neck, indicating to me that there is nothing here but consensual anal sex with an immobile priapic statue. Finally, there is Goethe’s relationship with his male servant, Philipp Seidel, which was certainly described by Seidel as homoerotic. In a letter from 1777, at a time when they shared the same bedroom, Seidel writes to a friend in Frankfurt about Goethe: Oh if only I could give up my soul in love to this man and were worthy to thank God, who gives me so much bliss to enjoy with him. Our relationship is just like that of man and wife. In just this way, I love him and he me, I serve him in this way, and he exercises just this authority over me. But why do I commit to paper what is a holy, dear secret?8

The sum of this evidence suggests a homosexual subculture in classical Weimar, or, at the very least, demonstrable fascination with homoerotic themes in this circle of men – none of whom, it might be added, was conventionally and monogamously married at this time. This fascination with homoeroticism makes its mark in Goethe’s works, even if it has received due attention only since the 1990s. One of the Venezianische Epigramme that Goethe left unpublished consists of this bold distich: Knaben liebt ich wohl auch doch lieber sind mir die Mädchen Hab’ ich als Mädchen sie satt, dient sie als Knabe mir noch.9 Well, I suppose I’ve loved boys as well; but girls are much better. When she’s lost charm as a girl, give her a turn as a boy.

Since the Epigramme are almost all frankly confessional, it is difﬁcult to explain away this brazen valorization of pederasty and anal sex as merely a literary pose. But even if it is, it carries considerable weight as an effort to make ‘Greek love’ acceptable – although Goethe shied away from publishing it. More relevant, perhaps, are passages from more major works that scholars have increasingly seen in queer terms – the relationships between men, for example, in over-the-top masculinist plays like Götz von Berlichingen or Egmont, not to mention amazing passages in such canonical works as Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre and the West-östlicher Divan.10 And then there are Goethe’s defences of the publicly known homosexuals of his day, the Swiss historian Johannes von Müller and particularly Johann Joachim Winckelmann, who has been called the founder of modern art history and who laid part of the aesthetic groundwork for Weimar classicism. There is some evidence that, as Paul Derks claims, even in Goethe’s account literary classicism owed its ideal of beauty to a homosexual who was

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able to develop this ideal and convey it so effectively because of his sexual orientation.11 Goethe did this in his book Winkelmann und sein Jahrhundert (1805), in which he included previously unpublished letters of Winckelmann’s and added an empathetic interpretive essay. Goethe doesn’t shy away from the theme of homosexuality, devoting a section of the essay to it under the heading ‘Freundschaft’. Referring to ‘friendship among people of the male sex’, Goethe writes: ‘Winckelmann felt that he was born for a friendship of this kind, not only capable of it, but in need of it in the highest degree; he sensed his own self only in the form of friendship, he knew himself only in the image of a whole made complete by a third one.’12 Thus he indicates clearly that Winckelmann considered his homosexual desires innate, and Goethe seems to accept this interpretation; later, he doesn’t hesitate to stress that Winckelmann was ‘happy’ in this love – referring to the unperturbed felicity that, indeed, is one of the most striking features of Winckelmann’s ‘Greek love’ as he practised it in Italy.13 Furthermore, Goethe suggests that Winckelmann’s queer ‘nature’ was in many ways superior to others’. In the section ‘Antike’, he portrays Greek life as happily unalienated, the very image of totality and integration. ‘Feeling was not yet fragmented’, Goethe writes of antiquity – perhaps hinting at the core aesthetic project of Weimar classicism as enunciated by Schiller in his Aesthetische Briefe. And I think we might ﬁnd here a suggestion that desire, too, was not yet fragmented when Goethe adds: ‘Such an ancient nature . . . had reappeared in the person of Winckelmann’ (MA 6:2, 352). Hovering over these sections of the essay is the charged question of whether ‘Greek love’ was ‘natural’, and it seems clear that Goethe leans towards a positive response. The same attitude can be seen in his conversation on 7 April 1830, at the age of 80. This conversation holds particular importance for our central subject, a scene from the second part of Faust. The interlocutor reports: The conversation turned to Greek love, Johannes Müller etc. He [Goethe] argued that this aberration actually was based on the fact that the man, in purely aesthetic terms, is, after all, much more beautiful, superior, more complete than woman. Once it had arisen, such a feeling then can easily veer off into the animalistic, the coarsely material. Pederasty is as old as humanity, and we can therefore say that it is in nature, although it is against nature.14

The last phrase seems more like a conventional nod at standard mores; the rhetorical thrust of the entire passage amounts to a defence of Greek love as natural. The argument from the supposed superior beauty of men – an ancient topos – suggests, too, that same-sex desire is part of nature, even if

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the mention of lower animal drives tends to evoke deviance. Central to Goethe’s view is that this desire, even if it is deviant, is part of nature. It is important to reinsert this conversation in its historical setting. There is no indication how the conversation turned to Greek love, but I think that Paul Derks is right to suggest that it was partly based on the highly public feud following the known homosexual poet August von Platen’s attack on Heinrich Heine, and Heine’s reply in the witty but homophobic satire in Die Bäder von Lucca. (We know that Goethe knew about this conﬂict, since he had referred to it a few weeks earlier in a conversation with Eckermann.)15 Thus, in his conversation on ‘Männerliebe’, Goethe took up the cause of homosexuality when it was under massive attack. Those attacks had begun in earnest in 1807, not only in response to Goethe’s championing of Winckelmann in his essay of 1805, but in a politically charged campaign against the supposedly treasonous homosexual Johannes Müller, who seemed to support Napoleon’s rule after the end of the old empire in 1806. The attacks on Müller, one of the most celebrated historians of his day, were venemous, for the ﬁrst time bringing nationalism to bear on the interpretation of homosexuality (at the same time, incidentally, when antisemitism also took on a particularly modern virulence). Goethe not only defended Müller (though without mentioning the issue of Greek love), he also befriended and supported him when the historian visited Weimar. It is clear, I hope, from all this evidence that Goethe had a very broadminded attitude towards ‘Greek love’, having befriended one of its adherents (Müller), possibly practised it himself (Carl August and Seidel), described it in glowing terms as ‘beautiful’ at a time when it was under vicious attack (the Winckelmann essay) and portrayed it casually as part of normal sexuality (the epigram and the conversation with Eckermann). However, the question arises: if this is so, how could Goethe have portrayed, in the penultimate scene of his most important work, same-sex desire as something devilish, as ‘absurd’, ‘base’ and ‘foolish’? While the ‘Interment’ scene in the second part of Faust is certainly complicated, even grotesque (the term most often used for it), I shall argue that it hardly shows – as the critics assert – that in Goethe’s eyes homosexuality was ‘perverse’, ‘unnatural’ or even ‘evil’.16 The scene contains all sorts of ‘queerness’. It begins with lemurs from the previous scene, burying Faust’s remains – but the lemurs themselves are sort of undead: they are ‘half-natures’ (11514),17 they reside ‘in a region of decay and half-deadness’.18 Faust, too, is supposedly dead, but Mephisto casts doubt on this deadness when he raises the Enlightenment’s widely discussed question of when you can really tell whether a person is dead. Such

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half-dead half-natures already evoke gender trouble through their analogous blurring of distinctions. And in these lines, queer desire is alluded to when Mephisto uses sexually laden terms to describe his desire for dead bodies, in this case the body of a man; the word lüstern, as we shall see, is used later in the scene in a homoerotic sense and is used here in a series of doubleentendres: ‘I’ve often coveted some limbs in rigor mortis – / It was only an illusion! They stirred and began to move again’ (11634–5). These lines are immediately followed by a curious stage direction: ‘Phantastisch-ﬂügelmännische Beschwörungs-Gebärden’, with which he summons his demonic minions. Atkins translates this difﬁcult locution as ‘fantastic gestures of conjuration, in the manner of a squad leader’. Forms of Flügelmann are used sparingly in Goethe’s works, but appear twice in this single scene. The word, which would literally translate as ‘wing man’, traditionally refers to the ﬁrst man in a line of soldiers, the tallest, whom the others can see and follow.19 Thus he represents a sort of over-the-top masculinity. One of the most telling of Goethe’s few uses of the term appears in connection with homosexuality. Just two years before his book on Winckelmann, Goethe had published his translation of Benvenuto Cellini’s delightful autobiography, in which the Renaissance artist’s bisexual adventures receive due attention. In one of his interpretive notes, Goethe uses the same term when writing of Cellini: In such a lively city [Florence], at such a signiﬁcant time, a man appeared who can be seen as the representative of his century and, perhaps, as a representative of all humanity. Natures such as this can be seen as spiritual squad leaders [Flügelmänner], who hint, with their forceful expressions, at what is doubtless inscribed in every human breast, though often with weak, illegible strokes.20

As if this valorization of a bisexual man as a model for all humanity were not enough, later on in the same essay Goethe writes: Given this receptivity for sensual and moral beauty, given his continued residing and living among everything great and signiﬁcant that ancient and modern art produced, the beauty of male youth, more than anything, was bound to have an effect on him. And indeed! the most charming passages of his work are those in which he expresses his feelings on this. Have poetry and prose depicted for us situations as alluring as we ﬁnd in the banquet at which the artists gather with their girls . . . and Cellini brings a cross-dressed boy?21

This passage is loaded with broad hints, including the suggestion that moral beauty resides in this gender-bending performance directed by the bisexual Cellini. At this point, I want to stress the connection to the scene in Faust in which Mephisto, too, appears as a Flügelmann. If in both texts the

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Flügelmann is associated with queerness and acts as a sort of leader and even director, are we to see Mephisto in this light? In ‘Burial’, it is not only Mephisto who is associated with this big fellow. Very shortly afterwards, he himself uses the same term to refer to the tall devils under his command: ‘ﬂügelmännische Riesen’ (11670). Only a few lines before that, he had referred to Faust’s (presumably masculine) soul as ‘the little soul, Psyche with her wings’ (11660), a clear echo of the Flügelmann. Psyche is indeed considered to represent the soul in Greek mythology, and she is portrayed as a butterﬂy with wings.22 This line reverberates with gender confusion in at least four aspects relevant to this discussion. First, it feminizes Faust’s soul. Secondly, it strongly suggests eroticism. Psyche was so beautiful that even Eros himself fell in love with her (just as Mephisto had expressed his erotic desire for souls) – even Love loves her, as it were. The German rococo was practically obsessed with the erotically charged ﬁgure of Psyche – and also with butterﬂies, which represented ‘flighty’, promiscuous sexuality, a role they play in Goethe’s own poetry.23 Thirdly, by introducing Greek myth, the line hints at the theme of ‘Greek love’ that dominates the text a bit later; in the eighteenth century, any mention of things Greek was apt to conjure up this association. And fourthly, the wings bring Faust’s feminized soul into a dizzying association not only with Mephisto as hyper-masculine Flügelmann but also with the winged angels who appear a few lines later. Angels, in turn, are ﬁgured as masculine, but barely so: the gender of angels, of course, is ambiguous or androgynous, and Goethe’s earlier character Mignon – a ﬁgure whose own gender is so confused that in the earliest version of Goethe’s Bildungsroman she is referred to alternately with masculine and feminine pronouns, er and sie – views angels as androgynous.24 But we do not need to turn to another of Goethe’s works to conﬁrm the angels’ androgyny. Mephisto’s own reaction to them is clear on this point: he refers to ‘das bübisch-mädchenhafte Gestümper’ (11687, such juvenile-androgynous bumbling). This and the following lines have cost the critics endless puzzling: . . . Wie frömmelnder Geschmack sichs lieben mag. Ihr wißt [addressing the other devils] wie wir, in tiefverruchten Stunden, Vernichtung sannen menschlichem Geschlecht; Das Schändlichste was wir erfunden Ist ihrer Andacht eben recht. (11688–92) . . . is what the sanctimonious enjoy. You will remember how, in our most heinous hours, We plotted the destruction of mankind: The vilest method we invented Exactly suits the needs of their devotions.

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Among the many explanations of these lines the one that seems to me most convincing is Buchwald and Daur’s, namely, that Mephisto is referring to castrati – so that the word Geschlecht would be meant quite literally, referring to the male genitals.25 This interpretation is bolstered by a fact unnoticed by its purveyors: one of the most common tricks that witches, beholden of course to the devil, are supposed to have played was to make the male reproductive organ disappear (along with the associated prank of causing impotence) – the ﬁfteenth-century Malleus maleﬁcarum or Hexenhammer lists numerous examples of it.26 So the idea that ‘castrating’ (broadly understood) could be seen as the plan of the devils for the Vernichtung of humankind makes perfect sense. Castrati, in turn, play an important part in the aesthetics of Winckelmann; it is precisely the shape of castrati buttocks that aroused Winckelmann’s sensibilities,27 just as it does Mephisto’s desire for equally sexless rear ends later on in this scene. By the time we arrive at the overtly homoerotic part of the scene, the theme has been amply prepared. There is the deﬁnite suggestion here that queerness is a comprehensive aspect of nature and humanity, one that is difﬁcult to bring under control. Now, in the ensuing action, Mephisto attempts to impose order on this gender confusion. The angels ﬂing roses – and the rose stems themselves have wings (11703), completing the nexus associating them with the devil and with human beings – and Mephisto instructs his devils to blow on them; they blow too hard, setting the roses aﬁre. The devils are defeated, ﬂung arse-ﬁrst (‘ärschlings’; Atkins: ‘breechﬁrst’) into hell. Mephisto stands his ground. But when the roses touch him, he is consumed with same-sex desire for the angels. Mephisto’s responses to his homosexual desire have hardly ever been looked at in much detail. His ﬁrst response is that now he knows what lovers feel. This is absolutely crucial: the devil suddenly experiences not only love, but also empathy with heterosexual lovers – which suggests that they could have the same understanding of his same-sex desire. Mephisto remarks that this love is something ‘alien, strange’ (11762) – but the following lines suggest that he is not referring to same-sex desire as such, but rather to, ﬁrst, love itself, and, secondly, love for angels. He cannot reconcile his desire for angels with his hatred of them (11767–8). He cleverly tries to rescue himself from this dilemma by deﬁning the angels as not really angels, but rather devils – for the second time in this scene (see 11696) – and this is a claim supported by the ﬁrst part of the scene, where, as we have noted, the distinction between angels and devils becomes blurred. He now asks: ‘You lovely children, may I ask / If you’re descendants too of Lucifer?’ (11769–70). As Derks points out, Mephisto seems concerned about

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avoiding one kind of sodomy – sex with another species, bestiality – but unconcerned about avoiding the other.28 He seems to have satisﬁed himself that the angels are the same species as he is, for the lines following this question express his comfort in homoerotic desire more tangibly than anywhere else, and with signiﬁers that echo Faust’s heterosexual passion: Ihr seid so hübsch, fürwahr ich möcht euch küssen; Mir ists als kommt ihr eben recht. Es ist mir so behaglich, so natürlich Als hätt ich euch schon tausendmal gesehn, So heimlich-kätzchenhaft begierlich; Mit jedem Blick aufs neue schöner schön. O nähert euch, o gönnt mir Einen Blick! (11771–7) You are, I swear, so pretty that I’d like to kiss you; I have a feeling you would suit me nicely. I am as much at ease and natural As if we’d met a thousand times already, And am as eager as a stalking kitten, While you grow lovelier each time I look. Please don’t hang back – look at me at least once!29

Important here is the word ‘natural’ (11773), suggesting that homosexual love is, as Goethe was to say a few years later, ‘in nature’. However, Mephisto never entirely gives himself over to desire – he repeatedly exhibits sovereign awareness of what is going on, even as he expresses his desire. He suggests that he would be taken for a fool if he gave in (11765–6). It would be tempting to say that Goethe has here portrayed with amazing sensitivity the emotional dilemma of closeted homosexuals, who must maintain reﬂective distance from their desire even as they express it, in order to avoid discovery and ostracism. But Mephisto shows no signs of being closeted. Connected with this reﬂective awareness of his desire is a move that, amazingly enough, has never been really interpreted in the voluminous commentaries: Mephisto at ﬁrst lures the angels onwards, pleading for a glance from them, and then, when they move closer, he retreats to the proscenium (11777–9, with stage directions). The proscenium or apron of the stage is the area between the curtain and the audience. As such, it is perfectly suited to bringing the characters into play with the audience and at times breaking the illusion of the dramatic action. Mephisto likes the proscenium – this is the fourth time in the second part of the play that he has appeared here.30 Each of these earlier occasions saw him, indeed, disturbing the audience’s sense of dramatic illusion – once appearing in the prompt’s box (6399) and another time speaking directly to the audience

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(6772; see 6815–18). And on another, extended occasion, after he has spent most of the third act cross-dressed, playing the role of the old woman Phorkyas, he reveals himself as Mephisto directly to the audience at the end, on the proscenium (9955, 9962, 10038) – thus suggesting an association between the proscenium and gender confusion. The instance at hand functions slightly differently. He doesn’t speak directly to the audience, but I would suggest that he does so indirectly: his ﬁrst words to the angels from the proscenium are ‘You call us spirits damned, but prove to be / The actual sorcerers yourselves, / For you seduce both men and women’ (11780–2). It is perhaps important to note that these lines, together with the stage direction indicating Mephisto’s retreat to the proscenium, were a later addition to this scene, which was otherwise written out with unusual completion and sureness, in quick handwriting and with relatively few corrections.31 This addition suggests that Goethe had a fairly clear conception of what he was doing, but he left open a space in the manuscript at this point, to be ﬁlled in later. Thus I think we are justiﬁed in seeing Mephisto’s position in the proscenium in connection with his ﬁrst three lines there, all of which was added together to the manuscript. What is the purpose of Mephisto’s move, and of his lines here? Leaving aside for the moment the association, yet again, of angels with devils, I think Mephisto at this point draws the audience into his desire. By bringing women into the circle of desire, Mephisto again tacitly sets homosexual and heterosexual desire on an equal plane. And he thus invites the entire audience to share with him in the ensuing fantasy in which he becomes a sort of would-be director of a porn play. But it is an interactive play in which Mephisto ﬁgures as both director and primary audience, instructing the angels on how best to arouse him (11780–800). In all of this, Mephisto’s audience joins him in a sort of vicarious voyeurism, bringing together all humankind, men and women, in desire for these boys. Of course, the boys are only marginally male, as we saw: they are attractive to both men and women precisely because they are ‘bübisch-mädchenhaft’, androgynous. The larger dramatic function, then, of Mephisto’s move to the proscenium is to draw the audience into his desire, and to problematize the easy distinction between heterosexual and homosexual – a bold move, needless to say (but one that Goethe had preﬁgured in the Venetian epigram quoted above). From Mephisto’s own limited perspective, however, the purpose is different: he is avoiding sexual contact with the angels. Otherwise, there is no good explanation of his retreat to the proscenium in the ﬁrst place. One could ask: is he perhaps avoiding contact because they are sexless, and sex with them would therefore be impossible?32 I think the larger reason is that he wants to

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retain his identity as a devil (as various critics have pointed out), for of course he has a job to do that goes far beyond Faust’s single soul. His tactic, however, involves making the angels into devils, or, perhaps more accurately, playing on the devilish aspect of these angels in order to arouse himself. He does so not only by sexualizing them, but also by singling out an especially tall one as his favoured object of desire – the Flügelmann of the angels, as it were. He can only survive as a devil, however, if he keeps his distance from them, prompting them to adopt voluptuous poses and gazes to arouse him at a distance. Mephisto is practising ‘safe sex’ with the angels, and it is difﬁcult to imagine what he is doing if not trying to achieve an erection – or even masturbating. This latter possibility would explain why his passion suddenly subsides, without explanation; it would explain the three dashes in the space of two lines at the height of his arousal (11798–9) and some otherwise odd locutions in his speech after recovering from the spell the angels have cast over him (11809–16). Whatever he is doing, he is ultimately the dupe. There is no indication that the angels cooperate as actors in his scenario, at least until the end, when they consciously turn away from him – in order to snatch Faust’s soul, it turns out – and drive him to the height of his passion by giving him full view of their buttocks (11798–800). Thus the angels actually remain fully in control, the masters of Mephisto’s passion, which they turn to their own advantage. This move also draws in the audience, at least by analogy: for if the ‘director’ Mephisto is not really the director, is the audience really only the audience? Whatever the wider effect, the angels exploit Mephisto’s same-sex desire rather mercilessly. Regardless of how one tries to twist and turn it, they really have behaved diabolically – as Mephisto points out (11781), and the reminiscence of the doctrine of ‘pious fraud’ cannot really change that.33 The angels engage in diabolical entrapment, in both senses: they trap the devil, and they do so with devilish methods. Mephisto’s response is to pull himself together (‘sich fassend’, 11809) – possibly because of ejaculation – lick his wounds and curse the angels. At this point, he seems fairly unperturbed – he expects such behaviour from angels and such battles with them, and feels that he has come away relatively unscathed – his same-sex desire doesn’t even rate a mention at this point. It is only later, after he learns that they have absconded with Faust’s soul, that he expresses remorse, frustration (he even wants to enter a judicial appeal, which Goethe originally intended to stage) and, above all, self-hatred: he curses his own desires as ‘base’ and ‘absurd’ – ‘base desire, absurd affairs’ (11838). The crucial question is whether it is really his homosexual desire that he is cursing, as the critics all assume – could it not as easily be his desire for the angels? As other recent interpreters have pointed out, Mephisto shows

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signs of same-sex desire throughout the play.34 By way of illustration, consider a scene that Goethe excluded for reasons of self-censorship, as Albrecht Schöne has convincingly argued, in which a satanic mass is portrayed. Here we ﬁnd the requisite kiss of the devil’s behind by which the initiates indicate their fealty; the one who is bestowed with the largest ﬁef – ‘millions of souls’ – is the one who desires to crawl into Satan’s anus (FA 1:7.1, 555–6). Thus there’s no inherent reason that homosexuality in itself – either sexually passive or active, I might add – should be embarrassing to Mephisto (or to Goethe). He only expresses this self-deprecation after he learns that he has been tricked. But more important, other scenes in Faust ii suggest that ‘absurd’ does not refer to homosexuality, but rather to Mephisto’s attraction to angels. Most important is the attempted seduction of Mephisto by the Lamiae in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. Lamiae are a sort of female vampire. Mephisto is attracted to these beautiful creatures, but when he touches or approaches them, they transform themselves into various forms of ugliness, which seems to reveal their true nature. The salient fact here is that these female ﬁgures, and among them Empusa, seem to be related to him: ‘I thought that here there’d just be strangers, / And ﬁnd, alas! close relatives; / It’s an old, familiar story: / From Harz to Hellas, always cousins!’ (7740–4). Thus, by his attraction to these creatures, Mephisto is in danger of committing a sort of metaphorical incest.35 But this sort of proscribed sexuality doesn’t disturb him in the least. When he ﬁnally awakens from his attempts at sexual contact with these creatures, Mephisto speaks and acts strikingly like he does in the ‘Burial’ scene: lamien Fahrt auseinander, schwankt und schwebet Blitzartig, schwarzen Flugs umgebet Den eingedrungnen Hexensohn! Unsichre, schauderhafte Kreise! Schweigsamen Fittichs, Fledermäuse! Zu wohlfeil kommt er doch davon. mephistopheles (sich schüttelnd ) Viel klüger, scheint es, bin ich nicht geworden; Absurd ist’s hier, absurd im Norden, Gespenster hier wie dort vertrackt, Volk und Poeten abgeschmackt. lamiae Now separate and hover in the air! At lightning speed, in sable ﬂight Surround, O bats, on silent wings

(7785–94)

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This uninvited witch’s son With bafﬂing, horrifying circles – He’ll still be getting off too cheaply! Mephistopheles (shaking himself) I’m not much wiser than before, it seems; The world’s as [absurd] here as back up north; Ghosts in both places are eccentric, People and poets equally [vulgar].

Here we ﬁnd striking verbal reminiscences of the ‘Interment’ scene: not only in the way the Lamiae hover in the air and press Mephisto,36 but also in the way that the stage directions, when he comes to himself, express a kind of recovery (‘sich schüttelnd’, 7791; ‘sich fassend’, 11809); and in both scenes he chastises himself for being seduced and uses the word ‘absurd’. In the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, he uses ‘absurd’ not for the incestuous sexual desire for a relative, but rather for his desire for what have turned out to be ‘ghosts’ (Gespenster), who are as absurd in classical Greece as they are in ‘the north’. Thus the sexual deviance itself – incest – is no cause for regret; he had remarked on being ‘related to’ these spirits before he tried to approach them sexually. Earlier in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ there was yet another, similar scene: Mephisto is confronted with classical mythological ﬁgures, Sphinxes and Griffons. Here we ﬁnd astonishing linguistic parallels to the ‘Burial’ scene, but with a certain reversal, at least with respect to nakedness: here, ‘nakedness everywhere, with now and then a shift’ (7082), while in the later scene he asks them to get naked, saying that the shifts are prudish (‘Auch könntet ihr anständig-nackter gehen, / Das lange Faltenhemd ist übersittlich’, 11797–8). Like the angels in the later scene, the Griffons, too, are ‘beﬂügelt’ (7084, winged), and they even echo Mephisto’s later gaze at the angels’ buttocks by looking at themselves in the mirror, front and back (‘Von vorn und hinten sich im Auge spiegelt’, 7085; see ‘Von hinten anzusehen!’ 11799). However, in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, Mephisto is explicitly ‘alienated’ (7081) and remarks that he ﬁnds antiquity too realistic (‘Doch das Antike ﬁnd’ ich zu lebendig’, 7087), precisely because of the brazen nakedness – he wishes that there were a few ﬁg leaves here and there, and explains why in lines that Goethe apparently left out in error, or as part of his self-censorship, ‘The eye demands its tribute. / What’s the fuss about naked pagans? / I like to have something to undress, / If there’s going to be some sex.’37 Thus Mephisto doesn’t seem turned off by the idea of sex with such creatures as Sphinxes and Griffons – after all, he

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had earlier complimented one of the Sphinxes on her bosom (7146) and expresses sexual interest in these half-humans (7086). What explicitly ‘alienates’ him is their nakedness – it is thoroughly alien to a northern sensibility such as the devil’s, who requires the titillation provided by enticingly arranged clothing. The remarkable parallels of these scenes to the attempted seduction in the ‘Burial’ scene – parallels that, as far as I can tell, have gone unnnoticed38 – are intended, I think, to make a point: Mephisto’s sexual proclivities are nowhere at issue. He is willing to commit incest and the other kind of sodomy as it was deﬁned in the eighteenth century, namely, bestiality. So sodomy in its purely human form – homosexuality – is hardly something that should evoke the self-reproach of the phrase ‘gemein Gelüst, absurde Liebschaft’. Rather, in all cases it is a non-sexual aspect of the love object that is at issue: in both episodes in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ he is confronted with creatures from antiquity. He rejects the ﬁrst of them (Sphinxes and Griffons) because they don’t play the game so popular in Christian lands, using clothing to heighten sexual desire. He pursues the Lamiae because they seem like northern creatures, but ends up being duped by them and turns away, disgusted at their true natures. In the ﬁrst case, sodomy with half-animals doesn’t bother him, and in the second case, sex with near relatives isn’t at issue. When he is ﬁnally attracted to the angels, it is because they come from the Christian world; Mephisto is on familiar turf.39 He is perfectly polysexual (or omnisexual), so desire for boys is simply another part of his sexuality – an attitude that was not uncommon in the eighteenth century, but had come under attack in the nineteenth. But Mephisto’s desire for the angels represents a different kind of danger for him: he is battling with his mortal enemies and risks betraying his very essence and losing his battle if he succumbs to his love for the angels. That is the reason for speaking of ‘absurde Liebschaft’ – dallying with angels, not speciﬁcally with angel boys. Mephisto is frustrated and angry that they have baited him, trapped him into relinquishing Faust’s soul. There is another possible reading of the phrase ‘gemein Gelüst, absurde Liebschaft’. Ulrich Gaier has argued convincingly that the male God has been dethroned by the end of Faust ii , replaced by a goddess.40 And with this gender change in heaven comes a subversion of the entire system of values that Mephisto knows – he is a medieval devil unable to adapt to modernity, as his judicial quibbling in this scene (11832–3), in close proximity to the lines in question, suggests.41 Therefore, if his references to base and absurd desires do refer to homosexuality, then his self-hatred belongs to an obsolete value system, represented most brilliantly by the jaws of hell that

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are dragged onto the stage as a theatre prop that precisely because of its ‘deliberate staginess’ doesn’t scare anyone any more (as Mephisto says), least of all the audience (11639–55).42 In this interpretation, the gender revolution in heaven means that we can hardly trust Mephisto’s values at all (if we ever could), including his views on his own Greek love. On this view, Mephisto’s modernity consists not least of all in a newly hateful attitude towards Greek love. Thus I think Mephisto is simply referring to his desire for the angels when he speaks of his ‘base’ and ‘absurd’ love; but even if he is speaking of his samesex desire, his self-hatred must be understood as a function of having been aggressively ‘outed’ or entrapped, and of his outdated values. And of course there are wider ironies here. Throughout the play, Mephisto has become a much more fascinating and delightful ﬁgure than Faust. It will hardly do to dismiss him as simply ‘evil’, especially since he had famously stated that he was a part of goodness, while subjectively seeking evil (1336–7), and even God seems to agree with this assessment (338 ff.).43 If the central theme of Faust is love, then by the same token Mephisto’s lust is an essential part of the economy of desire in the play and a part of God’s plan for Faust’s salvation. More fundamentally, the scene highlights ‘a crucial element in Goethe’s depiction of the devil: that his all-too-human traits place him ﬁrmly within our world, whose qualities he must reﬂect to the widest extent that can be achieved.’44 The roses that are used against him, we learn in the next scene, have been given to the angels by female sinners (11942–53), further subverting traditional sexual morality. And, ultimately, Mephisto’s desire is juxtaposed with the treacherous angels who are ﬁgured, not incorrectly, as ‘hypocrites’ (11693). The angels pronounce one of the play’s most important principles, namely the apokatastasis pantōn, the bringing-back of all, Origen’s heretical principle that in an ultimate act of loving reconciliation all are brought back to God, including those who have become alienated from him, fallen and become lost – even the devils in hell.45 This reconciliation is offered to Mephisto at the height of his sexual arousal (11801–8). But it is offered by the angels, whom Mephisto considers hypocrites, at the very moment they are tricking him, and he can hardly be blamed for rejecting it, especially if he wants to retain his identity. Their act of inclusion could, paradoxically, erase the difference that he – and Goethe – seems to cherish.46 notes An updated version of these reﬂections (going back to 2004) will be published as a chapter of my book on Goethe and Greek love, to be published in 2012 by Suhrkamp Verlag, followed by an English edition.

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1. Despite the fact that the term ‘homosexual’ was only used beginning in 1869 and with respect also to sexual practices has to be viewed as an anachronism when applied to the early nineteenth century, I use it here heuristically in order to designate samesex sexuality that has not yet been pathologized or viewed as a character trait. On the theoretical underpinning for this approach, see David M. Halperin, How to Do the History of Homosexuality (University of Chicago Press, 2002). 2. Goethe to Duke Carl August, Rome, 29 December 1787, HA 2, 75. 3. On the Herder reference – and Goethe’s letter generally – see Paul Derks, Die Schande der heiligen Päderastie. Homosexualität und Öffentlichkeit in der deutschen Literatur 1750–1850, Berlin: Verlag Rosa Winkel, 1990, 79–80, 251–2. 4. Esp. Kurt R. Eissler, Goethe. Eine psychoanalytische Studie 1775–1786, trans. Peter Fischer and Rüdiger Scholz, Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1987, 1446–62; see also the passages referred to under ‘Homosexualität’ in the index. Karl Hugo Pruys, Die Liebkosungen des Tigers. Eine erotische Goethe-Biographie, Berlin: Edition q, 1997 has rightly been criticized for asserting Goethe’s homosexuality on ﬂimsy evidence. 5. ‘Ein bon mot von D’Ablancourt will ich Dir mittheilen: An einer gewißen stelle sagt Jupiter vom Ganymed, qu’il vouloit lui donner dix baisers. Da sagt nun der Übersetzer in einer Note (denn wie bekant zeigt er immer wo er mit unter vom Grundtext abgewichen ist) il n’y a dans l’original que deux baisers, mais dix ont plus de force.’ 3 Feb. [1781], Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv 54/249, ﬂ. 97r–97v (Knebel’s papers). The reference is to Nicolas Perrot d’Ablancourt’s (1606–64) translation of Lucian. The passage occurs in the ﬁfth of the Dialogues of the Gods, in which Juno berates Jupiter for his pederastic talk (‘discours de Pæderaste’). See Lucien de la traduction de N. Perrot Sr d’Ablancourt: Divisé en deux parties. Seconde édition reveue et corrigée. Paris: Augustin Courbé, 1665, vol. i, pp. 73–5, 652. (Editions from 1670, 1683 and 1709 are held by the Herzogin Anna Amalia Bibliothek in Weimar, the core of which is the ducal collection.) Ganymede is the traditional code for a passive, boyish gay lover. See Robert D. Tobin, ‘Faust’s Membership in Male Society. Prometheus and Ganymede as Models’, Interpreting Goethe’s Faust Today, ed. Jane K. Brown et al. (Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1994), 19–20, and the literature cited there, as well as the references to Goethe’s own knowledge of this meaning. 6. See Tobin, ‘Faust’s Membership’, 19. The use of ‘Ganymedes’ for the object of pederastic love in Wieland’s own Agathon is part of Tobin’s evidence (26). 7. When Wieland appears in the play he speaks as if in a dream-state: ‘Lassen Sie uns mein lieber Jakobi’, referring to Johann Georg Jacobi, whose ﬂirtatious published correspondence with Gleim was the subject of widespread ridicule. See Wilhelm Körte, Johann Wilhelm Ludwig Gleims Leben. Aus seinen Briefen und Schriften, Halberstadt: Büreau für Literatur und Kunst, 1811, 506–7. One of the ﬁgures comments: ‘Man sieht doch mit was für Leuten er umgeht’ (MA 1:1, 683, You can see the kind of people he associates with). 8. Walter Schleif, Goethes Diener, Berlin and Weimar: Aufbau, 1965, 33, who dismisses it as a ‘literarischer Versuch’. See also Robert D. Tobin, Warm

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11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

w. daniel wilson Brothers. Queer Theory and the Age of Goethe, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000, 96. Nachlese zu den Venezianischen Epigrammen, MA 3:2, 151; translation is from Goethe, Erotic Poems, trans. David Luke, introd. Hans Rudolf Vaget, Oxford University Press, 1997, 73. Vaget remarks: ‘this catholicity of sexual taste in the younger Goethe is needless to say not well documented, though it has been suggested that his feelings for Charlotte von Stein’s young son Fritz, whom she permitted to live in Goethe’s house for three years during the period of his infatuation with her, were not always purely paternal or avuncular . . . [This epigram] can at any rate stand as a particularly concrete example of the conciliatoriness so much lauded and criticized in the author of Faust, that aversion to stark alternatives which pervades all levels of his thought and work’ (134). On Götz: Susan E. Gustafson, ‘Male Desire in Goethe’s Götz von Berlichingen’, in Outing Goethe and His Age, ed. Alice Kuzniar, Stanford University Press, 1996, 111–24, 257–8; on Egmont: W. Daniel Wilson, ‘Amazon, Agitator, Allegory. Political and Gender Cross(-Dress)ing in Goethe’s Egmont’, in Outing Goethe, 125–46, 258–64; on Wanderjahre 2.12 (MA 17, 499–505) and ‘Das Schenkenbuch’ of the West-östlicher Divan (MA 11:1.2, 95–106): Derks, Die Schande, 262–7, 272–81. Derks, Die Schande, 208, quoting Goethe, Winkelmann und sein Jahrhundert, MA 3:2, 356. Goethe, Winkelmann und sein Jahrhundert, ‘Freundschaft’, MA 6:2, 354. Derks, Die Schande, 174–231. Conversation with Friedrich von Müller, 7 April 1830, GG 3:2, 603 f. On 14 March 1830; MA 19, 659. For the last of these, see Eissler, Goethe, 1716. The scholarship on this scene is not voluminous. It is reviewed by Silke Falkner in a perceptive essay whose approach, however, is different from mine. Despite her departures from previous critics, she still asserts that Mephisto’s ‘falling in love with the angels is a humanizing experience that transgresses his devilish identity, and therefore offers him a chance at redemption from the hell of which Mephisto is the central part’. Silke R. Falkner, ‘ “Love only succors / Those who can love”. Mephisto’s Desiring Gaze in Goethe’s Faust’, in Queering the Canon. Defying Sights in German Literature and Culture, ed. Christoph Lorey and John L. Plews, Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1998, 143, an assertion that I shall challenge. She is right to suggest that Mephisto never acts on what she calls his ‘fraudulent’ heterosexual desires. However, she overlooks Goethe’s blurring of the line between heterosexual and homosexual. An earlier article by Harold Jantz presents the intriguing thesis that, in order to save himself from being ‘saved by the grace and love of God’, he consciously ‘twists the love surging within him into a supremely hopeless pederastic passion for the boylike angels’ (168–9). This interpretation does not square with Mephisto’s clear loss of control in the scene, and Jantz’s repeated references to ‘perversion’ do not correspond to Goethe’s attitude towards ‘Greek love’. See Harold Jantz,

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‘Goethe’s Last Jest in Faust: or, “Faust holt den Teufel”’, in Festschrift für Detlev W. Schumann zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Albert R. Schmitt, Munich: Delp, 1970. 17. All further references to Faust are by line number from FA 1:7.1 and Atkins’ 1986 English translation, sometimes amended (in square brackets) for accuracy. 18. From an 1812 essay by Goethe, MA 9, 621; see FA 1:7.2, 755. He further describes the ‘traurigen Lemuren, denen noch so viel Muskeln und Sehnen übrig bleiben, damit sie sich kümmerlich bewegen können, damit sie nicht ganz als durchsichtige Gerippe erscheinen und zusammenstürzen’ (MA 9:623, with illustrations). 19. See FA 1:7.2, 769, referring to Adelung. Critics generally deﬁne the word without attempting to interpret it; Falkner, an exception, says merely that it is ‘reminiscent of “weltmännisch”, or worldly’ (Falkner, ‘ “Love only succors” ’, 148). 20. Anhang zur Lebensbeschreibung des Benvenute Cellini, bezüglich auf Sitten, Kunst und Technik, MA 7, 489. 21. MA 7, 491–2. The episode described here can be found in Goethe’s translation, MA 7, 59–62. Considering the confusion regarding the gender of the angels in the ‘Burial’ scene of Faust ii discussed below, it is perhaps not amiss to see in a passage from this translation an inspiration for the later work. Here the host, the sculptor Michelagnolo of Siena, admires Cellini’s ‘date’, not realizing that it is a young man: ‘Er selbst ﬁel auf die Knie, ﬂehte um Barmherzigkeit, rief alle zusammen und sagte: sehet nur, so sehen die Engel im Paradiese aus! Man sagt immer nur Engel, aber da seht ihr, daß es auch Engelinnen gibt. Dann mit erhobener Stimme sprach er: O schöner Engel, O würdiger Engel, beglücke mich, segne mich!’ (61). 22. ‘Psyche’, in Benjamin Hederich, Gründliches mythologisches Lexikon. Reprograﬁscher Nachdruck [der Ausgabe] Leipzig, Gleditsch, 1770, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1967, cols. 2114–19. 23. On the theme Psyche, see the poem originally entitled ‘An Psyche’ (then ‘An Lida’, MA 2:1, 65), and especially ‘Den Musen-Schwestern ﬁel es ein’ (MA 13:1, 180); on butterﬂies, see especially the poem ‘Der Schmetterling’, MA 1:1, 128, 143–4; see Alfred Anger (ed.), Dichtung des Rokoko, 2nd edn, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1969, 148–9. Psyche has been ‘an exceptionally fertile source of inspiration in the ﬁgurative arts’, Irène Aghion, Claire Barbillon and François Lissarrague, Gods and Heroes of Classical Antiquity, Flammarion Iconographic Guides, Paris: Flammarion, 1996, 250; prominent was Raphael’s ten-part depiction of the marriage of Amor and Psyche in the Villa Farnesina in Rome, which Goethe knew, and he possessed a ten-part hand-coloured set of Nicolas Dorigny’s etchings illustrating the theme (MA 15, 162, 916). Signiﬁcant in the context of this interpretation is the ‘Schmetterling’ in the description of Knabe Lenker (5603). 24. ‘Sie fragen nicht nach Mann und Weib’, Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, bk 8, ch. 2, MA 5, 517. The commentary: ‘Motiv der Androgynie, verbunden mit der Lehre von der Geschlechtslosigkeit der Engel. In ihrem Aufsatz “Der Charakter der Freundschaft” . . . hatte S[usanne] v. Klettenberg erklärt: “Unsere Seelen sind weder Mann noch Weib” . . .’ (826).

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25. Reinhard Buchwald, Führer durch Goethes Faustdichtung, 6th edn, Stuttgart: Kröner, 1961: ‘Wenn Mephisto etwas erﬁnden könnte, die Menschheit zu vernichten, so wäre es solches Kastratentum; und gerade dies – in Gestalt der Engel – diene der christlichen Andacht!’ (241); Albert Daur, Faust und der Teufel. Eine Darstellung nach Goethes dichterischem Wort, Heidelberg: Winter, 1950: ‘Er wehrt sich, schmäht die Boten als Kastraten, schmäht die Phantasie, die so Verruchtes andachtsvoll verehrt, er warnt vor ihnen, die den Teufeln gleich verlocken [. . .]’ (344); see Hans Arens, Kommentar zu Goethes Faust II, Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1989, 973. 26. Jakob Sprenger and Heinrich Institoris, Der Hexenhammer (Malleus maleﬁcarum), trans. J. W. R. Schmidt, Berlin: Barsdorf, 1906; repr. Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1982, ii, 78 ff. 27. See Simon Richter, Laocoon’s Body and the Aesthetics of Pain. Winckelmann, Lessing, Herder, Moritz, Goethe, Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992. 28. Derks, Die Schande, 286. 29. On the parallel of later lines in this scene to Faust’s language of love, see Arens, Kommentar, 985. 30. The ﬁrst scene in which Mephisto appeared, the ‘Prologue in Heaven’, had after all ended with a direct address by Mephisto to the audience. His speeches ‘ad Spectatores’ are repeated at the end of the ‘Laboratory’ and ‘Throne Room’ scenes, both in Faust II, Act 1 (7003–4, 5061–4), as well as in Act 4, ‘High Mountains’ (10210–11, 10327–30) and at the end of the ‘Formal Park’ scene in Act 5 (11286–7); see also in Act 3 lines 9578–9. See Schöne’s commentary in FA 1:7.2, 425. 31. Ulrich Landeck, Der fünfte Akt von Goethes Faust II. Kommentierte kritische Ausgabe, Zurich: Artemis, 1981, 169. 32. This is Arens’ suggestion (Kommentar, 985). 33. See Ulrich Gaier, Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Faust-Dichtungen, Kommentar I, Stuttgart: Reclam, 1999, ii, 1121. Gaier also perceptively points out the devilish behaviour of the angels. Missing this point is the major ﬂaw of Falkner’s interpretation, since she views the angels’ activity solely from the viewpoint of offering Mephisto redemption. 34. See esp. Falkner, ‘“Love only succors”’. 35. See also Mephisto’s threatened incest with the Phorcydes (7987); Hederich (Gründliches mythologisches Lexikon, col. 1997) says that the Phorcydes’ father, Phorcyn/Phorcys, lat. Phorcus, fathered them on his own sister! 36. In only two lines (7785–6) there are echoes from the ‘Interment’ scene: ‘schwanken’ (see 11787), ‘schweben’ (11701, 11722) and ‘Flug’ (11717). 37. Para. 150, FA 1:7.1, 663; see 7.2, 536. 38. Schöne says only that Mephisto is shown to be ‘der “dumme Teufel”’ in ‘Burial’, just as in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ (FA 1:7.2, 528). Arens points out such oblique parallels as the one regarding nakedness (Kommentar, 422), but without any attempt at interpretation. Falkner rightly notes that in the ‘Burial’ scene Mephisto is emotionally involved (he desires a reciprocal gaze), whereas he is not in the scene with the (presumably female) Lamiae (‘ “Love only succors” ’, 149–50).

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39. When he forces the identiﬁcation of the angels as coming from Lucifer’s race (‘Geschlecht’), he seems merely to be trying to arouse their sexual interest in him. 40. Gaier, Kommentar I, 1125 ff. 41. Ibid., 1118–19. 42. Jane K. Brown, Goethe’s Faust. The German Tragedy, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986, 243. 43. See, in this context, Robert D. Tobin, ‘In and Against Nature: Goethe on Homosexuality’, Outing Goethe and His Age, ed. Alice A. Kuzniar, Stanford University Press, 1996, 103–4. 44. Osman Durrani, ‘The Character and Qualities of Mephistopheles’, in A Companion to Goethe’s Faust: Parts I and II, Columbia, SC: Camden House, 2001, 91. 45. See FA 1:7.2, 788 ff.; Gaier, Kommentar I, 1118. 46. I would thus disagree with Falkner’s assessment that Goethe ‘. . . allow[s] Mephisto an opportunity for salvation via homosexual love’ (‘“Love only succors”’, 155); it is not Goethe who does this, but rather the angels whom Goethe portrayed as hypocritical. It is not in this sense that ‘Goethe has redeemed homosexuality not only for his contemporaries but for readers of all generations’, but because he presents homosexuality as a form of love on a par with others. Tobin is thus correct to state that Mephisto ‘underscores the complication of another dichotomy, one that grounds the entire play: that between heaven and hell’ (‘In and Against Nature’, 103). And this complication is parallel to the gender trouble that makes Mephisto’s homosexual orientation (if that’s what it is) unproblematic.

part ii

Theatre

chapter 13

Goethe’s Faust: theatre, meta-theatre, tragedy Martin Swales

In this chapter I want to stress two matters in particular. One is that there is an omnipresence of abundant, kaleidoscopic theatricality in Goethe’s Faust project. The other is that that theatricality is not simply decoration, not simply (as it were) icing on the cake, but is, rather, germane to the central concerns of the drama. Whether we read Faust as a philosophical drama, as a drama of desire or as the historical drama of modernity (and it is to this aspect that I wish to pay particular attention), at every turn we ﬁnd that the theatrical statement is the correlative of the theme. Let me begin with somewhat personal and anecdotal rather than scholarly concerns. On two occasions I have been involved in directing students of German at University College, London in theatre productions of Goethe’s Faust. We performed an acting version of both parts. What resulted was a three-act drama. At its centre was the so-called Gretchentragödie, the love story of Faust and Margarete. This was our Act 2. It was preceded by the material that is often referred to as the Gelehrtentragödie – the tragedy of the despairing scholar – which extends, in Goethe’s Part i, from the opening monologue of Faust’s lacerating despair, through the wager with Mephisto, to Faust’s rejuvenation in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’. This constituted our Act 1. And Act 3 consisted of ﬁve major scenes from the cultural-historical phantasmagoria that is Goethe’s Part ii – Faust’s awakening, the invention of paper money at the court of the Holy Roman Empire, the meeting of Faust and Helen of Troy, the eviction of Philemon and Baucis, the death of Faust and the closing scene depicting his salvation. We joined, then, a long tradition that started with Eckermann in 1834, one that enshrines the quest for a performable version of Goethe’s great project that gives at least some idea of the totality of its statement. To produce the play with gifted young actors is to be reminded of two things: that the Faust drama really does come alive in the theatre; that it works at two levels of statement – a visceral, immediate one and a reﬂective, self-conscious one. Now in one sense, of course, it is true generally of all 197

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theatre that it is at one and the same time immediate and self-conscious, both hyper-real and utterly ﬁctive, engendering what Brecht liked to call complex seeing. But I want to suggest that it is especially true of Goethe’s Faust because those two aspects of theatre are embedded at the very heart of Goethe’s drama. In ways I want to go on to explore, Faust is concerned to understand the interplay of visceral experience, felt and known on the pulses, on the one hand, and, on the other, of the imperative to stand back from experience, to think, to question. Faust is about two kinds of knowing, knowing in its biblical double sense of knowing carnally with the body and knowing conceptually with the self-conscious mind. This, as one might put it, dialectic of experiential modes informs the three great strands of Goethe’s drama and of the theatrical statement which they make. The strands are: the philosophical drama, the drama of desire, the cultural-historical drama of modernity. These strands are not clusters of watertight signiﬁcation. Rather, they are in constant interplay. But for the purposes of analytical and heuristic clarity it is helpful to treat them as separate entities. Let me start with the philosophical drama. It has centrally to do with the mismatch, in the human subject, between mind and body, reﬂectivity and activity. Faust is both an onlooker and a doer. When ﬁrst we see him, he is discontented with a surfeit of intellectual life, with an existence devoted to ideas, concepts, words, abstractions. (I have, incidentally, never found it difﬁcult to explain this kind of resentment to university students; they know it all too well from their own experience.) Faust longs for activity, not just as a principle, but as a speciﬁc engagement with the material world. Hence he translates the beginning of St John’s Gospel not as ‘In the beginning was the Word’ but as ‘Im Anfang war die Tat’ (1237, In the beginning was the Deed). Deeds enliven; but they are necessarily local and particular. They are the limitation imposed by what is on what might be. Faust’s being both reaches out for the circumscribed articulation of the self that is the deed, and he also reaches beyond that constraining particularity into the play of possibility. But that play is, as he says of the vision conjured up by the sign of the Macrocosm, ‘alas, mere show’ (454). The theatrical metaphor is crucial, and I shall want to return to it a little later. The philosophical issue, the oscillation between the two kinds of knowing, is felt in psychological terms. Anticipation expresses itself as desire, as the craving of the self to enter experience. Yet once the desired object is reached, it is never enough; and the desire rekindles itself as renewed anticipation. This is the centre of Faustian energy; it is the discontent engendered by the friction between the two souls within him. For Goethe, that process was part of the

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necessary polarity, the process of systole and diastole that quickens all matter. Yet what he explores in the Faust drama is the stressfulness of living within that energy, the existential and moral disturbance and tragedy that is present at every turn. The two great ‘Study’ scenes between Faust and Mephisto bring us to the heart of the philosophical drama. In earlier versions of the Faust fable, the contract between Faust and the devil was a ﬁxed-term pact: Faust sells his soul for twenty-four years of service, at the end of which time he is damned. In Goethe’s drama an extraordinary transformation occurs. Faust goes into the contractual relationship with Mephisto in a spirit of intense scepticism; he makes not a pact but a bet, a bet on experience. And the ﬁnal arbitration in respect of that bet is not something objectively measurable like the passing of twenty-four years. In Goethe’s project everything depends on what Faust says of, and by that token makes of, his experience. He proposes the wager to Mephisto in the conviction that he, Faust, will never come to rest, will never ﬁnd satisfaction and fulﬁlment. He believes that the devil’s traditional role – which is to provide limitless pleasure – will never bring him to a point of contented stasis. Faust knows that, for him, the onlooking, reﬂective persona, the (as one might put it) meta-self to the active self will always assert itself, condemning each and every present moment to experiential insufﬁciency. This discontent is both Faust’s glory and his tragedy; it is both the cause of his salvation (in terms announced by the Lord in the ‘Prologue in Heaven’) and, as the play will amply demonstrate, the source of his monstrosity. In other words, Goethe changes the whole value scheme that informs the Faust material; from the traditional battle between good and evil we move to a struggle between energy and activity on the one hand and sloth and inertia on the other. Mephisto’s task, then, as the antagonist of the Lord’s purposes, is to switch off the dynamo that drives Faust. To this end he employs two strategies – and they are interrelated. One is to adhere to his traditional function, which is to purvey pleasure, to be the ever-eager salesman who talks up every possible experience as the harbinger of all the heart’s desires. But the other role is that of the cynic, of devaluing anything and everything. Mephisto has seen it all before: Margarete is ‘not the ﬁrst’; falling in love is part of the ‘course of the world’ (3204). Mephisto is the master of reductive interchangeability, of the throw-away line. And he knows that he can appeal to the disparaging, debunking agency housed in Faust’s selfconsciousness. Mephisto’s magic has little to do with fairy-tale enchantment. Rather, it is the acceleration of experience; and his conviction is that the acceleration of experience will bring about the devaluation of

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experience. Ready availability will, in other words, render experience null and void, insubstantial. One could state this philosophical issue through the metaphor of theatre. Faust oscillates between wanting to be both on the stage of life and a spectator at it. Mephisto offers him life as a theatrical extravaganza – immensely appealing, quick-ﬁre experience, yet ultimately (in his, Mephisto’s, view) tawdry and worthless. Let me give a particular instance of the theatrical conceptualization of substantiality and insubstantiality. At the end of the play Faust has a vision of what might be – a new community living courageously on land reclaimed from water. He sees the image before him like some great theatrical panorama. He is excited, moved; and he speaks the words of the wager with Mephisto, the words of contentment and fulﬁlment that spell his doom. But he utters the words conditionally, in quotation marks – almost as though they were being spoken by an actor in some future play: Werd’ ich zum Augenblicke sagen: Verweile doch! du bist so schön!

(11581–2)

Then to the moment I could say: Tarry a while, you are so fair.

The active man, the man of activity is, in the last analysis, also an actor, speaking his lines, meaning them as fully and substantially but also as contingently, as ﬁctively, as any actor does. Theatre is a key metaphor for human existence in Goethe’s Faust; and this changes the way we receive the play in the theatre. It becomes allegorically charged at every turn. I want to pass on now to the second strand in Goethe’s Faust – the drama of desire. The love story is, of course, the most visceral and immediate phase of Goethe’s project. It is sustained by the issue of knowing, not just sexually but also mentally, reﬂectively. The issue of anticipation and fulﬁlment, to which I have drawn attention under the rubric of the philosophical drama, is powerfully at work in the play’s understanding of desire. In Faust as lover we register a spectrum of responses that moves from simple lust on the one hand to a sensitive and generous response to Margarete’s whole being and way of life on the other. Moreover, in the ﬁgure of Margarete Goethe gives us the spell-binding portrait of a young woman who, under the impact of the love she feels for Faust, is impelled to think, to reﬂect, to take stock of herself in ways (we sense) that have not been part of her experience before. This coming into being of consciousness confronts Goethe the dramatist with a stylistic problem: how is Margarete to soliloquize? She needs a cognitive and linguistic framework for self-analysis, but does not know where to look for it. She has, as becomes clear from her account of the

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daily routines of her life, not been given much education. Girls of her class are, as we might put it, not meant to soliloquize; they are not meant to have a complex inner life. Goethe’s resolution of the dilemma is as simple as it is profound. Time and again, when she soliloquizes in a more considered way than that of instinctive reaction to events (the ﬁnding of the jewels), she does not simply sit and think. Rather, she needs to be doing something. Her hands are busy – she is getting ready for bed, she is at the spinning wheel, she is putting ﬂowers in a vase in church. And the form of her inwardness is in part borrowed: she has recourse to established forms of utterance – folk song (‘There was a King in Thule’, 2759), work song (‘My heart is heavy’, 3374), prayer (‘Deign, O deign’, 3587). The latter is, in the German, miraculous for the touch of Frankfurt dialect that makes the rhyme (‘Ach neige / Du Schmerzensreiche’) work. This drama of emerging self-consciousness is, quite simply, electrifying. However immediate these soliloquies are in their emotional impact, they also invite us to reﬂect on relationships that obtain between inwardness, social class and literary form. Moreover, because of the constant presence of Mephisto in the Faust/ Margarete story, other forms of theatrical self-consciousness are not far away. A wonderful and crucial scene in this respect is the double wooing. The scene is a garden; two couples, Faust and Margarete and Mephisto and Marthe move back and forth. And as they do so, they come brieﬂy into earshot, and we eavesdrop on their conversation. From Faust and Margarete we hear the rapture of lovers talking and discovering each other. From Mephisto and Marthe we hear the dextrous sparring of two experienced performers on the erotic roundabout. The scene ends with a characteristically debunking comment from Mephisto: ‘So runs the world its course’ (3204). At one level, of course, he is right; and the stage picture tells us as much. The alternating appearance of now one couple, now the other suggests the old mechanisms of love and seduction. The theatrical statement has, indeed, something mechanical about it – it reminds us of ﬁgures on a weather house. Yet at another level there is rapture and beauty in one of the duets that we hear – perhaps even in the quartet as a whole. The scene is an extraordinary moment of theatre, one that is both innocent and knowing, both immediate and self-conscious. I come now to the third essential strand of Goethe’s drama, the historicocultural dimension which comes massively to the fore in Part ii. It is an enormous panorama, a phantasmagoria that brings the past and the present into knowing interplay. Three epochs come into debate with each other – classical Greece, the Christian Middle Ages and the emergent modernity of Goethe’s own time (early capitalism). All three ages contribute to the

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deﬁnition of Faust as the self-conscious heir to some two millennia of European history. He emerges as modern economic man, inventing paper money and with it a speculative economy. In the closing phase of the drama we see him as the modern entrepreneur, engaged in trade, commerce and war, transforming the world by draining water from the marshes and driving canals through solid land. His pupil Wagner undertakes experiments in order to create artiﬁcial life. The Faustian energy, then, meddles profoundly with the elements, with nature, and unleashes the dynamism of modern living. Yet modern man is also profoundly in love with the past – with classical Greece, as antiquarian, archaeologist, as lover of Helen of Troy – and with the aesthetics, the estates and titles, of medieval Europe which he is intent on abolishing. In all this complexly intertextual debate Goethe offers not a realistic depiction of past ages but rather a postmodern cornucopia, a kind of theme park. And hence the theatrical statement is as knowing, as quotational, as the multiple textuality which it explores. The historical argument about the forms of modernity also informs Part i of the drama, of course. The philosophical thrust of Faust’s dilemma, of his energy and discontent, also feeds into and nourishes a diagnosis of modernity. Faust is a modern man in the sense that he is a radical individualist, a scientist, a resolutely secular spirit. Moreover, Mephisto, in his manipulation of the accelerative and destructive power of magic, is recognizably a paradigmatic spokesman of modern nihilism – to say nothing of the postmodern nihilism of virtual reality. Furthermore, the historico-cultural argument extends richly into the drama of desire. When Faust destroys Margarete, he destroys the pre-modern world, one bound by the institutions of family, church, school, village. It is of profound signiﬁcance that, when Margarete tries to discover the values by which her lover lives, what he lives for and by, she frames the question the only way she and her culture know: ‘Nun sag, wie hast du’s mit der Religion?’ (3415, Say then, what is your religion?). This question is a weighty moment in the whole rhetoric of the play’s cultural-historical diagnosis, as well as a moment of marvellous psychological truth. The coexistence of these three strands – philosophical, erotic and historical – demands of us the audience both an empathy with the substantiality of the experiences portrayed and a complex seeing that Brecht would have approved of (had he allowed himself to understand the play). Goethe’s great text demands, then, that we respond within (at least) three shifting frames of reference. Moreover, that richly cross-textual argument extends into our own postmodern situation. Goethe was happy to engage in anachronism, as when Faust teaches Helena to speak in rhymed verse. So

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we, too, may have the courage of anachronism – and many productions of the play have done just this, one of the most famous being Gründgens’ incorporation of the Brussels Atomium into Faust’s study. This trans-temporal creativity, or something like it, may occur, of course, in any theatrical performance of any classical drama nowadays – of Euripides, Shakespeare or Molière. My point is, however, that there is a particular justiﬁcation for it in respect of Faust because that multifaceted theatrical mode is utterly germane to what the play is seeking to understand. Just as the character of Faust himself is aware of multiple frames that contextualize any given experience, so too the drama in which he ﬁgures asks us, with particular intensity, to be aware of the frames, of spaces and meta-spaces of signiﬁcation. Goethe’s Faust plays within and with frames. In the closing phase of this chapter I want, in fairly shorthand form, to draw attention to various instances of frames and framing that are germane to the play and to our response to it. Let me begin with an obvious moment of framing – the prefatory statements that stand outside and circumscribe the action that begins with Faust’s great soliloquy of despair. The poem ‘Dedication’ is, at the most immediate level, about the unpredictability of Goethe’s own creativity, which means that ﬁgures from his creative past come back to haunt him and displace immediate and present concerns. The poem ends: Was ich besitze, seh’ ich wie im Weiten, Und was verschwand, wird mir zu Wirklichkeiten.

(31–2)

What I possess seems something far away And what had disappeared proves real.

The implications of this process extend, in my view, beyond Goethe’s relationship to the ﬁgures from the Faust project. What is implied is a general human process thanks to which things of the mind can be more real than concrete and palpable things. The great philosophical theme of the play – the interplay of mind and matter – sounds for the ﬁrst time here in the prefatory poem. In human perception and cognition, reality is not merely a property of empirical immediacy, it also depends on frameworks of signiﬁcance. Matter comes truly to matter when it is underwritten mentally, imaginatively. The second framing statement – the ‘Prologue on the Stage’ – thematizes the theatre as a social institution, as a privileged site of imaginative expression and statement, and as a corporate place where illusion interacts, as physical presence, as sensuous show, with its audience. Theatre is not just the mode of the literary work that we are about to enter; it is

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aesthetically at the heart of its thematic universe. It is what we know and how we know it. The ﬁnal frame, the ‘Prologue in Heaven’, brings us closer to the fable that is about to unfold, in that it introduces a key theme – the wager on the nature of human experience – and one of the key participants in that wager, Mephisto. The Prologue expresses the transformed value scheme of this version of the Faust legend. For this Lord, energy is the supreme human good, not obedience or moral scrupulousness. The ‘Prologue’, an immensely resonant meta-statement in respect of the drama that follows, not only provides a framework for Faust’s experiential journey, it also invokes a plethora of intertextual frames: the original Faust narrative of 1587, the Book of Job where the heavenly host bear witness to a test-case of human goodness, and Genesis 3 with its story of the banishment of man and woman from the Garden of Eden because they succumbed to the sin of wanting to know. The process of meta-contextual framing that begins with these three prefatory statements recurs throughout the drama that unfolds – and it sets up heightened reﬂectivity in us. At two crucial junctures we have, for example, framed instances of cultural memory in the two Walpurgis Night scenes. Homunculus spells out the all-important contrast when he says: Nordwestlich, Satan, ist dein Lustrevier, Südöstlich diesmal aber segeln wir.

(6950–1)

Your favourite quarter, Satan, lies northwest of here, But we must sail southeast on this occasion.

The ‘Walpurgis Night’ of Part i expresses the dark fantasies of modernity, of north-west Europe; the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ of Part ii takes us back to the cradle of European civilization in the south-east Mediterranean. The contrasts are powerful – above all in terms of the cultural relationship to bodiliness and nature. The modern world has an unquiet, disturbed sense of the body’s workings; it is driven by Mephisto’s voluptuous perception of dirt and perversity, whereas the southern realm, for all its cruelty (of war, rape and pillage) betrays no Manichaean belief in the sullied condition of bodily nature. This sense of intertextually contrasting cultural models has to do with the focus on European modernity which, as I have already sought to suggest, is central to Goethe’s Faust project.1 For this reason, the Faust fable belongs in the company of two other major narratives that haunt and express the imagination of modern Europe. Frankenstein is one; like Goethe’s Faust, it articulates the fear that modern science may unleash energies that it cannot

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control. And the other is Don Juan; like Faust, the Don Juan ﬁgure is the overreacher whose motivation is primarily carnal. Faust, as we have seen, is impelled by both carnal and mental imperatives to know. Both these myths of modernity form a meta-text to Goethe’s Faust project; and frequently we can hear that meta-text in the theatre as the stage picture shows us the laboratory in which artiﬁcial life is made or the endless mechanisms of the seducer’s initiatives. One ﬁnal instance of framing is, in my judgement, particularly noteworthy. And it has to do with the generic subtitles that Goethe provides for the two parts of his work – ‘The First Part of the Tragedy’ and ‘The Second Part of the Tragedy’. The issues inherent in Goethe’s relationship to tragedy are many and complex, and I cannot possibly do justice to them here. Let me simply make three points. One is that scholarship has traditionally identiﬁed four periods in which tragedy comes particularly to the fore: classical Greece (Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides); Renaissance England (the Jacobean playwrights, Marlowe, Shakespeare); neoclassical France (Corneille, Racine); and modern bourgeois tragedy. Within this latter phase, the German contribution is seminal, both in terms of aesthetic theory (Schiller, Hegel, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Benjamin) and of theatrical practice (Lessing, Goethe, Schiller, Kleist, Büchner, via Brecht to Heiner Müller). My second point is that the legacy of tragedy is a rich and constantly problematic one. Going as far back as Aristotle, theoretical debates about the tragic form have highlighted the dialectical ﬁeld of force within which the genre operates – it is strenuously, viscerally physical, and it also holds out the promise of aesthetic, perhaps even transcendental, validation. Tragedy, to put the matter most radically, makes sadists and metaphysicians of us all. Hence, it works as a mode of drama that is terrifyingly immediate and also austerely stylized. In one sense, tragedy always takes the risk of trying to justify human existence in spite of all the negation and resistance (pain, suffering, mortaliy) that is ranged against it. In the modern age, with the waning of religious belief, the aesthetic justiﬁcation may be as much validation as can be offered. Certainly this is the case for Nietzsche and Benjamin, two great theoreticians of tragedy and modernity. My third point is that Goethe’s Faust is complexly and creatively enmeshed in the whole generic project of tragedy. His Faust is not an avoidance of tragedy; rather, it makes an issue of tragedy. And our ability to hear this issue depends on our ability to hear and reﬂect on the framing intertext of tragedy from 500 bc to our own time. I have more or less reached my conclusion. I want ﬁnally to register (no more than) three further intertextual frames that can properly inform our

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sense of Goethe’s Faust. One is visual. It is important to remember how powerfully our sense of the play is conditioned by paintings, images, sketches, illustrations. One thinks of Goethe’s own drawings (for example, of the Earth Spirit’s appearance), of the illustrations by Peter Cornelius and Moritz Retzsch. A second intertextual frame is provided by music. The play itself is constantly aware of the dimension of music as implicit in the drama – one thinks of the various songs, of the whole Euphorion sequence which Goethe conceives as an elaborate music drama. And also of the musical responses to the play from Schubert, Schumann, Berlioz, Gounod, Liszt, Mahler, Boito, Busoni, Schnittke. It is intriguing to wonder why the play has so intensely triggered musical compositions. No other drama in European literature – not Oedipus, nor Hamlet, nor King Lear, nor Phèdre – has inspired such a musical after-life. One answer may have to do with the philosophical import of the play. If we conceive of the being of music in Schopenhauerean terms, as the conjoining of visceral emotional energy and intense spirituality, if music is, as it were, sheer drive and pure maths, then perhaps we can begin to see why music is utterly attuned to Faust: it embodies the dialectic of which the play speaks at every turn. My third and ﬁnal intertext, perhaps more urgently present for German than non-German audiences, is political. At various crucial junctures in German history Goethe’s Faust drama has meant a great deal to the German cultural psyche. One was the 1870s, where Faust is constantly seen as the great drama that speaks to and for the German nation. In the 1920s and 1930s that legacy becomes part of Nazi ideology. Faust is held to express German titanism and expansionism. In the period after 1945, two different strands of reception emerge. One is based in the German Democratic Republic (GDR), where the work is venerated as part of the humanistic legacy of Weimar Classicism, a legacy that was redeemed by the existence of the socialist state. Walter Ulbricht once claimed that the GDR’s existence was the third part of Goethe’s Faust. In West Germany post-1945, there is, by contrast, an intense problematizing of the classical inheritance. This goes hand in hand with the highly sophisticated but often wilful inﬂuence of what is sometimes called ‘Regietheater’, a form of theatre driven less by the worded text of the play than by the director’s conception of the performance as critical onslaught. After 1990, Germany and German theatre enter a new phase, one in which (perhaps) the ideological loading of the preceding fortyﬁve years is replaced by a kind of ludic spirit that believes in theatrical experiment.2 Let me bring this chapter swiftly to an end. I do so on a note of bad conscience. What I have offered may sound forbiddingly learned. What are

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we to make of all these intertexts, of all these frameworks of signiﬁcance, of all this play of theatre and meta-theatre? Do we have to become encyclopaedias of European culture before we dare venture into the theatre to see Faust performed? The answer emphatically is no. Even if we do not know many of the resonances linked to this work, we sense the richness and profusion of its statement. And the theatrical experience before us at any given time engages with these intertexts; we may ﬁnd ourselves responding to a philosophical, erotic, historical, theological, tragic, ironic, musical, political Faust – perhaps even, on occasion, to all these Fausts at one and the same time. In any event, the drama that Goethe has given us is one that moves back and forth between various theatrical frames – morality play, Baroque world theatre, balladesque narrative, realistic drama of social life, pageant, masque, music drama, postmodern show. The play moves back and forth – and so do we, the audience, with it. (The audience did so literally, physically, in Peter Stein’s production, where they followed the action from one venue to the next, from one framework to the other.) This is as it should be: Goethe’s play is all about energies and processes, about the shifting frameworks of human signiﬁcation. The Faustian wager moves with his experience; his judgements move with him; our judgements move with us. Hence, Goethe’s thematic purpose necessitates a kaleidoscopically shifting theatre as each form of drama and experience generates meta-forms of drama and experience. The value-frame that contains any one picture or image or scene changes its import when it gives way to another picture or image or scene. (To put the matter in broader cultural terms: articles of faith in one age become the – secularized – aesthetic forms of another. I grew up in a city in England which was full of Greek temples and Gothic cathedrals. But more often than not, they were places of de-theologized rather than religious worship: they were banks, universities, schools, libraries, railway stations.) This volatility, or something like it, is the drama of our modernity and postmodernity that Goethe’s Faust captures. And the drama is not over and done with; it is not a foregone conclusion. Nor is Goethe’s Faust ever over and done with. Hence, even its closure, the defeat of Mephisto, the salvation of Faust is set about with irony and open-endedness. So what, ﬁnally, does this mean for theatre practice? Let me give two answers. First: while any drama only truly comes alive when it is performed on the stage, this is especially true of Goethe’s Faust because theatre, as I have tried to suggest, is at the heart of its theme. It is not simply a drama for reading, a Lesedrama. Any performance realizes the play; it speciﬁes it; it speciﬁes the

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characters. Faust is 6 foot tall and has a beard; Margarete is 5 foot tall, blonde and chubby – or whatever. That speciﬁcation is a constriction of the worded text. When we read Goethe’s lines, we see and hear, in our mind’s eye, all kinds of Fausts, all kinds of Margaretes. Precisely that dialectic of possibility and actuality is, as we have seen, one of the themes of the play – and that theme comes alive in us as we watch and reﬂect on the play on stage. Secondly: how should one perform the play? At its heart is the threefold possibility of tragedy: the tragedy of human self-division, of human desire, of human cultural destructiveness. These tragic strands have to be heard, heard both substantially and reﬂectively, heard with that constant interplay of immediacy and detachment that is true of all theatre, true particularly of tragedy, true particularly of Goethe’s Faust because of its multiple framings. Like no other play in world literature known to me it is framed and selfframing. This complex textual and intertextual condition can be expressed on stage. Peter Stein’s production does it. Think of the visceral force of Margarete’s tremor of horror at the presence of Mephisto, of Mephisto’s ﬂicking of the tongue across his lips; think also of the lucidity and knowingness of the double wooing, played amidst not trees but scaffolding, suggesting the mechanics of wooing, of Mephisto’s highly self-conscious comment to the audience at the end of Act 3 of Part ii. Few productions have offered as much. Few dramas in world literature attempt and achieve so much. notes 1. In my discussion of the modernity of Faust I am particularly indebted to Heinz Schlaffer, Faust Zweiter Teil. Die Allegorie des neunzenhnten Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1981; Jochen Schmidt, Goethes Faust. Erster und Zweiter Teil. Grundlagen–Werk–Wirkung, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1999; and Ulrich Gaier, Fausts Modernität, Stuttgart: Reclam, 2000. 2. For an admirable discussion of the stage history, see Bernd Mahl, Goethes Faust auf der Bühne, 1806–1998, Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 1999.

chapter 14

Faust beyond tragedy: hidden comedy, covert opera Dieter Borchmeyer

part one Goethe called Faust a tragedy. Of course, its protagonist is nothing less than tragic. Regardless of whether our reference point is Aristotle’s conception of tragedy, or the modern, post-Schelling, metaphysical one, Faust lacks the fundamental criterion of the tragic – suffering. He thus never evokes the sympathy of the viewer or the reader. Why is that? In the thirteenth chapter of his Poetics, Aristotle described ‘similarity’ between the hero and the viewer as one of the conditions of the tragic effect, for it alone enables the viewer to identify with the protagonist. Fear and pity are identiﬁcatory affects. Now, Faust – the Übermensch who is constantly trying to surpass the conditio humana (490) – is at no point ‘similar’.1 He raises himself above every limiting, conditioning human form and thus permits no identiﬁcation which might be bound to this form. One who, in Mephisto’s words, ‘overleaps the joys that this world affords’ (1859), also bypasses its suffering. In moments of impending failure, when ‘all mankind’s miseries’ (4406) take hold of him, Faust always manages to evade the tragic consequences of his actions by discarding his earthly form and taking on another. He ﬂees from science and from the collapse of the ediﬁce of knowledge he has erected, taking recourse ﬁrst in white and – after ‘memory’ (781) has preserved him from suicidal oblivion and returned him to the limiting realm of ‘earth’ (784) – later in black magic. Faust is made young through sorcery, i.e., he is robbed of a part of his life story and the memories and values that accompanied it. He transforms himself into a youthful lover, but when this form precipitates a tragic fate, he escapes catastrophe – after trying in vain to circumvent it through separation (‘Forest and Cave’) or to repress it (‘Walpurgis Night’) – by simply running away. In the ‘Pleasant Landscape’ scene, convalescent sleep and nature magic internally cleanse him ‘in the dew of Lethe’s waters’ (4629) of ‘angry strife within his heart’ (4624) and remove ‘the burning barbs of his remorse’ 209

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(4624). Once again, a part of his life story, memories and regrets, is wiped clean. The encounter with antiquity remains a phantasmagoria, carrying in itself consequences which for Helena are tragic, but which Faust can avoid by stepping back into reality. His physical blindness, which is the symbol of his spiritual blindness, prevents him from taking cognizance of his ultimate failure as a politician. He is subject to an illusion which divests him of tragedy. And the mystery of redemption at the end dissolves tragedy into meta-tragedy. Faust is the great forgetter! Only by erasing his memory can he repeatedly start again from the beginning, trade in one form of existence for another and enjoy within his ‘inmost being’ that which is ‘the lot of all mankind’ (1770). While he does trigger tragedies, one after the other – from Gretchen via Helena to Philemon and Baucis – he is not, in his innermost being, affected by them. If Faust is a tragedy, it is one despite Faust himself. There is no doubt that in its predominantly high style and moments of pathos Faust remains a tragedy, even if – like the tragedies of Shakespeare – it does not, according to the strict humanist rules for the separation of styles, meet the criteria for a ‘pure’ exemplar of the genre. No less than the Elizabethan theatre, Faust is chock-full of low-brow comedy and is thus, like the tragedies of Shakespeare, a theatre of mixed styles. With a view to its dramatic form, one would be equally, if not more, justiﬁed in calling it a Divina Commedia after Dante’s great epic poem. In the tenth part of his letter to Cangrande, Dante wrote that tragedy and comedy were to be differentiated by their plot development. Whereas tragedy proceeded from a peaceful and noble beginning to a terrible end, comedy on the other hand should lead from a bitter beginning to a happy end. This is, of course, the very movement of the Commedia itself, which represents Dante’s passage from hell through purgatory to paradise. The Manager suggests the exact opposite way at the end of Goethe’s ‘Prologue on the Stage’: ‘From heaven, through the world, to hell’ (242), but this is just a formal description of the scenic possibilities of the three-tiered symbolic mystery stage formed by Faust’s model of theatre. It certainly applies to the plot of Faust i , which begins with the ‘Prologue in Heaven’ and, in the ‘Walpurgis Night’, ﬁnally leads to the precinct of the devil. Faust ii, on the other hand, will return at the end to heaven. Dante also distinguishes tragedy from comedy ﬁrst by the tendency of the plot, but then also by the modus loquendi, which is a mixture of the – speciﬁcally tragic – sublime and the – characteristically comedic – vulgar. This mixture also marks Goethe’s Faust project, which is in this sense hardly less of a Commedia than Dante’s poem. Yet it is not only from the side of the modus loquendi, but also from that of the plot that Faust disclaims tragedy.

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If the Lord relinquishes Faust to Mephistopheles in the ‘Prologue in Heaven’, he does so with certain foresight of the happy, redemptive ending: Nun gut, es sei dir überlassen! Zieh diesen Geist von seinem Urquell ab Und führ ihn, kannst du ihn erfassen, Auf deinem Wege mit herab – Und steh beschämt, wenn du bekennen mußt: Ein guter Mensch in seinem dunklen Drange, Ist sich des rechten Weges wohl bewußt.

(323–9)

So be it! Do as you are minded! Divert this spirit from its primal source, And drag him, if you can keep hold of him, Along your downward path, And stand abashed when you must needs admit: A good man, in his groping intuition, Is well aware of what’s his proper course.

In the Christian drama of salvation, which is diametrically opposed to tragedy, the devil never had a chance to begin with. The humour of the cheated devil is as integral to the mystery play as the humour of personiﬁed Vice is to the morality play. In particular we are reminded of the ‘Vice’ of the English morality plays, that hybrid of demon and fool who was so characteristic of the English stage of the sixteenth century and whose traces reach, via his humanized descendants in Shakespeare’s dramas, all the way to Goethe’s Faust. In the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, Mephisto, who is well-versed in the history of the theatre, places himself overtly in the tradition of Vice, the comic ﬁgure of the morality play. ‘Are any British here? – They’re usually great travellers’ (7118), he responds to the Sphinx’s enquiry after his name: ‘My name’s attested in their ancient drama, / Where I appeared as Old Iniquity’ (7122–3). ‘Iniquity’ was in fact one of the monikers of Vice, whose task was to seduce the protagonist into a life of sin – just as Mephisto has in mind with Faust, ﬁrst in a coarsely sensual way (‘Auerbach’s Cellar’) and later in increasingly sublime variations. In Faust the model of mystery and morality plays, which harks back to the tragedybereft Middle Ages, persistently challenges the paradigm of modern tragedy. Mephisto betrays the tragic for the sake of the comic from the very beginning. The register of his speech and the action he instigates are a permanent boycott of the sublime and elevated style. The way for this was already prepared by the ‘Prologue on the Stage’, where the Manager, the Poet– Playwright and the Player of Comic Roles, with their widely divergent interests, were brought together in conversation. While the Manager, who is of

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course concerned with the ﬁnancial success of his venture, looks to the masses, the Poet–Playwright may know nothing more of them, or of the outward impact of his work at all, than would a windowless monad; he is thinking only of that ‘posterity’ (74) about which the Player, for his part, cannot bear to hear another word. For him, the ‘amusement’ of the ‘present generation’ is the purpose and aim of theatre, and there is no doubt that with this maxim he is closer to the Manager, and the Manager to him, than either is to the Poet– Playwright or he to them. They both want a motley theatre of mixed styles, a ‘ragout’ (100) for every taste, while the Poet–Playwright in his distance from the world and stage desires nothing other than to reveal the secrets of his ‘depths of feeling’ (67). The tragic Poet–Playwright, intent on sublime heights without concession, cannot assert himself vis-à-vis the Manager and the Player. In this theatrical play of forces, they outnumber him two to one. The Player of Comic Roles is the comic ﬁgure of the commedia dell’arte who had fallen into disrepute through the Enlightenment reform theatre of such luminaries as Gottsched or Caroline Friederike Neuber. The tradition of having the actor of Mephisto play the role of the Player in the ‘Prologue on the Stage’ is wholly sensible, as this ﬁgure did develop in signiﬁcant measure from the devil ﬁgure of the medieval theatre, as the suggestion of devil’s horns on the harlequin’s mask still signals. Just as the Player deﬁes the Poet–Playwright’s will to purity of style by sullying the sublime with his trivial imponderabilia and ‘Folly’, and immediately drags down the Poet– Playwright’s lofty ottava rima, replacing it with the parlando of the madrigal, Mephisto will likewise in the following ‘Prologue in Heaven’ forsake the angels’ solemn meter and slip increasingly into the same rakish madrigal of which his comical brother had availed himself in the ‘Prologue’. If this is no doubt a concession of the artist’s sacred artistic will to theatrical efﬁcacy and human delight in expectations fulﬁlled, Mephisto does not fail to disparage, in his spirit of diabolical misanthropy, humans and their more exalted endeavours: ‘They stick their noses into every dirty mess’ (292). Despite his negativism he remains, throughout the whole of Faust, a comic ﬁgure, and is tolerated as such by the Lord in the ‘Prologue in Heaven’: ‘Of all the spirits of negation / Rogues like you bother me the least’ (338–9). In God’s household he thus enjoys a fool’s licence in the truest sense. Nearly every mythology has the ﬁgure of the divine or semidivine imp, the ‘trickster’ who is more or less grudgingly tolerated by the other gods – a role played by Hermes in the Greek and by Loki in Germanic mythology. In the Helena act of Goethe’s Faust ii (9645–78), the chorus unravels the myth of Hermes, in a grand song, as that of a divine ‘rascal’. From among the mythic trickster’s pranks are recounted, for instance:

Hidden comedy, covert opera Schnell des Meeres Beherrscher stiehlt Er den Trident, ja dem Ares selbst Schlau dem Schwert aus der Scheide Bogen und Pfeil dem Phöbus auch, Wie dem Hephästos die Zange; Selber Zeus, des Vaters, Blitz Nähm er, schreckt ihn das Feuer nicht; Doch dem Eros siegt er ob In beinstellendem Ringerspiel, Raubt auch Cyprien, wie sie ihm kost, Noch vom Busen den Gürtel.

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(9668–78)

Soon from the Lord of the Sea he has stolen The trident and, right from its sheath, Slyly Ares’ own sword, As well as Phoebus’ arrow and bow, And the tongs of Hephaestus, And would, but for fear of ﬁre, Take even Zeus’s lightning, his father’s; But he does, by tripping him up, Vanquish Eros as wrestler And steal, while Cypria holds him, From off her bosom the girdle.

Hardly any signiﬁcant mythic work of literature, even in modernity, can do without the trickster. His human counterpart is the picaro, whose own genre tradition no doubt harks back to the mythological one. We are reminded of Goethe’s Mephisto, of Loge in Richard Wagner’s Ring des Nibelungen (in whom Loki and Mephisto are to a certain extent fused) or of Thomas Mann’s Joseph novels with their comedic variations on Hermes, which evince traces of Goethe as well as of Wagner, and in which Joseph himself slips increasingly into the role of Hermes, including and especially that of the trickster. In a number of (particularly Native American and East Asian) mythologies, the trickster, the divine imp, has a phallic cast. The phallus attributed to him is so enormous that he must wrap it around his body when he travels or risk losing it, such as when he rolls it out one night only to have it gobbled up by animals while he sleeps. It is not uncommon for the trickster to embody an oppositional element within the divine order, a suspension of it – conceded by its representatives, understandably, only with a marked reservatio mentalis – which repeatedly expresses itself in the grotesque forms of exaggerated sexuality and of the bodily organs that serve it. As we shall see, Mephisto also partakes of this obscene, phallic connection. Yet even among the orders of the Christian heavens which Goethe

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conjures once more, the trickster retains his place, despite having emigrated to the devilish counter-world of the divine cosmos and having been distinguished by the Lord very clearly from the ‘true sons of heaven’ (344). Mephisto is, in a certain sense, the jester at God’s court. In the form of the ‘Schalk’, the negating spirit is no bother to the Lord: ‘Ich habe deinesgleichen nie gehaßt’ (337, I have no hate for creatures of your kind), he admits with the conciliatory tone of one who is certain of his world’s cohesive order. And even in the human world he grants him minority rights: ‘When that occurs, again come uninvited’ (336). Where rascaldom is given a free hand and the inevitably diabolical implications of jest are permitted to question the laws of the everyday world and kick against the pricks of the established order – there, Man also remains agile: Von allen Geistern, die verneinen, Ist mir der Schalk am wenigsten zur Last. Des Menschen Tätigkeit kann allzuleicht erschlaffen, Er liebt sich bald die unbedingte Ruh; Drum geb ich gern ihm den Gesellen zu, Der reizt und wirkt und muß als Teufel schaffen. (338–343) Of all the spirits of negation Rogues like you bother me the least. Human activity slackens all too easily, And people soon are prone to rest on any terms; That’s why I like to give them the companion Who functions as a prod and does a job as devil.

God himself is an apologist for negation in the form of rascaldom. When was the subversive power of comedy or of humour as a constant incitement to human striving ever announced with greater authority? To be sure, Mephisto seems to have every reason to visit the ‘Old Man’ (351) from time to time and not to want to break with him. And so he closes the ‘Prologue in Heaven’ with a cosmic punchline, which parodies the interaction between God and the devil as the human relationship between lord and fool: ‘It is quite decent of a mighty lord to chat / And be so human with the very devil’ (352). The very devil, that is, who wants to undermine his order with wickedness and jest. Mephisto is the Christian–devilish version of the divine trickster. Of course, he is not the one who laughs last. Having been so certain in the ‘Prologue’ that he would win the bet with the Lord and take Faust’s soul, it is perfectly in keeping with his role in medieval mystery and salvation dramas that it is he who is in fact fooled at the end. The Faust drama is predestined and staged as a comedy by the Lord himself, with a devil as

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‘Schalk’ and ‘Geselle’ (companion) who constantly stimulates the protagonist to activity, but who is ultimately transformed from the subject into the object of comedy. The divinely planned comedy about Faust plays out with Mephisto’s help, while God stands in the wings as the actual director. God’s tolerance of Mephisto contradicts the latter’s estimation of the Lord. Unlike the angels, he doesn’t resort to ‘high-ﬂown language’ (275). He justiﬁes his avoidance of the elevated style with the verses: ‘Pathos from me, in any case, would make You laugh / If You had not stopped laughing long ago’ (277–8). Laughing is thus precipitated, in Mephisto’s (certainly familiar) theory of comedy, by an incongruence: in this case, by sublime pathos in the mouth of a vulgar character. Of course, Mephisto himself consigns his pathos to the irrealis as surely as he does the laughter of the Lord. God doesn’t laugh, at least not since Christianity abstracted him into pure Spirit. Laughter without physis is not possible, for it means the momentary triumph of the body over the spirit. In laughter a person releases affects which, according to Plato in the Politics (606c), he should restrain by means of his reason. But above all it was Christian monasticism and patristics that rejected laughter as incommensurable with human dignity. This tradition of orthodox animosity towards laughter stretches from the Jesuit and Jansenist critiques of comedy in the seventeenth century to Baudelaire’s essay De l’essence du rire, which discovers laughter anew as the signature of a fallen humanity and a mark of the satanic in the human. Goethe’s Mephisto likewise accuses the heavenly Lord of that dogmatic Christian dislike of laughter, although he knows very well that God has merely ‘abgewöhnt’ (got out of the habit of) laughing, that he was originally, in a pre-Christian era, quite at home with it. Of course, these elements also still exist in Christian cultures, as one can see in the devil comedy of the medieval mystery plays, of the risus paschalis of the Easter celebration, with all its over-the-top comic scenes. This union of the sacred and the comical dissolved with the rise of the profane comical farce in the late Middle Ages. But the Lord of the Goethean ‘Prologue in Heaven’ seems not to have wholly forgotten his erstwhile sympathy for comedy; he lets the Faust drama play out like a comic mystery play where, in the end, the devil is the one who has been tricked. The Faust drama’s comedic counterpointing has of course precedents in the often droll sixteenth-century Faust book and in the burlesque scenes of its dramatic adaptations, above all those of the puppet theatre, which was Goethe’s ﬁrst inspiration for Faust. In his ‘Sturm und Drang’ years he engaged intensively with the over-the-top comic theatre of the sixteenth century and composed his farces based on their model – such were Jahrmarktsfest zu

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Plundersweilen (Fair at Plunderweilen), Ein Fastnachtsspiel vom Pater Brey (A Carnival Play about Pater Brey) or his obscene fragment, Hanswursts Hochzeit (Hanswurst’s Wedding). They stand in clear opposition to courtly aristocratic norms of decency. But it was not only in comedy – where, according to the traditional rules of the separation of styles, creatureliness still held a more or less constricted right to express itself – but also in tragedy (Götz von Berlichingen) that Goethe programatically ﬂouted the model of sixteenth-century drama in deﬁance of the rules of decency and style. The extent of the comic reversal lying in ambush behind Faust’s seemingly most serious parts can be demonstrated by a comparison of Faust’s world-famous ﬁrst monologue ‘I’ve studied now, to my regret’ (354) with the beginning of the contemporaneous, anally ﬁxated drama, Hanswursts Hochzeit. Hanswurst’s guardian, Kilian Brustﬂeck, reports his failed attempts to educate his ward in what the Russian theorist of literature and laughter Mikhail Bakhtin called the ‘bodily canon of art, belles lettres, and polite conversation of modern times’.2 Of what does this bodily canon consist? Of making taboo the sex organs, the anus, the belly, the nose, of everything that protrudes or sticks out, and of absolutely everything which enters the body or emerges from it. The body thus becomes, according to Bakhtin, an ‘opaque surface’ which shields ‘individuality’ from other bodies.3 While this may be warranted in tragedy, such a relief-like levelling of the body does away with the original meaning of comedy. As we know, in the comedy of antiquity and in commedia dell’arte, protruding body parts were intentionally exaggerated by means of masks, false bellies, foreheads, loins and humps, if not phalluses. Goethe programmatically reintroduced this costume tradition in his 1801 staging of Terence’s Adelphoe (The Brothers) at the Weimarer Hoftheater – without phalluses, of course, as the audience was already sufﬁciently disturbed by the grotesque accentuation of the other body parts. To return to Hanswursts Hochzeit: Kilian Brustﬂeck wants to educate his protégé Hanswurst according to the modern canon of the body, in appropriate speech and conversation, and in the strict repression of everything to do with extremities and discharges. And this pedagogical effort exhausts itself in nearly the same resignation – and is recited in the same low-brow Knittel-verse – in which Faust laments his universal studies: Hab ich endlich mit allem Fleiß Manchem moralisch politischem Schweiß Meinen Mündel Hanswurst erzogen Und ihn ziemlich zurechtgebogen. Zwar seine tölpisch schlüfﬂiche Art

Hidden comedy, covert opera So wenig als seinen kohlschwarzen Bart Seine Lust in den Weg zu scheißen Hab nicht können aus der Wurzel reißen. Was ich nun nicht all kunnt bemeistern Das wußt ich weise zu überkleistern Hab ihn gelehrt nach Pﬂichtgrundsätzen Ein paar Stunden hintereinander schwätzen Indes er sich am Arsche reibt Und Wurstel immer Wurstel bleibt.

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(FA 4, 575)

I’ve ﬁnally managed to educate With moral-political diligence My ward Hanswurst – and bend him more or less Into the proper shape. True, I was no more able to uproot His coarse, uncouth style Than his coal-black beard or his Predilection for shitting in the road. What I was unable to tame I wisely pasted over, Taught him to blather of duty on principle For a couple of hours straight While rubbing his arse and remaining As much a dolt as he had ever been.

The enlightened pedagogue must admit his failure along the same lines as the scientiﬁc thinker of Faust’s ﬁrst monologue. Faust replaces failed science with magic, ultimately through a pact with the devil. In calling himself a ‘Wretched fool’ (358) he reveals that he is, in his own eyes, a pathetic ﬁgure. Such self-distancing makes him not at all comical – quite the contrast to his intern, Wagner, who, proud of his knowledge, is the ﬁrst comic ‘fool’ of the Faust drama. Wagner belongs to that species of learned pedants who populated the comic stages beginning in the Renaissance; it was as the Dottore of the commedia dell’arte that the pedant achieved this stereotypical status. Goethe avails himself of this sterotype from the very beginning to counterpoint the tragic pathos of Faust’s monologues. And this counterpointing is rigorously continued in Mephisto’s scenes – such as in the straightforwardly humorous student scene, which is, no less than the Wagner scenes, a satire of scholarly industry. Even Gretchen’s story is, though certainly a tragedy for its female protagonist, riddled with comic counterpoints. Mephisto’s game of intrigue, his conjuring of the jewellery box into Gretchen’s wardrobe, his narrative of its appropriation by a priest, the way he leads Martha around by

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her nose and exploits her as a matchmaker – all this is reminiscent of the farcical scenes of German carnival plays, as it is of ancient Roman comedy. Mephisto’s primary aim is to degrade all of Faust’s lofty ambitions and to drag down everything he does into the banal, wicked gutters of a coarse life, while countering Faust’s elevated style with his obscene sense of humour and cynical parlando. If he can bring people to sing, along with the students in ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’, ‘we are as happy as cannibals, / Five hundred swine can’t beat us!’ (2293–4), if he can pull them down from the spirit’s heights into the depths of naked ‘bestiality’ (2297), he has reached his goal. The wand – with which he conducts the farces he instigates, from ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’ to ‘Walpurgis Night’ and the ‘Masquerade’, which mobilize lowbrow comedy to utterly negativistic ends – this wand is, directly or indirectly, the phallus. It is with it that he reveals his identity in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’: ‘Look at the coat of arms I wear! He makes an indecent gesture’ (2513). The Witch, endowed with a hellish sense for the devil’s phallic humour, ‘laughing immoderately’, states: ‘Ha, ha! I recognize your style! / You always were a rogue, a rascal!’ (2514–15). In the ‘Forest and Cave’ scene Mephisto likewise presents the phallus as the true director of all things. A Faust who separates himself from Gretchen, for her sake as much as for his own, and retires in solitude to devote himself to a new, no longer scientiﬁc, but rather mystical-meditative contemplation of nature is a threat to Mephisto’s plan and his wager with God. He must stimulate Faust’s sensuality anew, with feigned sympathy, by calling his memory of Gretchen to mind. Mephisto’s cynicism peaks in this bombastic exposure of Faust’s nature mysticism as displaced sex act: mephistopheles Ein überirdisches Vergnügen! In Nacht und Tau auf den Gebirgen liegen, Und Erd und Himmel wonniglich umfassen, Zu einer Gottheit sich aufschwellen lassen, Der Erde Mark mit Ahndungsdrang durchwühlen, Alle sechs Tagewerk im Busen fühlen, In stolzer Kraft ich weiß nicht was genießen, Bald liebewonniglich in alles überﬂießen, Verschwunden ganz der Erdensohn, Und dann die hohe Intuition – Mit einer Gebärde – Ich darf nicht sagen, wie – zu schließen! faust Pfui über dich! mephistopheles Das will Euch nicht behagen; Ihr habt das Recht, gesittet Pfui zu sagen.

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Man darf das nicht vor keuschen Ohren nennen, Was keusche Herzen nicht entbehren können.

(3282–96)

mephistopheles Superterrestrial delights – To lie on mountain tops in dew and darkness, Embracing earth and sky ecstatically, To be puffed up as though you were a god, To probe the earth with urgent intuitions, To feel your heart at one with all six days’ creation, Enjoying who knows what in your great arrogance And, now no more an earthbound mortal, Blissfully merging with the All – And then to let your lofty intuitions [He makes an expressive gesture] End in a way that I can’t mention. faust For shame! mephistopheles You ﬁnd that, then, unpleasant? You’re a ﬁne one to cry for shame genteelly. Before chaste ears one must not name What chaste hearts cannot do without.

So much for the disingenuousness of all ‘polite’ speech. Mephisto’s attempts to divert Faust from his ‘primal source’ (324) reach a high point during his initiation into the ‘Walpurgis Night’. Faust and Mephisto’s obscene dialogues with the naked Witches (4128–43) always – despite the polite strike-throughs which replace the names of genitalia in the print editions authorized by Goethe – incited the discomfort of bourgeois audiences. What would they have said if they had known about the satanic mass on ‘Walpurgis Night’ which Goethe withheld from the ﬁnal version? There, Satan declares in a phallic ‘Bergpredicht’ (Sermon on the Mount) to the ‘Böcken zur Rechten’ (rams on the right): Euch gibt es zwei Dinge So herrlich und groß Das glänzende Gold Und der weibliche Schoß. Das eine verschaffet Das andre verschlingt Drum glücklich wer beide Zusammen erringt. For you but two things are Excellent and great The glittering gold

(FT 553 (H P50))

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dieter borchmeyer And a female’s embrace. The ﬁrst one procures The second devours Thus happy is he who At once both acquires.

And to the ‘Ziegen zur Linken’ (goats on the left): Für euch sind zwei Dinge Von köstlichem Glanz Das leuchtende Gold Und ein glänzender Schwanz Drum wißt euch ihr Weiber Am Gold zu ergötzen Und mehr als das Gold Noch die Schwänze zu schätzen

(FT 553 (H P50))

For you there are two things Of exquisite gleam The glistening gold And a prick with a sheen. Thus you women know well In your gold to delight Yet higher than gold Pricks to cherish and prize.

A ‘junges Mädchen’ (young girl) who doesn’t understand the sermon complains to her neighbour, Mephisto: Ach nein! der Herr dort spricht so gar kurios, Von Gold und Schwanz von Gold und Schoß, Und alles freut sich wie es scheint! Doch das verstehn wohl nur die Großen? (FT 554 (H P50)) Oh no! the sir there speaks so curiously Of gold and of prick of gold and embrace, And everyone seems so delighted! But I suppose only the lofty understand?

Mephisto’s words of consolation: Nein liebes Kind nur nicht geweint. Denn willst du wissen was der Teufel meint, So greife nur dem Nachbar in die Hosen. (FT 554 (H P50)) No dear child, don’t cry without reason. For if you want to know the devil’s meaning, Just give a reach into your neighbour’s trousers.

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Once again, Mephisto slips into the trousers, that is to say, into the phallic role, of the trickster. In a 1799 conversation recorded by Böttiger, Goethe told Wieland, alluding to Aristophanes, ‘that the original, sole vis comica consisted in obscenities and sexual innuendos, which could not even be thought apart from comedy’.4 Gold and genitalia, greed for property and for sex have always been closely related in comedy. From Plautus to commedia dell’arte, gold, money and sex are the themes of choice, and in Satan’s sermon they are more or less interchangeable, conceived through the same metaphor of Glanz (glamour, lustre, brilliance). This is a motif which will later recur in the ‘Masquerade’ at the imperial court in Faust ii. What does Mephisto, in his allegorical mask of avarice, do when the imperial jewels contained in the treasure chest are melted and transformed into money? He thinks only of the ‘one’ – of gold and the womb. The herald of the mythological spectacle observes with dismay: Was fängt er an, der magre Tor? Hat so ein Hungermann Humor? Er knetet alles Gold zu Teig, Ihm wird es untern Händen weich; Wie er es drückt und wie es ballt, Bleibts immer doch nur ungestalt. Er wendet sich zu den Weibern dort: Sie schreien alle, möchten fort, Gebärden sich gar widerwärtig; Der Schalk erweist sich übelfertig. Ich fürchte, daß er sich ergetzt, Wenn er die Sittlichkeit verletzt.

(5783–94)

What is our thin fool up to now! Can he be both a hunger artist and a comic? He’s kneading all the gold into a dough That in his hands becomes quite slack And stays a shapeless mass No matter how he moulds or pummels it. He’s turning towards those women there, Who scream and try to get away And act as if they all were much disgusted; Our clown turns out to be a mischief-maker, And one of those, I fear, who think it fun To cause offence to decency.

Avarice, alias Mephisto, appears to have formed a phallus from the gold, and he now proceeds to cause a public disturbance with it, shocking the female members of the court in particular.

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Let’s return once more to the satanic mass on ‘Walpurgis Night’. This infernal comedy is the most radical spoof of the courtly code of conduct, of the bodily regulations it inaugurated and of what it deemed appropriate speech that we shall encounter in Goethe’s work or anywhere else. Goethe satirically illlustrates this courtly code of conduct again at the end of the ﬁrst act of Faust ii with the example of Faust’s invocation of Helen. The courtly spectators, blind to the ‘fourth wall’ separating stage and audience, are irritated or voyeuristically agitated by the body language of Paris and Helen. Uncensored by ‘courtly manners’ (6460), it is only tolerated as ‘natural’ (6472) by audience members of the opposite sex, respectively. But in principle the maxim holds: ‘Here, even in a play, we want decorum’ (6470), where ‘here’ means ‘in the Emperor’s presence’ (6468), who is sitting front and centre. The greatest breach of decency is, however, the intimacy with which Helen kisses Paris: ‘A kiss! – His cup is full! . . . In front of people! Really, that’s too much!’ (6512 f.). Physical love is strictly taboo in tragic scenes. In the satanic mass of ‘Walpurgis Night’, courtly decency is poetically reduced to absurdity when it is replaced by its opposite, and its radical sublation itself becomes a ritual. Satan holds ‘Audienz’, and his Master of Ceremonies directs a subject ‘to kiss the lord’s rear end’. The ‘homage’ of kissing Satan’s behind is in Goethe an obscene allegory of courtly ‘brownnosing’. The subject thus instructed by the Master of Ceremonies not only acquiesces without delay (‘I am by nature a democrat’), but even supplements the ritual with a pangegyric upon Satan’s rear end: ‘The smell of Paradise is not as pleasant, / And this well-formed chasm incites / In me the wish to crawl inside.’ Satan for his part prophesies to his laudator: ‘A man who can praise the devil’s arse so well / Shall never lack of sycophantic phrases.’ A more cynical satire of the ancien régime and court is not to be found in Goethe’s oeuvre; it attacks a social sphere ruled by rigorous laws of decency with poetic means which ﬂy in the face of those laws (MA 6:1, 1063–4). In the domesticated Christian world, it is only where the devil is in charge that something remains of that Aristophanic sexual and faecal humour that Goethe invoked in conversation with Wieland. After the infernal comedy of ‘Walpurgis Night’, Faust returns safely to the realm of tragedy in Gretchen’s ﬁnale. Mephisto only wants her tragedy: ‘She is judged!’ (4611). In the same verse, the director of the theatrum mundi wants it the other way around, simply replacing the predicate of Mephisto’s sentence: ‘She is saved!’ (4612), calls the ‘voice from above’ (4611–12). It is not the law or death that has the last word: life’s tragic limit is transcended in a redemptive salvation drama.

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If Faust i ends tragically despite this redemptive perspective, the ﬁrst act of the second part of the work leads us back into a world of comedy – especially by means of the carnival staged by the Emperor for the sake of political ‘cares’ (4766). In the carnivalizing of Faust ii, countless elements of the comic tradition, ranging back to the fabula palliata, return: the typical masks, ‘awkward’ Pulcinella (the southern Italian variant of the Zanni of commedia dell’arte; before 5215), parasites (before 5237), droves of comic ﬁgures, including a veritable fool, and furthermore ‘Greek mythology’ travestied ‘in costumes adapted to later tastes’ (before 5299). The comic line continues in the second act, in the comic inversion of the schoolboy scene from Faust i and in the laboratory scene where Homunculus appears. Signiﬁcantly, it concludes with the comic ﬁgure’s typical direct address to the audience ad spectatores (before 7003), made here by Mephisto, who is in this scene once more addressed as a ‘Schalk’ (6885) by Homunculus. The most grandiose manifestation of Goethe’s comic imagination comes in the second act of Faust ii: the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, a GrecoRoman contrafactum of the ﬁrst part’s Nordic ‘Walpurgis Night’. It is important that Mephisto feels ‘alienated’ (7081) in its morally uninhibited coporality, for his is the censored, negatively regulated world of bodies, which is sought out with the intention of breaking religious, moral and societal taboos, precisely because it is forbidden. It is the forbidden, not the sanctioned, body that is Mephisto’s element. It is not until the third act of Faust ii that tragedy reasserts itself against comedy, though of course not absolutely, for Phorkyas, alias Mephisto, functions as a constant comic counterweight, ﬁnally unveiling, with the typically disillusioning gesture of comedy, the phantasmagoric character of what has occurred. ‘Phorkyas . . . pushes back mask and veil, and stands revealed as Mephistopheles, prepared to comment on the play, as much as may be necessary, in an epilogue’ (after 10038). The fourth act, on the other hand, mixes the tragic with the satirical and the grotesque-comical, embodied in particular by the Three Mighty Men. The ﬁfth act, staged on ‘unencumbered soil’ (11581), is not pure tragedy. This is ensured by the ‘derisive’ (11531–2), black-humoristic song of the lemurs (11531 ff.), who provide a contrast to Faust’s utopia, which is then further reduced to absurdity by Mephisto’s cynicism. The ‘Interment’, with its angel-and-devil humour, is a consciously anachronistic spoof of the mystery play. Mephisto plays here, as mentioned above, the typical role of the cheated devil. He falls for his own game when he – who was always trying to enchant Faust and divert him from his ‘primal source’ (324) with wantonness – is himself so seduced by the erotic allure of the angels that he

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lets Faust’s immortal soul slip through his ﬁngers. ‘Those mincing ways have cost us many a soul, / Snatched from us as they wage their war with our own weapons – / They’re devils, too, but in disguise’ (11694–6), Mephisto remarks even before Faust’s soul is carried off. Heaven is likewise a master in the techniques of the comedy of intrigue, a skilled practitioner of farce. The tragedy, as we have seen, is a disguised comedy; in the ﬁnal scene, its low-brow form gives way to its divine-elevated mode. In rewriting the cycle of self-advancement, redemption and divine-cosmological love, and raising the earthly beloved – Gretchen here, Beatrice there – to the dignity of the merciful intercessor, it meets Dante’s Divina Commedia across half a millennium. Goethe’s Faust is commedia in a truly comprehensive sense. In bringing together the ancient and the modern, the satanic and the divine, it ascends from farcical sex comedy to heavenly mirth, encompassing comedy’s most divergent forms. part two Faust does not, however, transcend tragedy only in the direction of comedy – it transcends it also in the direction of opera. Like none of his other works, Goethe’s opus summum is full of music, ranging from realizable (and often realized) stage music, i.e., instrumental, lied- and cantata-like interludes, across scenic analogies of music-dramatic forms, to imaginary or symbolic worlds of sound. Hardly any other drama in world literature is as full of inaudible music, or is as uncomposable, as Faust. This remains true in spite of countless attempts to compose it and in spite of the clearly operatic structures of Part ii. ‘Mozart ought to have composed Faust’, Goethe told Eckermann on 12 February 1829, when the latter enquired about the ‘right kind of music’ to accompany his life’s work, apparently meaning the second part of it.5 Even though Goethe played with the thought of a composition by Giacomo Meyerbeer, who was a pupil of Zelter’s, he found it ‘absolutely impossible’ for a composer of his time to ﬁnd adequate music for Faust. ‘The tone of terror, the repulsive and loathsome tone that would have to be a characteristic of it, at least in certain passages, goes quite against the times. The music would have to be in the character of Don Giovanni’, Goethe remarked, testifying to his unsentimental image of Mozart. To be sure, Faust is too much of an imaginary opera to have become a real one. The composers who made the attempt to ﬁnd a musical equivalent for it conﬁned themselves to fragmentary approximations, the composition of individual scenes (like Schumann and Mahler), or opted for their own free vision of a music

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drama. This is the case with Busoni, whose musical imagination circled around Goethe’s Faust all his life, but who ended up basing his Doktor Faust on the chapbook and the puppet play. But even if it was no longer Goethe’s original drama, as an opera Faust became so popular on the stage of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries that it may be called the subject of modern opera par excellence. This of course has much to do with the immanent musicality of Goethe’s drama. A major part of the over sixty Faust operas since 1797 are derived from it. They are mostly based on the ﬁrst part of the tragedy, or on the fragment of 1790. But Faust ii has also been operatically adapted, from Boito’s Meﬁstofele (1868) to Lili Boulanger’s stage cantata Faust et Hélène (1913) and other, later Helen operas. Besides the opera, countless compositions of Goethe’s poetry have been attempted, whether in song or as a symphonic oratorio explicating the text, such as Franz Liszt’s Faust Symphony (1857), Robert Schumann’s Faust Scenes (1862) and Gustav Mahler’s Eighth Symphony (1910), in which Mahler achieves a monumental synthesis of the church hymn Veni creator spiritus – which Goethe had translated and interpreted as ‘an appeal to the universal genius of the world’ (to Zelter, 18 February 1821) – with the ‘Mountain Gorges’ scene of Faust ii.6 Hardly any composer spent more of his life more intensely engaged with Faust than Richard Wagner. At the age of 18 (in 1831, while Goethe was still alive) he had already set a few ‘numbers’ of Part i to music, while perhaps his most important instrumental work, A Faust Overture (1839/55), developed from plans for a whole symphony on Goethe’s drama. Signiﬁcantly, Wagner called his opus a Faust overture, just as Liszt would title his Wagner-inspired symphony A Faust Symphony. The indeﬁnite article signiﬁes in both cases that music can only achieve an approach to Goethe’s incomparable work, but never the transposition of it – an idea which also guided Schumann’s Scenes from Goethe’s Faust. The intention of Faust, at least of its second part, approaches a musicaldramatic Gesamtkunstwerk. The important role played by the basic forms of opera, oratorio and other musical-literary genres in structuring Faust ii – not to mention the work’s pervasive musical symbolism and lyrical entanglement of phonetic and semantic elements – has often been observed. The eminent signiﬁcance Goethe attributed to opera, however – as the modern form of dramatic art – is still not widely appreciated among his connoisseurs. ‘This pure opera’, he wrote in the Tag- und Jahreshefte of 1789, ‘which remains perhaps the most favourable dramatic form, had become so personal and natural to me that I used it for many subjects’ (BA 16, 13). Without even including the hybrid forms between opera and drama

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(Proserpina, Egmont and pageants), one-third of Goethe’s dramatic works and projects are ﬁnished or planned libretti. This recourse to opera was one of the most important reforms undertaken by the Weimar stage to counter the ‘naturalistic’ tendencies of the contemporary theatre. In his ‘conversation’ Über Wahrheit und Wahrscheinlichkeit der Kunstwerke (1797, On Truth and Probability in Works of Art), opera serves as a model for distinguishing ‘artistic truth’ from ‘natural truth’. Schiller’s oft-quoted letter (29 December 1797) to Goethe on opera in the same year points in the same direction: ‘I have always had a certain conﬁdence in opera, thinking that from it tragedy would develop a nobler form, just as the chorus of the old Bacchanalian festival did.’ This is because opera succeeds through the ‘power of music’ in making the soul, by necessity, ‘more indifferent towards the subject matter’. Accordingly, it lacks that ‘servile imitation of nature’ which, according to Schiller, any ‘reform’ of drama must begin by suppressing.7 Goethe must have agreed with this wholeheartedly. His fascination with opera had much to do with his ‘suspicion’, as he writes to Zelter on 6 September 1827, that the ‘sense for music should accompany . . . any sense for art’ (WA 4:43, 49). And this suspicion even becomes a ‘claim’ which he ‘would like to support by way of theory and experience’. And in Maximen und Reﬂexionen (Maxims and Reﬂections) we read: ‘The dignity of Art appears perhaps most conspicuously in Music; for in Music there is no material to be deducted. It is wholly form and intrinsic value, and it raises and ennobles all that it expresses.’8 This is exactly the reason for the exemplary role of music in Goethe’s aesthetic theory and practice – a practice which, especially in the theatre, aims at ‘deducting’ subject-matter when dealing with art. This same idea lies behind the closeness of Faust ii to opera. Goethe did not, of course, have ‘real’ opera in mind – in which the poet was typically unable to express himself freely – but its ideal form. ‘The text of an opera’, wrote Goethe in a letter to Prince Lobkowitz on 7 October 1812, is one of those ‘poetic genres’ the quality of which is ‘very hard to judge, because they cannot be judged as independent works of art’ (WA 4:23, 110–11). Faust i is already marked by countless musical references. To begin with, there are the clear indications of music on and behind the stage, such as ‘church bells and a choir’ (736–7) during Easter night in the ﬁrst scene in Faust’s study. There is the singing and dancing of the beggar and of the soldiers and peasants in the scene ‘Outside the City Gate’ and of the spirits in the ﬁrst and second ‘Study’ scenes. There is the solo and choral singing of the students, as well as Mephisto’s ﬂea song in ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’, Gretchen’s song about the king

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in Thule, Mephisto’s serenade outside Gretchen’s door in the night scene, and the cathedral scene with ‘Organ and Choir’ (3775–6), which, in its blend of reality and imagination, with the voices of the Evil Spirit and Gretchen alternating with the ‘Dies irae’ of the choir, gives the impression of a veritable opera scene – no wonder it was set to music as a whole by Robert Schumann. Nor can we forget the many musical elements of the ‘Walpurgis Night’ or Gretchen’s mad singing in the ‘Prison’ scene. This unusually dense succession of incidental music is already enough to distance Faust i from ‘classical’ drama and draw it into the vicinity of opera. There are also scenes which are structured analogously to music. The ‘Prologue in Heaven’, for example, begins with the solemn quatrains of the three Archangels, which are not literally sung but represent a metaphorical antiphony where the voices of the Archangels present themselves soloistically at ﬁrst and then unite in triphony. It is a musica angelica which corresponds to the musica mundana, the harmony of the spheres invoked in the ﬁrst lines of the ‘Prologue’. Mephisto then consciously interrupts the style of this ‘singing’ when he bursts in with his rakish and irregular spoken verses of ﬁve or more stresses. Among other passages with musical structures are several melodramatic moments in the study and in Gretchen’s lyrical scenes ‘At Her Spinning Wheel’ or ‘By the Ramparts’ (3586–7, ‘Deign, O deign, / You who are sorrow-laden’), which the young Richard Wagner actually composed as a melodrama. Whether we focus on the pure incidental music or the above-mentioned analogous or metaphorical choral and melodramatic scenes, Faust i is clearly marked by a counterpointing of quasi-musical and spoken verse drama. This is continued with even greater clarity in the second part of the tragedy. The ‘Pleasant Landscape’ scene, which opens Faust ii as the pagan counterpart to the ‘Prologue in Heaven’ of Part i, has such a consistently musical structure that Schumann had no difﬁculty setting it to music. It begins with Ariel, accompanied by aeolian harps, singing an eight-line aria stanza in trochaic four-stress lines with alternate rhymes and masculine and feminine endings. Formally, it could be the work of Metastasio, the model librettist of Italian opera seria. This is followed by a recitative in iambic ﬁvestress lines with a free rhyme scheme. Then the chorus starts up with fourlined stanzas in the same form as Ariel’s initial aria. In Goethe’s ﬁrst draft they bore the names of musical genres corresponding to Ariel’s four ‘watches of the night’ (4626): ‘Serenade, Notturno, Matutino, Reveille.’ The purely musical scene closes with a lyrically more relaxed ‘aria’ of Ariel. This is followed by Faust’s monologue in terza rima which, while Goethe usually intended it for spoken declamation, Schumann also set to music.

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The actually or metaphorically sung opening scene is followed by the state council scene at the Emperor’s court, which appears to be conceived as a conventional theatrical scene. The ‘Masquerade’ that follows again mixes spoken monologues and dialogues with soloistic and choral antiphonies, but in the second part of this scene the borders once again blur between what can be imagined and represented musically on the one hand and verbally on the other. The remaining scenes of the ﬁrst act, culminating in the conjuring of Paris and Helen before the Emperor and his court, are again only spoken. By and large, music disappears from the dramaturgy of Faust after the ‘Masquerade’. The scenes in Faust’s former study are straight theatre, and the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ of Act 2 plays out on ancient soil, far removed from the Western experience of music. Of course even here we have (in addition to the musical imagery of the dialogues) the singing of the Sirens (parodied ‘to the same tune’ by the Sphinxes), as well as the chorus of the Nereids, Tritons and other mythological ensembles, up to the mighty ﬁnal chorus sung by ‘All’. Yet it is hardly imaginable musically, since what Goethe wants to conjure here is not the Nordic-Romantic musical world but its countercosmos, whose musiké sounded nothing like what modern listeners think of as music. Remarkably, no composer has ever had the daring to set this mythological cosmos to music. Schumann’s Faust Scenes, for instance, skip straight from the ﬁrst act to the ﬁfth. The third act, Helena’s ‘Classic-Romantic Phantasmagoria’, with its change of scenes from Menelaus’ palace to Faust’s medieval castle, gradually exchanges – thematically as well – the formal model of Greek tragedy for that of modern opera. At the bottom of this ‘paradigm shift’ is Goethe and Schiller’s fundamental notion that music is the exemplary art of modernity, just as antiquity had been the heyday of the visual arts. The genre laws of the visual arts are thus more congruent to naïve or classical poetry, while the rules of music correspond more closely to those of sentimental or Romantic poetry. Schiller speaks in his treatise on ‘Naïve and Sentimental Poetry’ about the ‘dual relationship of poetry with music and plastic art. . . . According to whether poetry either imitates a given object as the plastic arts do, or whether, like music, it simply produces a given state of mind, without requiring a given object for the purpose, it can be called plastic or musical.’9 Modern musical poetry arises from the marriage of Faust and Helena. With the birth of Euphorion, music in the Western sense is born. The stage directions between 9678 and 9679 read: ‘Pleasing, purely melodic music of stringed instruments is heard from the grotto. All listen attentively, and soon seem deeply affected by it. From this point to the pause after v. 9938 there is full

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musical accompaniment.’ And now Phorkyas alias Mephisto appeals to the ancient listeners, who are moved by a hitherto unkown feeling: Höret allerliebste Klänge, Macht euch schnell von Fabeln frei! Eurer Götter alt Gemenge, Laßt es hin! es ist vorbei.

(9679–82)

Hear those strains of lovely music, Liberate yourselves from myth! Do not cling to ancient gods – A sorry lot that’s now passé.

Music as new mythos antiquates ancient mythology: Niemand will euch mehr verstehen, Fordern wir doch höhern Zoll: Denn es muß von Herzen gehen, Was auf Herzen wirken soll.

(9683–6)

What you say, no more has meaning; We today are more exacting: Nothing can affect our hearts That does not have its source in feeling.

‘From the heart! May it go to hearts’, was Beethoven’s motto above the Kyrie in his autograph of the Missa Solemnis. And true enough, the (ancient) chorus confesses to being ‘moved to tears’ (9690). Not just ancient Olympus, but the whole quotidian world of visible things collapses into the nocturnal world of inwardness: Laß der Sonne Glanz verschwinden, Wenn es in der Seele tagt: Wir im eignen Herzen ﬁnden Was die ganze Welt versagt.

(9691–4)

Let the sun’s light lose its splendour Now that dawn is bright within us And we ﬁnd within ourselves What the world will not provide.

Now Euphorion enters, the genius of modern musical poetry. This whole scene with its sequence of arias, duets, tercets and ensemble numbers involving the chorus follows an unmistakably operatic design, closing with the four-stanza funerary chant of the chorus. All ends, therefore, with the fatal fall of Euphorion.

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The speciﬁcally musical expression of death is, according to a note made by Beethoven in the draft of Egmont, the pause. Goethe employs it here as well, and with the highest tragic pathos: ‘Complete pause. The music ceases’ (after 9938). While in an opera the music has to resume after a general pause, however long it may be, this musical pause in Goethe’s Helena act does not end. The music dies away once and for all, Helena and the chorus return to their ancient modalities, and Panthalis bids good riddance to the now, in her eyes fortunately, ‘dead’ music: ‘We’re rid at last of magic spells / And of that roar of jingling, complicated notes / That disconcert the ear and, even more, the mind’ (9963–5). We can pass over Act 4; apart from some ‘martial music’ in the background, it is Faust’s least musical act. Only in Act 5 does the music, with the singing Lynceus, gradually return. The midnight scene with Care – the ﬁrst one Schumann set to music after ‘Pleasant Landscape’ – marks a renewed movement back towards musical dramaturgy. This becomes more obvious in the subsequent scenes with Mephisto and the lemurs, and with Faust’s interment and the chorus of angels. The ﬁnal scene (‘Mountain Gorges’), in which singing as such is nowhere thematized, presents itself less as an opera than as a metaphorical oratorio, the musical allure of which need not be gone into any further here. What Goethe said (in reference to Orpheus, who built houses with the sounds of his lyre) about architecture – he called it ‘silenced music’ – could also be said about large parts of Faust. If not silenced, it is at least silent music. This is true not only of its dramaturgy, but also of its thematics and symbolism. Out of Faust’s dense musical mesh of images at least two motifs can be highlighted here. From the very beginning, the ‘Dedication’ follows the rhapsodic–epic tradition in presenting the poetry to come as Gesänge and Lieder (songs), and ascribes to the latter a cathartic effect for the poet himself: Es schwebet nun in unbestimmten Tönen Mein lispelnd Lied, der Äolsharfe gleich, Ein Schauer faßt mich, Träne folgt den Tränen, Das strenge Herz, es fühlt sich mild und weich.

(27–30)

And like an aeolian harp my murmuring song Lets its uncertain tones ﬂoat through the air. I feel a sense of dread, tear after tear is falling, My rigid heart is tenderly unmanned.

The idea of catharsis could not be put in verse more pointedly. As is well known, this Greek concept comes from two different ﬁelds: the cult which

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used it to describe the cleansing and puriﬁcation of a deﬁlement, and the medical sphere, which employed it for the excretion of incompatible substances. Catharsis, therefore, simultaneously means purifying and purging. In the sixth chapter of his Poetics, Aristotle based his deﬁnition of tragedy on catharsis, and in chapters viii, 5–7 of his Politics he described it extensively as a speciﬁc effect of music; it calms undue excitement and relieves, relaxes and discharges negative affects. In his Nachlese zu Aristoteles’ Poetik (1827, On Interpreting Aristotle’s Poetics), Goethe had of course wanted nothing to do with any deﬁnition of tragedy on the basis of its ‘effect’ and falsely claimed that Aristotle had not included it in his deﬁnition of tragedy. He cannot deny, however, that the author of the Politics understood catharsis unambiguously to be a category of effect: ‘Aristotle had said in his Politics that music could be an aid to moral education because sacred melodies could soothe a mind that has been excited by orgies, and hence could have a similar effect in counterbalancing other emotions.’10 Goethe himself often described the cathartic effect of music, which he observed concretely in his own experience. The most moving example is his letter to Zelter of 24 August 1823, where he explains how, in the midst of the turmoil of his love for Ulrike von Levetzow, he had been shaken to the core by the concerts of the the singer Anna Milder Hauptmann and the pianist Maria Szymanowska: ‘The immense power that music had over me in those days! Milder’s voice, the rich sounds of Szymanowska . . . untwisted me, just as one lets a clenched ﬁst gently ﬂatten itself out.’11 Goethe dedicated to Maria Szymanowska those verses which would become, four years later, the third part of his ‘Trilogie der Leidenschaft’ (Trilogy of Passion), with its title ‘Aussöhnung’ (Reconciliation) clearly alluding to Aristotelian catharsis: Da schwebt hervor Musik mit Engelschwingen, Verﬂicht zu Millionen Tön’ um Töne, Des Menschen Wesen durch und durch zu dringen, Zu überfüllen ihn mit ew’ger Schöne: Das Auge netzt sich, fühlt im höhern Sehnen Den Götter-Wert der Töne wie der Tränen. Then music to the fore like angels swarming, A million tones in galaxy. We surrender All of our inner fort to forces storming – Irresistibly overrun with splendour. The eye goes damp: in longings past tomorrow We guess at the inﬁnite worth of song and sorrow.12

If Goethe is taking this idea – which is also the ﬁnal chord of Faust’s ‘Dedication’ – towards ancient melotherapy, the ‘Prologue in Heaven’ is

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indebted to an altogether different tradition. Its ﬁrst lines already evoke an archetype of ancient Western music theory: the idea of the harmony of the spheres, of musica mundana. ‘In ancient rivalry with fellow spheres / The sun still sings its glorious song’ (243–4). This music of the Macrocosm, the harmony of the spheres is – just as the subordinated musica humana is, in Boethius’ De institutione musica, the music of the Microcosm as the harmony of the human organism – a theoretical music far superior to sensual, audible musica instrumentalis (which also includes vocal music). Only gradually during the Middle Ages did musica mundana become that musica angelica which is intoned by the Archangels in Goethe’s ‘Prologue’. As the song of angels, this musica mundana becomes just as audible as it is to the Spirits’ ears in Faust ii’s opening scene, ‘Pleasant Landscape’ (which is, as mentioned, the pagan counterpart of the Christian ‘Prologue’ of Faust i ). Indeed, the Spirits’ ears cannot bear the synaesthetically conjured sound of the sun – ‘Light arrives with deafening din!’ (4671) – and they risk deafness if they don’t withdraw to the ‘rocks below their leafage’. The idea of musica mundana also informs Goethe’s most famous and profound pronouncements concerning music, his homage to Bach in an enclosure to his letter to Zelter of 21 June 1827. Recalling his 1814 Bach retreat with the organist Schütz in Berka, he wrote: I said to myself, it is as if the eternal harmony were conversing with itself, as it may have done, in the bosom of God, just before the Creation of the world. So likewise did it move in my inmost soul, and it seemed as if I neither possessed nor needed ears, nor any other sense – least of all, the eyes.13

A highly unusual utterance for the sensuous, eye-minded Goethe. When Goethe goes on in this letter to venture a summary of the history of music in a single sentence, we can recognize in its steps the same musical development encountered over the course of Faust: music proceeds from a metaphorically paraphrased, presensual-metaphysical condition, through a surrender to the senses (‘step and dance, song and rejoicing’) and a development from monophony (‘pure Cantilena’) to polyphony (‘the harmonic Chorus’) up to the point where, according to Neoplatonic theory, ‘the whole strives to return again to its divine origin’, i.e., the same spiritual movement as in the ‘Mountain Gorges’ scene.14 Music becomes, with this almost Hegelian developmental dialectic, the alpha and omega of all art, its transcendental basis. From here we can understand why Goethe is inclined to associate music with every sense of art, as the a priori condition, as it were, of the possibility of all art, the essence of the universalia ante rem in the sense of Schopenhauer’s musical philosophy.

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Beginning with the transcendental musica mundana, the Faust drama travels through every dimension of music, from the lowest to the highest, from the drinking songs of students to the music of the angels, in order to return at last, in the ‘Mountain Gorges’ scene, to its metaphysical origin. It forms the meta-tragic frame of the Faust tragedy. Music in Faust – whether as the expression of vulgar or sublime joie de vivre, as catharsis or as celestial musica – always evokes a pre-tragic or supra-tragic world. But if the tragic cannot be transcended in and through music, it simply stops, as in the shocking general pause after Euphorion’s fatal fall, or the lamentation of the chorus in the last part of the Helena act. Goethe emphasized repeatedly, as in his letter to Zelter of 31 October 1831, that he was not ‘born to be a tragic poet’ since he was by nature inclined towards reconciliation. The ‘purely tragic incident’ thus remained alien to him, since it had to be ‘essentially irreconcileable’.15 To be sure, the tragedy of Faust is resolved in the redemption of its protagonist. But the artistic medium in which this tragic resolution takes place, actually or metaphorically, is music. It is, like comedy, a medium of reconciliation, and as such, it accords very closely with Goethe’s character. His nature is truly congruent with his own idea of music. not es Translated by John Noyes and Hans Schulte. 1. Goethe, Faust, ed. & trans. Stuart Atkins, Collected Works, vol. ii, Princeton University Press, 1994. All further references to Faust are by line number to this edition. Other English translations provided by John Koster are referenced as JK. 2. Mikhail Bakhtin, The Bakhtin Reader. Selected Writings of Bakhtin, Medvedev, Voloshinov, ed. Pam Morris, London: Edward Arnold, 1994, 235. 3. Ibid., 235. 4. Karl August Böttiger, Literarische Zustände und Zeitgenossen. Begegnungen und Gespräche im klassischen Weimar, ed. Klaus Gerlach and René Sternke, Berlin: Aufbau, 1998, 251. 5. Johann Peter Eckermann, Conversations with Goethe, ed. Hans Kohn, trans. Gisela C. O’Brien, New York: Frederick Ungar, 1964, 141. 6. Goethe’s Letters to Zelter, with Abstracts from Those of Zelter to Goethe, trans. A. D. Coleridge, London: G. Bell and Sons, 1887, 202. 7. Goethe, Correspondence between Goethe and Schiller, 1794–1805, trans. Liselotte Dieckmann, New York: P. Lang, 1992, 251. 8. Goethe, Maxims and Reﬂections, trans. Thomas Bailey Saunders, London: Macmillan, 1908, 172. 9. Friedrich Schiller, Naive and Sentimental Poetry, trans. Julius A. Elias, New York: Frederick Ungar, 1967, 133.

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10. Goethe, Essays on Art, ed. John Gearey, Collected Works, Princeton University Press, 1994, iii, 199. 11. Goethe’s Letters to Zelter, 221. 12. Goethe, Selected Poems, ed. Christopher Middleton, Princeton University Press, 1994, 255. 13. Goethe’s Letters to Zelter, 293. 14. Ibid., 293–4. 15. Ibid., 474.

chapter 15

Theatricality and experiment: identity in Faust Jane K. Brown

The self, known in Western thought primarily as the soul, became, particularly under the inﬂuence of Rousseau, interiorized in the second half of the eighteenth century. Troubled by the moral irresponsibility that accompanies identity so interiorized that it is unknowable to itself, Goethe explored alternative models of selfhood from the early 1770s on. Werther analyses the solipsism of the modern self, while Egmont offers a notion of theatrical identity – the self as a role to which one commits, at least for a time.1 The questions surrounding Faust’s identity have always been central to the Faust legend: the Faust of the chapbook is, after all, a sinner who barters his soul for knowledge. One way to think of the modernity of Faust is to say that Goethe substitutes interiorized identity for soul, and self-knowledge for knowledge in the traditional schema. The questions that have swirled around the morality of striving in the Faust scholarship might be better understood as problems that Goethe recognized with modern subjectivity. An unknowable self can only develop blindly at the behest of nature; it will inevitably come into conﬂict with a social world predicated on the control that arises from self-knowledge. The Lord of the ‘Prologue in Heaven’ locates Faust’s capacity for salvation in his participation in the eternal motion of a nature that never stands still but always changes in time. At the same time, the Lord acknowledges the concomitant violation of the human moral code inherent in such striving – ‘Man errs as long as he strives’ (317).2 The problem, for Goethe, is not inability to know the moral code, but the relationship between epistemology and morality, between knowledge and action. But Goethe takes the problem a large step beyond Rousseau, for the connection of human striving to the eternal motion of nature ties the essential ineffability of the interior self to the ineffability of the cosmos. Faust faces a double dilemma – to know the unknowable self and to know unknowable nature. If science is the way of knowing nature, and art of knowing the self, Faust needs them both. Thus this chapter investigates the relationship of art to science in 235

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Faust – in particular that of theatre to Goethe’s experimental method – and the importance of both for understanding Goethe’s notion of identity. At the end of Act 3 of Part ii, Helena dissolves in Faust’s embrace, and her dress becomes a cloud that carries him away from Greece. Mephistopheles in the meantime removes the mask he has worn during the act to reveal that Faust’s entire affair with Helena has been a play-within-the-play, pure theatre. At the beginning of Act 4, the cloud deposits Faust at the top of the Alps and withdraws eastward, looking more and more like a recumbent goddess or even Helena as it goes. Then a different cloud, a wispy, high one appears, that Faust readily identiﬁes with Margarete, his ideal beloved from Part i of the drama. The descriptions of the billowing cumulus cloud associated with Helen and the cirrus that represents Margarete derive from the cloud classiﬁcation system of Luke Howard (1772–1864), still basically in use today.3 Here this scientiﬁc system represents the two women whom Faust has cast to represent his own ideals, and thus, in a certain sense, his own self. This prominently located cloud imagery thus connects identity both to science and to theatre. Identity is, perhaps surprisingly, central to Goethe’s scientiﬁc method. Normally since the seventeenth century the experimental method has been oriented towards validating a hypothesis, but for Goethe the fundamental problem was the role of the observer or, in the Kantian terminology of the time, the problem of the subject and the object. In these terms there could be no accurate scientiﬁc perception of the object, the other, unless the mediation of the subject, the observing self, could be taken into account. In Faust also the search for knowledge turns out really to be the search for knowledge of the self and its relation to the other, or of the subject and its relation to the object. As Faust learns, achieving knowledge of the subject is anything but trivial: it takes a long lifetime and about 12,000 lines of difﬁcult poetry to learn that a self exists only in the present and is thus always in ﬂux, always unstable. Because they change shape so freely and are so difﬁcult to describe objectively, clouds are a particularly good image for connecting problems of identity and objective knowledge. By linking the clouds to the particular personal identities of Faust’s two beloveds, Goethe pushes the basic problem to the extreme: both identity and phenomenon – that is, both subject and object – are unstable.4 How can an unstable observer ever establish objective knowledge of an unstable phenomenon? The cloud monologue in Act 4 thus addresses Goethe’s fundamental question regarding experimental methods. I shall show how it connects Goethe’s scientiﬁc and theatrical concerns by describing ﬁrst the connection of the subject–object problem in Goethe’s general scientiﬁc essays to

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Faust, then by exploring identity in Faust – how it is a problem – and then how it is theatrical. After that I shall return to stabilize the clouds. the subject–object problem in the essays Just when Goethe was expanding the Faust fragment of 1790 into Faust i (1808) he was rejoicing in a new harmonious interrelation of his two deepest interests in life: art and science. In a late essay on the inﬂuence of Kantian philosophy (1817) Goethe attributes an ‘especially happy epoch of my life’ in the 1790s to the appearance of the Kritik der Urteilskraft (Critique of Judgement), because it treated art and science together as mutually illuminating phenomena,5 and in Faust Goethe makes art and science equivalent paths by which the self can gain knowledge of the ineffable Truth or Other. In both scientiﬁc essays and Faust Goethe struggles with this basic problem of knowledge. In the language of an essay of 1792, ‘The Experiment as Mediator between Object and Subject’, to know an object means to grasp ‘the inﬁnite’ and to recognize the ‘forces of nature’.6 Faust uses the identical wording: he justiﬁes his pact with Mephistopheles at the end of the second ‘Study’ scene by his need to access ‘the inﬁnite’ (1815), and sees ‘the forces of nature’ (438) in the sign of the Macrocosm. As late as 1817 the thought of Kant brings Goethe the essayist back to such Faustian language as ‘eternally creative Nature’.7 The basic problem for scientiﬁc knowledge, according to ‘The Experiment as Mediator’, is to escape the use of one’s own self as the measure of all things – in other words, one must escape one’s own subjectivity.8 Goethe’s term in the essay is Entäußerung (renunciation, or, literally, removal of one’s self to the outside). Faust’s problem at the beginning of the play is in fact ‘removal to the outside’: he begins the play imprisoned in a narrow Gothic study from which he is desperate to escape literally. At the same time he longs to escape metaphorically from his past and present identity as a scholar dependent on words. It is the same situation as in ‘The Experiment as Mediator’, but now expressed theatrically in Faust. ‘Experiment’ is Goethe’s term for the particular process of scientiﬁc observation that mediates between subject and object. The scientist’s mission is to observe, not to force phenomena into systems, nor to prove ideas invented by the observer. Too much subjectivity causes the investigator to draw arbitrary and often unwarranted connections among phenomena and to become too attached to hypotheses (his objection to Newton’s theory of light).9 Nevertheless, too much objectivity can reduce scientiﬁc knowledge to a mere collection of isolated facts. ‘Experiment’ in Goethe’s terms

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establishes connections among facts by multiplying and varying the conditions of observation; such pluralism allows the observer to escape the limits of his own subjectivity.10 As a result, major discoveries are made not by individuals, but by collectivities or by an age, as the accumulation of individual perceptions and observations reveals a pattern implicit in them.11 For the individual observer, experiment means repeating observations under varied circumstances to create what Goethe calls an Erfahrung (experience, or empirical observation), a slice of knowledge that consists of many subsidiary ones. Such knowledge is then ‘of a higher order’.12 But an Erfahrung is still not full knowledge of what Goethe calls a pure phenomenon; this, like a Kantian thing in itself, can never be known through direct perception of its entirety; the insight of Erfahrung is as much as observation can achieve. Thus in ‘Erfahrung und Wissenschaft’ (Experience and Science),13 another unpublished draft of 1798, Goethe summarizes his method for establishing the pure phenomenon, the thing itself as best it can be known, as follows: The pure phenomenon . . . emerges as the ﬁnal result of all observations and experiments. It can never be isolated; instead it reveals itself in a regular series of appearances. In order to represent it, the human mind stabilizes the empirical ﬂuctuation, excludes random variation, separates out impurities, untangles confusions, indeed dis-covers [un-covers] the unknown.14

This method developed into Goethe’s discipline of morphology and forms, and constitutes the model for his epistemology. But as the cloud monologue suggests, a self can also be a phenomenon, a subject is an object to another subject. The phenomenon Faust studies is the colourful rainbow that represents human life in the famous image at the beginning of Part ii. The presence of speciﬁcally theatrical vocabulary in this passage – ‘reveals itself ’, ‘in a regular sequence of appearances’ (think ‘scenes’), ‘to represent’ – corresponds to the fact that Faust, also, is organized according to this deﬁnition of scientiﬁc experimentation; it consists of a series of repeated experiences from varied perspectives as Faust takes on a series of roles. identity as a problem in faust In the beginning of Faust the observing self seems to be a secure concept. The self is stable in time and knowable through memory, which easily recovers childhood and other states of mind long past for the poets in ‘Dedication’ and the ‘Prologue on the Stage’, and for Faust himself when he

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hears the Easter chorus in ‘Night’. Furthermore, as the Lord puts it in the ‘Prologue in Heaven’, the self has an essential core (‘Urquell’) that cannot be dislodged by any machinations of the devil. Faust himself speaks conﬁdently of an identity grounded in an internal sense of himself, perhaps most famously to Margarete, when he says ‘Feeling is everything’ (3456).15 He wants to believe that the same is true for nature also, whose inner core he seeks to know in the ﬁrst paragraph of his opening monologue.16 Nature – the object – however, proves less accessible to knowledge than the self, as Faust quickly learns when the Earth Spirit rejects him. Indeed, the Archangels in the ‘Prologue in Heaven’ make clear that God and his works are ‘incomprehensible’ and ‘unfathomable’; in the ﬁnal chorus mysticus of Part ii they are still ‘ineffable’ and ‘indescribable’. The initial problem in Faust seems to be knowledge of the object, not of the subject. Nevertheless, the self quickly becomes unstable. Already in his ﬁrst scene (‘Night’) Faust has to question his identity – ‘Am I a god?’ (439), he asks of the Macrocosm, and when the Earth Spirit rejects him he can only ask whom he then resembles (515).17 By the end of the following scene Faust has two souls pulling him in opposite directions, one heavenward, and one into the world (1112). The development is more than temporary, for in the next scene his ‘better soul’ (1180) awakens as he translates the bible. As he makes the pact Faust reverts (as he will frequently) to the rhetoric of an interiorized core self: ‘And I will partake of the lot of all mankind / In my innermost self ’ (1770–1). But this self is about to dissolve into the world, because Faust continues ‘and thus expand my own Self to that of all mankind’. The pact requires, furthermore, that Faust renounce all stability in time: he is never to ask the ‘moment’ to ‘tarry a while’. When Faust ﬁrst recognizes the two souls within himself, he calls for a mediator ‘between earth and heaven’ (1119) to heal the rift, and in response there appears – the black poodle who turns out to be Mephistopheles. Mephistopheles, as poodle and as pactmaker, is thus the sign of Faust’s discombobulated identity. And indeed Mephistopheles disrupts Faust’s sense of self ever further. He removes him from his familiar academic setting, has him dress in unfamiliar clothing, brings him ﬁrst to what Faust considers the entirely unsuitable gaiety of ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’ and, ﬁnally, rejuvenates him in the ‘Witch’s kitchen’. Mephistopheles transforms Faust from a passionate lover of knowledge into a lover of ﬂesh: he changes his identity. Faust acknowledges as much when his encounter with the innocent Margarete makes him cry: ‘Pitiful Faust! I no longer recognize you’ (2720). When he withdraws from her in ‘Forest and Cavern’, the spirit of nature grants him two revelations. The ﬁrst insight, into the breast of Nature, is his brotherhood with all

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beings and spirits of forest, air and water (3223–7); his identity is dispersed into nature. The second is insight into himself (3232–3). But Faust scarcely recovers his identity thereby, for in the next line he describes these revelations within his breast as ‘secret, deep wonders’ (3234). This is not a self whose essence Faust knows, but one that must be revealed and that evokes amazement – it is evidently new and unexpected. By the end of Part i the sincere Faust for whom feeling was everything has become an ordinary street-brawler, the seducer and abandoner of an innocent woman, and an outlaw. When Margarete recognizes him in prison it is amazing that she can say so positively ‘It’s you’; she does, however, immediately add, ‘I can scarcely believe it’ (4510). The fact that her line cites the recognition scene of Tamino and Pamina in Die Zauberﬂöte (The Magic Flute) only adds to the irony. As Faust tries to drag her from the dungeon and refuses to kiss her, her conﬁdence in his identity dissolves completely. Readers have always been puzzled by her calling him ‘Heinrich’ (Henry), a name for Faust used only once before the ﬁnal scene in Part i (also by Margarete) and used nowhere else previously in the Faust tradition; Goethe probably chose the alias to emphasize his hero’s lack of special or stable identity – by becoming all of humanity he has become any Tom, Dick or – in this case – Harry.18 No one else has a stable identity in Part i either. When an innocent student comes to Faust for advice, Mephistopheles makes his head spin, and in ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’ he renders the drinkers unable to recognize one another. He invents the death of Frau Marthe’s husband and then leads her through a labyrinth of feelings about him, until at last he reveals her total lack of core by drawing her affections onto himself. Margarete’s brother Valentin has no identity of his own – if his sister is dishonoured, then his life is destroyed. Margarete is the most important of these examples. In her very ﬁrst line she denies the identity of ‘fair young lady’ (2605) that Faust ﬁrst offers her as she famously says, ‘I’m neither fair nor a lady’ (2607). There is no indication that she ever comprehends how he has projected his own ideal onto her. We see it when Faust describes her in her room; he makes it clear that he sees in her the entire cosmos, the order of Nature, a representation of the absolute knowledge he seeks. But she, as she says explicitly, is unable to comprehend what he sees in her (3216). Margarete is in effect really two people, one for Faust and one for herself. For Faust, her tragic destruction results from his attempt to possess the Ideal in literal terms; in the same way he will destroy the shade of Helena he himself conjures up in Act 1 of Part ii simply by embracing it. But for Margarete, her tragedy is the typical bourgeois seduction tragedy of the eighteenth century. She puts on the jewels Faust offers with excitement and, in ‘At the Well’, is unable to ﬁnd

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her way back into the self she was before she met him. At the end of Part i Mephistopheles claims she is condemned, while a voice from above asserts she is saved. Productions of the play and the most famous Faust operas give the salvation voice priority, but nothing in the text of Faust i suggests that one voice is right and the other wrong. The contradicting claims correspond to the duality of her identity. One might argue the characters are all in some sense the puppets of Mephistopheles, but even his identity is not ﬁrmly ﬁxed. Playing the devil is his assigned role, not his essence, for the Lord identiﬁes him in the ‘Prologue in Heaven’ as his assistant who ‘must function as devil’ (343). Faust asks after his essence when Mephistopheles ﬁrst manifests himself in ‘Study 1’. Mephistopheles has already changed his outward identity several times (from poodle to hippopotamus to elephant to scholar), so that clearly physical form says nothing about essence. Even so, Faust should know better, as Mephistopheles suggests, because he has also already acknowledged the inadequacy of words, so you can’t tell somebody about your essence. Mephistopheles then identiﬁes himself to Faust with a famous riddle, that he is ‘a part of that power that would always do evil and always does good’ (1335–6). The riddle presupposes a dialectical universe in which all phenomena are denied only to give birth to some new version of them; identity in this universe is always unstable. Mephistopheles’ riddle also presupposes a divided self in which will and deed are always at odds. For Mephistopheles, as for Faust, there can be no action with self-knowledge. As a poodle he can cross the magic sign on Faust’s threshold to enter the room, but as a scholar with higher intellectual faculties he cannot cross it again to leave.19 In Part ii the devil’s gender becomes unstable (female as Greed in Act 1 and Phorkyas in Acts 2 and 3, homosexual in his relations with the angels in Act 5), and Goethe considered saving him. If even the devil can be worthy of salvation, what is there to hold on to? With typical sardonic irony, Mephistopheles declares identity to be imponderable: ‘When all’s said and done, you are what you are’ (1806). It will take patient experimentation in Part ii to establish the order that underlies this chaos. In the ﬁrst scene of Part ii, Ariel symbolically restores Faust’s shattered identity by sprinkling him with the waters of Lethe; the remainder of Part ii enacts this cure at greater length and with greater complexity in an extended, almost psychoanalytic, allegory of identity. In fact, the waters of Lethe do not cure Faust: they make him forget. We might even say they repress the disastrous effects of the disunity of his identity. In place of his individual disunity we see radical discontinuity between surface and depth translated onto the court of the Emperor in Act 1. The court, the Emperor

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and all the courtiers are in a state of chaos or fragmentation due to the sorry state of the Emperor’s ﬁnances. But money belongs to a network of images in the play – including gold, ﬁre, wine, sunlight – that has been associated from early in Part i with the Absolute, with Truth. In Part i it hovered consistently above Faust in some version of a divine realm, but now for the ﬁrst time it is located in the depths of the earth, which are interpreted to be the depths of the past, of the cultural imagination and of Faust’s own imagination. For, in order to produce his dumb-show of Paris and Helen, Faust descends, as the stage direction tells us, to the depths to ﬁnd the mysterious Mothers. His personal origin is oddly pluralized to become the origin of the culture, so that the Mothers represent the subconscious, the unknown depths of the self. In Part i Faust talked about himself as divided and confused; in Part ii he is often actually represented in triplicate. In Act 1 he appears in the carnival masque between Boy-Charioteer, his idealizing soul or self that wants to ﬂy upwards, and Mephistopheles dressed as Greed, the self that holds fast to the gold that comes from beneath the earth. This trio actually appears for the ﬁrst time on the way to the ‘Walpurgis Night’ late in Part i, where Faust climbs the mountain between a ﬂighty will-o’-the-wisp and Mephistopheles (again), who calls his attention to the gold of Mammon in the mountain. The two outer ﬁgures appear again in the ‘Walpurgis Night’s Dream’ as Shakespeare’s two nature spirits, delicate Ariel and mischievous Puck. In the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ in Act 2 of Part ii the whole trio appears again, with Faust and Mephistopheles in their accustomed places and Homunculus as the ﬂighty imaginative side of Faust. This dispersion of the self, by objectifying its separate parts, begins to make it more visible, and therefore legible, to the reader, if not to Faust himself. As paradigms of human beauty, the shades of Paris and Helen that Faust brings back from the Mothers enable the psychic and social integration so sorely needed; accordingly, their arrival tames an audience that has been most unruly during the carnival masque into something approaching a community of spectators.20 By focusing Faust’s striving on Helen they also provide him with a language for the object that Ariel’s gift of forgetting in the ﬁrst scene of Part ii had rendered temporarily nameless. In Acts 2 and 3 the descent to the Mothers from Act 1 is re-enacted as a more elaborate descent into Faust’s own past and subconscious (when he is brought back unconscious to his own study from Part i) and further yet into the historical depths of European culture when he descends with Mephistopheles and Homunculus to the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’. This elaborate detour to the depths results in extraordinary moments of synthesis or psychic

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integration, the most obvious of which are the marriage of ﬁre and water at the end of Act 2 with Galatea and Homunculus, and the union of Faust and Helena in Act 3. By the beginning of Act 4 Faust’s identity seems on the way to re-integration. Without anguish he watches the cloud that represents Helena recede into the depths of memory, and welcomes the returning consciousness of Margarete and his striving of Part i. Here for the ﬁrst time Faust ﬁnally seems able to read the objectiﬁcations of himself. He now proceeds without wavering to his ﬁnal stages of achievement, striving and insight – building dykes for settlers to lead a free and productive existence of eternal striving and creation in Act 5. Two additional motifs signal his return to a stable identity: the inner light that shines when Care blinds him (‘but inside me bright light shines’, 11500) and his revitalized faith in the once-rejected word, which now, far from empty, ‘is all that carries weight’ (11502). And yet, as already noted, billowing clouds seem an odd metaphor for a stable identity, while scholars still cannot agree whether Faust’s ﬁnal acts are to be understood triumphantly or with bitter irony. The stability of Faust’s re-integrated identity still remains in question, indeed has become less dependable than ever in the last part of the play. theatrical identity and reflection in faust The process of recurrent destabilization is largely driven by theatricality. Theatre is the primary mode of representing the world in Faust. The ‘Prologue on the Stage’ and ‘Prologue in Heaven’ each transform what follows them into plays-within-the-play, so that, as is so typical in the seventeenth century, ‘all the world’s a stage, / And all the men and women merely players’ (As You Like It 2.7.139–40). The ‘Walpurgis Night’s Dream’ is a play staged within the play; so is the masque in Act 1 (in which Faust performs); so is the creation and destruction of Seismos’ mountain in Act 2 – like the ‘Walpurgis Night’s Dream’ it turns out to be nothing but illusion. To enter the realm of the Mothers, Faust must take on a theatrical ‘stance’ (Attitüde), and the Helena he brings back performs on a stage set up in the knightly hall. The tragedy of Margarete as well as the Helena sequence are both plays-within-the-play (Helena is actually an opera within the play) for which we see Faust donning his costume, in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’ for the ﬁrst and in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ for the second. The ‘Witch’s Kitchen’ itself contains the play of the apes, while ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’ contains both musical performances and the drinkers acting out a little play at Mephistopheles’ behest. Mephistopheles functions at different

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times as maestro, producer, director and, increasingly in Part ii, actor. Marthe and even Margarete play their little roles at Mephisto’s direction, Valentin proudly dies ‘as a soldier’ (3775) – in his chosen role – and even the rat in Mephistopheles’ song in ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’ plays a role – ‘as if she were in love’ (2132) is the refrain. In order to experience all that is open to humanity, Faust must play all the possible roles. Accordingly, all the shifts of identity chronicled above are also changes of costume: in Part i Faust changes to the clothing ﬁrst of a gentleman, then of a youthful lover; in Part ii his roles as wise man, Plutus, imperial treasurer, medieval prince, Renaissance knight, elderly landowner all call for different outﬁts. And the roles are endless, if one takes account of the parodic or collateral versions of Faust the striver, like the student, the Emperor, the Baccalaureus, BoyCharioteer, Homunculus, Lynceus, Euphorion. As these shifting roles suggest, theatre is inherently unstable: the ﬁrst line of ‘Dedication’ calls for ‘wavering forms’ (1) to emerge from the poet’s own yellowed manuscript. And Faust is all too aware that theatre is only metaphor, for he rejects the sign of the Macrocosm as ‘just a play’ (454) and tells Wagner life is nothing but a ‘grand-historical display’ (583). At the same time Wagner takes his master’s genuine ranting for declamation of Greek tragedy. The prominence of the play motif everywhere, but especially in the ‘Prologues’, tells us that however hostile Faust may be to theatricality as well as to words, he will have to learn that roles are his only access to Truth, just as we, the audience, learn that the play is our only access to Truth (that’s what the last chorus tells us). And this is precisely what Mephistopheles, clown that he is, has to teach him. Faust wins his way through to a ‘stable’ identity by accepting that no identity is permanent. Only conceived as a series of roles can the subject exist in the ﬂux of temporality. In a typical Romantic paradox, theatricality offers stability precisely because it is so unstable. Yet theatricality is, ultimately, only a metaphor in the play: its meaning for the subject–object problem, however, can be clariﬁed through the mirror, a less prevalent, but precisely for that reason more readable, image of identity in the play. (I shall use the terms ‘mirror’ and ‘reﬂection’ interchangeably here, since both are implied in German by the root Spiegel-.) The mirror is an obvious symbol of subjectivity for our modern sensibility (I mean here nineteenth-century and later), but in fact it tends just about until Goethe’s day to reﬂect the world more than the individual self, as, for example, in the well-known painting by Peter Christus, ‘St Eligius in his Workshop’ of 1449, where the mirror reﬂects the street outside. When the mirror does reﬂect the self, it signiﬁes vanity, as in Bernardo Strozzi’s ‘Old Woman at the Mirror’ of 1615 (see Figure 15.1), or

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Figure 15.1 Bernardo Strozzi, ‘Old Woman at the Mirror’ (1615)

self-examination, as in ‘Prudence’ in Cesare Ripa’s Iconologia (1758–69, see Figure 15.2). It most commonly reﬂects truth, although a magic mirror may very occasionally reﬂect an enchantment or distortion of the devil.21 Thus in

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Figure 15.2 Cesare Ripa, ‘Prudence’ in Iconologia (1758–69)

Faust i the sea is a ‘mirror-ﬂood’ (700) that attracts Faust to new worlds, and, in the vanity mode, Frau Marthe, mother of all vices, invites Margarete to come to her in order to parade before the mirror in her jewellery (2888). Reﬂection in ‘Night’ catches both aspects simultaneously: when Faust is

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rejected by the Earth Spirit, he laments: ‘I, reﬂection of the Godhead, who thought myself already / So near the mirror of eternal truth / Rejoiced in my heavenly glory and radiance’ (614–16). The capacity of the mirror to reﬂect eternal truth is distorted by the unwarranted substitution of Faust’s self in place of the Godhead.22 Thus the two older meanings of the motif barely raise the subject–object problem. But when the mirror actually appears on stage as a symbol, something new happens. When Margarete ﬁnds the ﬁrst casket of jewels, she puts on a necklace and steps up to the mirror. She indulges in vanity for only two lines (‘If only the earrings were mine! / You look so different in them’, 2796–7), then quickly shifts to an almost mystical incantation of gold: ‘For gold contend, / On gold depend / All things and men . . . Poor us!’ (2801–3). She sees in the mirror not herself, but the heightened self she could be with the addition of gold. Part ii makes it amply clear that gold is the equivalent of the light of the sun, ineffable Truth. Margarete thus sees herself idealized. The point is even more obvious when Faust stands before the magic mirror in the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’. He sees in the mirror not himself, but a recumbent Venus. Yet the ﬁgure awakens not his lust, as one would expect from a magic mirror and despite Mephistopheles’ predictions, but his sense of the ideal; he addresses the ﬁgure in the same language he uses to address the sign of the Macrocosm. Like Margarete, Faust does not indulge in vanity (selfsatisfaction), but sees in the mirror a projection of his imagination, the very ideal he is about to project onto Margarete. In each case what is seen in the mirror is not an identity, in the sense of a self-as-is, but rather an imagined role to be played, in both cases by Margarete. The fact that Faust projects his ideal identity across the gender boundary emphasizes even more the importance of imagination in generating identities that are in truth roles. In Part ii reﬂection becomes a more objective form of knowledge. The paradigmatic formulation comes, like all paradigms for Part ii, in the ﬁrst scene, ‘Pleasant Landscape’, when the glittering stars are described as ‘reﬂected’ (4646) in the lake. We might ﬁrst read the phrase as a traditional Renaissance personiﬁcation – the stars are the eyes of heaven. But nature is already personiﬁed in this scene, in the nature spirits who sing this line to Faust; the stars are only the natural objects they describe. Reﬂection is of the object by the object – no subjects involved, just as in the late poem ‘Dämmrung senkte sich von oben’ (Dusk Descended from on High), where ‘Blacker still the darkness grown / Reﬂects within the lake’s deep skies’. Mephistopheles peers about him in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, and the indecency, ‘reﬂected in his eyes’ (7085), almost overwhelms him, as the sunrise almost did Faust at the beginning of Part ii. The subject

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has apparently no engagement in this process; instead, the reﬂection penetrates the viewer from outside his self. The Emperor sees himself reﬂected in a Counter-Emperor (10407): only then, he says, does he ‘feel’ – not ‘imagine’ – his own potential greatness. The small shift in rhetoric is telling. Reﬂection is now, as so often in late Goethe, a state of being. At the same time, the mirror is no longer glass, but water.23 Water is already reﬂective in Part i, but in Part ii its role is foregrounded more explicitly. The paradigmatic moment, again, is the rainbow in ‘Pleasant Landscape’: its colourful ‘Abglanz’, reﬂection and refraction simultaneously, represents all human life. In Act 2 Faust has two visions of Leda and the Swan: as the conception of Helena they represent his deepest-rooted desire – his subconscious, perhaps his inmost identity. Both feature the surface of the water, which reﬂects the beauty of the mother of Helena (6912, 7284). In the ﬁrst, completely subconscious vision, a dream, the water is described as crystal, but in the second description this last remnant of the mirror’s former artiﬁcial character falls away. Homunculus must live in a crystal phial because, he tells us, he is artiﬁcial: ‘What is artiﬁcial requires conﬁnement’ (6884). Hence we may conclude that the process of mirroring in the water has become, by contrast, completely natural. The reﬂective surface of the water is invoked twice when the members of the Greek chorus dissolve into nature at the end of Act 3 and explicitly renounce all claim to human identity (9999 and 10010). Mirrors began in Faust as objects before which ﬁgures are costumed for their roles; they end as the site at which role dissolves into nature. The cloud monologue with which I began is the culmination of the motif, the ﬁnal manifestation of identity reﬂected in water. Now the water is barely even water, but water vapour, and the clouds, unstable in shape as they now are, reﬂect ‘ﬂeeting days’ great meaning’ (10054). They represent, of course, the memory of Helena, whose robe we have seen turn into these very clouds at the end of the preceding scene. They exist objectively in the play, they are connected objectively with Helena. Faust need supply no subjective component to give them meaning. And yet, subject to temporality in their constant changes of shape, they also represent – reﬂect – the profound signiﬁcance of human history. If the mirror began as the solid otherness of the world in contrast to the self, that objective other has now become completely ﬂuid. If the self is unstable, so is the nature in which it mirrors itself. Both are unstable, because both exist only in time. Kant suggested to Goethe that art and nature be seen as equivalent categories; so Goethe’s mirror image shows us that self and world must also be seen as equivalent or at least analogous categories – both are ﬂuid enough to exist in

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time, and both nevertheless are capable of mirroring something more permanent than itself on its surface. While both the water and the self have depths, what can be known of them is only what lies on the surface.24 Whatever permanence and stability either the world or the self has, it is ineffable and can only be comprehended from the summation of the different temporary manifestations. With this insight, Goethe’s experimental method and his notion of identity as a series of theatrical roles come together. To conceive the self as a series of roles on the stage of the world, or as a series of roles taken on to experiment with different points of view – literally, different places to stand – in order to observe the phenomenon of life, comes to the same thing. Faust’s monologue at the beginning of Act 4 introduces the last of Faust’s transformations in the play. Right after this speech he identiﬁes the seashore as the venue for what turns out to be his last adventure, his ﬁnal act of striving to drain swamps and provide land for a free and active people. It is not a more important, culminating or more typical adventure than any of the others, but yet another in the series of roles Faust has played. For it to be superior or deﬁnitive would not be in the spirit either of Faust’s theatricality or of Goethe’s scientiﬁc method. As researcher in Faust he lays before us the series of Erfahrungen. They are all equivalent but, laid out next to each other, they enable us to see the underlying pattern, the natural law. Faust’s divided and unstable identity appears to be integrated, and the theatricality of Part i begins to appear more objective in Part ii – not because anything becomes more real, but because more and more ﬁgures in the repeated reﬂections of stage and mirror render the pattern that is the natural law ever more visible. Thus we have seen Margarete, Helena, Galatea and all the rest before that anti-climactic mystiﬁcation, the ‘eternal feminine’, is spoken. The articulation of such profound and ineffable truths cannot help but seem simultaneously banal and esoteric. Natural laws, like theatrical roles, must be ‘angeschaut’, to use Goethe’s word, must be seen, to be believed. Identity is thus equivalent to natural law, or the subject to the object. Or is it? Surely it defeats the purpose to be so reductive. The elimination of the self, Entäußerung, as a scientiﬁc term reduces the observer to an unthinking eye. This is the reﬂexive self-contemplation at which the mirror imagery in Part ii arrives. But in the theatre Entäußerung means to take on a role in the world. It means to create exteriority, to make the ineffable concretely visible, to give it body: Homunculus in search of a body to house his spark of life is the paradigmatic example of the process of theatricality. The true self, like the thing in itself, is the equivalent of natural law, but the focus of the two discourses is different. Experiment gazes inward towards what

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remains constant as the phenomenon is observed from different points of view, while theatricality makes whatever is constant in the self visible to the spectator in a series of roles. Experiment is epistemological; theatricality is representational. Theatricality and experiment in Faust are thus reciprocal and complementary processes, as identity and natural law, subject and object are reciprocal and complementary phenomena. notes 1. I have discussed Goethe’s reservations about Rousseau’s morality in Goethe’s Faust: The German Tragedy, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986, 81–3, and, at greater length, in ‘Goethe, Rousseau, the Novel and the Origins of Psychoanalysis’, Goethe Yearbook 12 (2004), 111–28. On identity as role in Egmont, see my ‘Egmonts Daemon’ in Ironie und Objektivität. Aufsätze zu Goethe, Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 1999, 14–32. 2. HA 3, 317. All further references to Faust are by line number to this edition. All translations are mine unless otherwise indicated. 3. Goethe’s interest in meteorology is well documented: he wrote about it, set up a network of weather stations in the duchy of Weimar and kept a chart of local barometric pressure pinned to the wall of his bedroom. His admiration for Howard’s work is also well known; he even wrote poems about it. 4. Indeed, they remind us that the ﬁrst appearance of Helen in Act 1 of Part ii as shade was even less stable. 5. ‘Die Einwirkung der neueren Philosophie’ (The Inﬂuence of Modern Philosophy), HA 13, 27. All subsequent citations to Goethe’s scientiﬁc essays are to this volume. On Goethe’s interest in Kant, see Géza von Molnár, ‘Goethes Studium der Kritik der Urteilskraft. Eine Zusammenstellung nach den Eintragungen in seinem Handexemplar’, Goethe Yearbook: Publications of the Goethe Society of North America 2 (1984), 137–222; also Nicholas Boyle demonstrates repeatedly in Goethe. The Poet and the Age, vol. ii, Oxford: Clarendon, 2000, Goethe’s afﬁnities for Kantian thought. An essay of 1792, ‘Der Versuch als Vermittler von Objekt und Subjekt’, sees art and science as parallel in contrast (13, again 18), while a 1794 sketch for a never-published essay, ‘Inwiefern die Idee: Schönheit sei Vollkommenheit mit Freiheit, auf organische Naturen angewendet werden könne’, attempts to capture for the natural sciences the language of aesthetics (21–3). 6. Goethe, ‘Der Versuch als Vermittler’, HA 13, 10–11. 7. In the essay ‘Anschauende Urteilskraft’, which evokes the creative Earth Spirit at the loom of time (30). The ethical aspect of Faust also enters into these parallels, because Goethe explicitly connects the Kantian distinctions with his own principle ‘Tun und Denken’ in ‘Einwirkung der neueren Philosophie’, HA 13, 28. 8. Goethe, ‘Der Versuch als Vermittler’, HA 13, 10. 9. Ibid., 15–16.

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10. Ibid., 12, 18. 11. Ibid., 13: ‘I might add that knowledge, like an enclosed, spring-fed pond, gradually rises to a particular level such that the best discoveries are made not by people, but by the age.’ 12. Ibid., 18. 13. Goethe, ‘Erfahrung und Wissenschaft’, HA 13, 23–5. 14. Ibid., 25. Emphases mine. 15. Thus Faust can also say things like ‘You have gained no relief unless it ﬂows from your own soul’ (568–9), ‘Here I am human, here I can be so’ (939), ‘Oh, if only you could read in my inner self’ (1031). 16. ‘That I learn what holds the world together in its innermost core, see all cause and effect’ (382–4). 17. NB Faust ‘feels’ himself to be like the Spirit, but the Spirit insists on comprehension – a different kind of self-knowledge. Faust returns to this theme in the later ampliﬁcation of this passage: ‘I, image of the Godhead, that already / Thought itself so very close to the mirror of eternal truth, / Admired its heavenly glory and clarity, / And shook off my earthly casing; / I, more than cherub, whose free power / To ﬂow through the veins of nature / And to enjoy the life of gods by creating / Had already arrogated to myself in anticipation – how I must now atone!’ (614–21). 18. Wilhelm Meister takes on the role of Shakespeare’s Henry V, Prince Harry, as he leads his band of actors, in outlandish costumes, into the hands of outlaws in an episode that is clearly an exercise in experimental identity. Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, Book 4, chapter 5. 19. In his recent production of both parts of Faust, Peter Stein had the role of Mephistopheles played by two different actors with totally different personae, and it worked brilliantly. 20. I take this concept from the central thesis of Benjamin Bennett’s Goethe’s Theory of Poetry. Faust and the Regeneration of Language, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986. 21. Beginning in the fourteenth century, mirrors were also used as tools by painters for developing perspective, for scaling, proportion and framing scenes to create pictures; this technical use does not, however, seem to become a metaphor for identity as other uses did. For a survey of the history of mirrors, see Benjamin Goldberg, The Mirror and the Man, Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1985; for an excellent history of the mirror in European culture, see Sabine Melchior-Bonnet, The Mirror. A History, trans. Katharine H. Jewett, New York and London: Routledge, 2001. A more specialized version may be found in Herbert Grabes, Speculum, Mirror und Looking-Glass. Kontinuität und Originalität der Spiegelmetapher in den Buchtiteln des Mittelalters und der englischen Literatur des 13. bis 17. Jahrhunderts, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1973. On magic mirrors, see MelchiorBonnet, The Mirror, 213–15. 22. Cf. also ‘What you call the spirit of the times / Is basically your own spirit / In which the times are reﬂected’ (577–9).

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23. Mirrors only become consistently glass rather than metal or polished stone in the late sixteenth century with the spread of Venetian glass. The term consistently used in this and the seventeenth century is crystal (Goldberg, The Mirror and the Man, 139; Melchior-Bonnet, The Mirror, 18). The water-mirror in which Narcissus is trapped is its own independent commonplace of the tradition of mirror imagery. It represents, however, not excessive subjectivity or the depths of the self, but selﬁshness and self-love. See Emblemata. Handbuch zur Sinnbildkunst des XVI. u. XVII. Jahrhunderts, ed. Arthur Henkel and Albrecht Schöne, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1976, 1627–8. 24. Thus, in a closely related image, when Goethe’s ﬁsherman sinks into the water at the end of his poem ‘Der Fischer’ (HA 1, 154), his fate must remain unknown. All that can be said is that he was never seen again.

chapter 16

Rhetorical action: Faust between rhetoric, poetics and music Helmut Schanze

goethe’s rhetoric The modern restriction of rhetoric to a ‘rhetoric of tropes’ seen as a ‘modernist return of rhetoric’, or ‘rhetoricality’ in an overall sense is historically derived from a ‘discontinuity within tradition’, from a ‘historical gap’ between Enlightenment and (post-)modernity.1 It postulates an ‘end of rhetoric’ in the era of Romanticism. Goethe’s rhetoric is situated in a crucial period, when this tradition still exists but aesthetic theories and stylistics are bringing it to an end. Theories of staging, even Goethe’s famous and most disputed ‘Regeln für Schauspieler’ (Rules for Actors), are seen apart from their rhetorical tradition and context. Goethe himself never underestimated the art of persuasion. His rhetoric marks an epoch in the history of rhetoric. Rhetorical theory can be traced up to his concept of Weltliteratur, which proves to be a cornerstone of a new nineteenth-century rhetoric.2 Introducing the term of rhetorical actio, the last stage of the opus rhetoricum, as a leading concept into an analysis of Goethe’s major work Faust opens rhetorical analysis anew to questions of ‘performance’, theatricality, musicality and mediality. In fact, the Romantic era of transition can be examined as a period of aesthetic and medial transformation of rhetoric itself. Rhetoric in Goethe’s Faust has to be examined not only as a relic of tradition, but also as a formative and performative element in a process of transformation of rhetoric, from classicist through Romantic to modern rhetoric. Faust scholars know that Faust, Goethe’s character, is a great rhetorician. Wagner, his famulus, admits his superior ars rhetorica, his undisputable ﬁrma facilitas. He strives to proﬁt by this art. But when Wagner states ‘The comedian may teach a priest’ (527), Faust answers ironically ‘If the priest is a comedian’ (528).3 Homiletics are revealed as histrionic in using the rhetorical tropes of irony. In response to Wagner’s statement ‘Actio makes 253

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the orator succeed’ (546), Faust disputes this art: ‘Intelligence and good sense will express / Themselves with little art and strain’ (550–1). But on closer examination, Faust’s anti-rhetoric not only reveals itself as tropical, but also as rhetorical criticism in poetic form. To conceal art is a genuine principle of ars rhetorica itself, a topos: ars est celare artem. Mephistopheles, his counterpart, is a superb rhetorician as well. By rhetorical devices he persuades even the Lord to put Faust on trial. Mephistopheles also ‘likes’ to talk about the Lord ironically: ‘It’s very courtly in so great a Lord as He / To talk so like a man even with the Devil’ (352–3). And when Margarete denies being a ‘young lady’, Faust praises her humility. The courtly art of greeting and addressing is rhetorically ironized. Faust’s discourse with Margarete is, technically, a perfect rhetoric of seduction, but it uses the elements of the new rhetoric of passion, the core of the Romantic concept of love. Faust is conceived as ‘Don Juan’ and romantic lover in one person, and he acts rhetorically in this double role. Faust and Mephistopheles are virtuosi at playing with rhetorical registers. Irony, using the argument of the counterpart, is truly a rhetorical device, although it is used against rhetoric itself. By this strategy, the hierarchy of Renaissance rhetoric is rhetorically proven to be outdated. The very principle of the ‘Renaissance man’, his personal striving for knowledge, his individualism, has sown the germ of decay into the hierarchical order of speech, into the law of ‘decorum’, the relation between status and style, codiﬁed in the social pyramid from the king, the noblemen and the burghers down to the peasants, from sublimity to simplicity and humility. This was taught and used in the epistolary art, even in Goethe’s time, and he used it in his ‘ofﬁcial letters’ to the emperor, the princes, his great archduke and his colleagues. Faust i and ii are poetic documents of a new rhetoric and its critique. In his schematic synopsis of the unﬁnished scenes of Part ii, sketched in December 1826, Goethe announces their future performance ‘with all the features of poetics and rhetoric’ (444). This implies actio too. In the dramatic form chosen by Goethe, rhetoric – the art of prose – is not a nostalgic remembrance of past orality, as it is in the ‘romantic book’. The difference between the book and theatre is action. Written and even printed drama has to be put into action in the full sense of the word. Action, which has to follow the draft of a speech, not only reveals a theoretical term and practical stage of production, it is also an inherent principle of Goethe’s work, the performative principle itself. Actio in an overall sense is a principal concept in Goethe’s Hauptgeschäft (main task) from its very beginnings. Faust praises actio in translating the

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opening words of the Gospel of St John: ‘Im Anfang war die Tat!’, translated by Stuart Atkins as ‘In the beginning was the Act’ (1237). Action gave birth to the world. This is the credo of power, which is in fact the credo of the powerful word, the dynamic principle, the very energeia. In Faust’s second ‘Study’ monologue (1224–37), ‘action’ supersedes mere words (‘das Wort’), mere meaning (‘Sinn’) and mere dynamics (‘Kraft’) . Renaissance literature, as Heinrich F. Plett has argued, forms a theatrum elocutionis, a theatre of the word. It lacks actio in the rhetorical sense. In Wordsworth’s deﬁnition, poetry is ‘emotion recollected in tranquillity’;4 actio becomes a process of the inner life. Bodily actio has to be re-established in written poetry by powerful poetic means and mainly by ﬁgurative, energetic speech. It appeals to the imagination of the reader by poetic imagery, by words and by bodily language. Drama has to go further, since it entails close relations between rhetorical action and dramatic action. The orator is, in fact, an actor. Persuasion has to be established not only by words, but also by the musical dimension of speech, by scenic devices, and by the actor’s body, gestures and voice. The actor plays his role, and he plays with the imagination of the public. Renaissance and post-Renaissance drama is printed literature and acted play. It is ‘romantic’ in a broad sense, and ‘antique’ too, imaginative and physical. It is concerned with a double public, the public of readers and the public in the theatre. In conceiving the tragedy of the ‘Renaissance man’, Goethe had to work on two levels: literary imagination and physical representation. If Faust and Mephistopheles are conceived both as perfect rhetoricians, they have to play, as a perfect rhetorician must do, different roles.5 The roles of Faust and Mephistopheles are roles of role-players; they act not only one role, but a multiplicity of roles. As a ‘Romantic’ and modern work, Goethe’s tragedy surpasses the rules of classical dramatic unity, of character, of place, of time, and of Greek, Roman and Renaissance rhetoric, by using the Romantic imagination and modern theatrical devices. The Helena act, for example, spans three millennia, starting at Troy and ending in the political tragedy of the Romantic poet (Byron) on the battleﬁelds of Greece, in Messolonghi. The drama of antiquity, the plays of the Middle Ages, Elizabethan theatre, Baroque ‘world theatre’, ‘operatic’ scenes, modern theatre of the interior and even the precinematic apparatus of phantasmagoria are united. If we take a closer look at the history of Goethe’s actio itself – the ‘performance’ (Ausführung) of the work – there is a crisis of rhetoric that

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deserves attention. The planned ‘great oration’ before Persephone, Faust’s bid for Helen as New Orpheus, was never realized. His great address to his ‘people’ ﬁnds only the public of the spectres. And in the end Faust’s actions and Mephisto’s quaerela have proved to be in vain: ‘A great expense, for shame! is thrown away’ (11837).

the question of ‘performance’ In concentrating on rhetorical action, I shall show the different ways of ‘performing’, ‘presenting’, ‘acting’, ‘staging’ and ‘mediating’ a unity of diversities, of ages and styles. This implies a short history of rhetorical action from antiquity to modern times, and a short media history from the body to a pre-cinematographic apparatus and even to the digital media used in contemporary performances. Goethe’s conception begins with forensic situations and rhetorical forms of altercation. In its ﬁnal form, handwritten and sealed, Goethe described his ﬁnished work as a ‘poem’. This poem is designed to be printed. But following Goethe’s intentions, the true Ausführung (performance) of the ‘work’ in its entirety requires theatrical, musical and even pre-cinematic realization. Ausführung entails a series of what we can call medializations. Goethe’s concept of performance is a double one: it means ‘performance’ aesthetically, in the sense of a perfect, sensitive oration, or poetry, and ‘performance’ in the sense of a perfect actio on stage or through other media. The imaginative whole of the dramatic work has to be complemented by physical action, in opsis and melopoiia, to use the terminology of Aristotle. Poetics, from its very beginnings, is confounded by a double notion of ‘performance’. Aristotle, in his Poetics, gives at least three highly controversial solutions. The formative elements of tragedy are usually cited as a sequence following the technical-rhetorical stages of production: plot, character, words, thought, scenic presentation and lyrical song.6 This sequence begins with the conceptual elements: plot, character, words and thought. It ends with the performative elements: staging and music. But there is another sequence in Aristotle, beginning with the performative elements (staging and music) and ending with words, character and thought. And there is even a third sequence beginning with staging, followed by character, plot and words, with music and thought at the end.7 In his theory of poetics, which Aristotle derived from his concept of ars rhetorica, rhetorical action splits up systematically into staging and

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music. The philosopher Aristotle obviously hated the tailors and costumemakers, and even music seems to be superﬂuous. Goethe’s reception of Aristotle’s theoretical insights may be studied in his Nachlese zu Aristoteles’ Poetik (Afterthoughts on Aristotle’s Poetics). Here Goethe clearly states that the ‘work’ of ‘cartharsis’ has to be ‘closed’ in the theatre: ‘Then it [a tragedy] must conclude its work in the theatre with harmonization, with reconciliation of these emotions’ (HA 14, 343). In the end there is ‘theatre’, that is, ‘staging’, and even ‘music’, that is, ‘performance’ as actio, in the rhetorical sense of the term. Goethe’s Faust reﬂects the Aristotelian problem of staging. Aristotle’s threefold solution is in fact ‘staged’ in Faust in the ‘Prologue on the Stage’. Three ﬁgures are arguing for the different positions. The Poet–Playwright in the ‘Prologue’ stands for the poetic sequence, stressing music (that is, of the words) and thought. The Player of Comic Roles, the actor, stands for the rhetorical sequence. He carries the Poet’s trade as a ‘love affair’ (160), or a brewer’s craft: Brewing the drink to cheer and edify the multitude.

(173–4)

The Director proposes the sequence of the staging: How shall we plan that all be fresh and new And with a meaning, yet attractive too?

(47–8)

He concludes, marking the end of an altercation: Words have interchanged enough. Let me at last see action too!

(214–15)

Technical action, staging, must follow wording: Since that’s the case, this is no time to stint On scenery or stage effects. Put both the sun and moon to use.

(233–5)

Goethe, of course, knew his Aristotle; as poet, jester and director in one person, he discusses dramatically the theatrical and the operatic apparatus, opsis and melopoiia. He didn’t like operatic people, dull dogs on stage, but he used them whenever possible, even with the poodle in Faust. He knew the misunderstanding – or true understanding – of Greek drama as Gesamtkunstwerk. He dreamed that Mozart might compose music for his Faust and – to the chagrin of some scholars devoted to Wagnerism – he also named Meyerbeer as a contender for this eminent task.

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Under the complexity of actio we have to accept a controversial triad of rhetoric, poetics and music, and at least three different concepts of action in Faust: rhetorical, poetic and musical. They all form a unique ‘staging’ and ‘music’ which is ‘rhetorical’ at the beginning, corporeal on stage and multimedial in further medializations at the end.

topoi and genera in faust Rhetorical action is deﬁned as persuasive ‘energy’ (energeia). Rhetoric is always ‘two-sided’; it operates on given questions. Looking at the thematic (or ‘topical’) aspects of Faust, there are at least ﬁve basic ‘altercations’, impassioned disputes in Faust: (1) The Rhetoric of Love, personalized in Faust and Margarete, and in Faust and Helena; (2) The Rhetoric of Evil, personalized in Faust and Mephistopheles; (3) The Rhetoric of the Four Elements, or of Nature, personalized in the ‘Spirits’ of ‘Earth’, ‘Fire’, ‘Water’, ‘Air’, and culminating in the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’; (4) The Rhetoric of Power; and ﬁnally (5) The Rhetoric of Redemption, personalized in the Holy Fathers and the Queen of Heavens. These all demand different genres, rhetorical and poetic, and they are to be executed in different forms of action: rhetorical, poetic and musical. Goethe’s earliest conception, dating back to the 1760s, was the ‘unanswered question’ of the ‘limbi’, the in-betweens of heaven and earth, the question of ‘redemption’ taken from a rhetorical quaerela such as was used in schools as the progymnasmata (schools of rhetoric). A quaerela had to be ‘open’ in the strict sense of the word. The background to the Gretchen tragedy is a rhetorical ‘model case’, discussed by Goethe in his doctoral thesis, and solved in precisely the converse manner when he had to decide the case in his ofﬁcial capacity in Weimar. It is a ‘two-sided’ case – providing the argument for compassion and for the technical skills of the lawyer in cases of litigation. Rhetoric and poetry are both open-ended, but forensic rhetoric has to be concluded with a ‘sentence’. In the case of the infanticide, this means that, in legal terms, the death sentence must apply.8 One may study the conﬂict between rhetoric and poetics, of public and inward action, not only in Goethe’s rhetoric and poetics of love and evil, but also in his rhetoric and poetics of power or hubris in Act 4 of Part ii, in Goethe’s vision of the four allegorical warlords and in his anatomy of political argumentation in the aftermath of war, which he wrote in the 1830s. They give

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an ‘essence’ of war and so-called peacemaking, from the Trojan war up to his own age, the Napoleonic wars, as well as a prospect of an apocalyptic future. The rhetorical ‘argumentation’ in Faust is transformed, by formative means, from ‘prose’ into ‘poetry’. Thus the different rhetorical argumentations can form a poetic whole, organized as open ‘tragedy’. Rhetoric becomes ﬁction, in the sense of energetic mimesis. It turns into poetic action, into a ‘staging’ or great opsis of inner life, into a memorial theatre for a reading public, intended to be composed musically and to be staged for the public. There is, in the ﬁrst part, one scene written in prose, and it seems to be the most energetic one. A rhetorical analysis of Goethe’s Faust cannot be restricted to more or less elocutionary items in the theatrical text. Nevertheless, wording is by no means a minor consideration. Rhetorical ﬁgures structure the text from its very beginning to the ﬁnal lines. The ﬁrst line of the ‘Dedication’, a true poetic privatissimum, constructs a complex of inversio and hyperbaton, and, parallel to the ﬁnal verses, the ‘mystery . . . long concealed’ (10093), it is one of the most musical in German literature. These ﬁgures have to be executed, performed; they are more than letters and words in abnormal sequences. They form text in action, they have to be memorized by actors, either in front of a public or backstage; and they can be shown to constitute a theatrum rhetoricum. The problems of the rhetorical aptum (correctness), or a multiplicity of styles, has to be analysed; and this includes the problem of rhetorical genera as parts of speech in a wider sense of the word. A closer look at the text will demonstrate that the Faust theme in fact opens a multiplicity of perspectives even in respect to the generic status of the text. We have to consider the three classical genera, judicial, deliberative and demonstrative, and their transformations in Renaissance and post-Renaissance theory and practice, as well as Melanchthon’s addition of a homiletic genre, and the reduction of the genera to the sacred and the human by the most inﬂuential theorist of the sixteenth century, Nicolaus Caussin. These rational divisions of speech may be seen as the core of the Faust theme itself. The central rhetorical matters in Faust can be proved to be generic. As topos, genus and function are closely linked in the rhetorical ofﬁcium, the question of genera is not restricted to problems of drama, but reveals their rhetorical background. The ﬁve main themes – the rhetoric of love, evil, the elements, politics and redemption – are dramatically synthesized in a framework of forty-eight scenes, each of which has its own focus, in a structured path ‘from heaven, through the world, to hell’ (242) – and to an intermediate place, called ‘Mountain Gorges’, at the end. This structure as a whole follows the traditions of the programme of sacred and human

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rhetoric, the programme of Baroque Welttheater. The rhetoric of love, which grounds the work as a whole, has a true homiletic structure. Its topoi are invented on the basis of religious faith, and against the background of a medieval setting, transformed into modern subjectivity. The rhetoric of evil, as already shown, has the structure of a processus and follows the topoi of the genus iudiciale. Systematically, the political ingredients, the rhetoric of politics in the ‘Emperor’s Court’ scenes in Act 1, are topically invented according to the rules of the deliberative genre. Faust is conceived as a political agent and Mephistopheles as a jester and an offstage prompter (6400), giving bad advice to a corrupt regime. Act 2 performs a generic shift to the most ﬁgured of the rhetorical genres, the genus demonstrativum. As Goethe stated, it should be executed ‘with all the powers of the poetic and rhetorical arts’ (HA 3, 444). Since Faust’s planned oration before Proserpina, a piece of the genus iudiciale, was never realized, the proper rhetoric of the elements in Act 2 becomes purely demonstrative: it ironizes, in the quarrel between ‘Neptunists’ and ‘Vulcanists’, modern forms of scientiﬁc discourse. The whole of Act 2, from its beginning to its ecstatic ending, uses the forms of the Baroque Festrhetorik, both in images and speech. The ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ ‘praises’ the elements and their genuine dynamics. Since the genus demonstrativum, the art of praise and blame, is closest to poetry, Act 2 could be described as the most poetic from the standpoint of a rhetorical analysis. Act 3, the Helena act, simulates classical drama in a pre-cinematic medium as a classic-Romantic phantasmagoria and mingles genres, too. The act begins as processus – Helena is accused and she defends her right as ‘lady of the house’ (8797, 8804) – using poetic altercations between Helena and Faust, ‘inventing’ rhyme, showing a poetic metamorphosis into an Arcadian situation and ending in a tragic demonstration of Euphorion’s fate. Act 4 is again a masterpiece of political argumentations and their misfortunes, including war as the ultima ratio regum. Act 5 ﬁnally opens a tableau of different styles, from the rural scene of Philemon and Baucis up to ‘the indescribable’ (12108), in an enigmatic rhetoric of adoration in terms of ‘Christian-clerical ﬁgures’ taken from homiletics.9 Thus the respective topoi are extensively used in a work of art that supersedes all genres of rhetoric and poetics by medial integration. The roles of the preacher, the lawyer, the political agent, the ofﬁcial poet and even the saint take their parts in a play of sacred and human rhetoric. They act in person and as personae in different styles along their respective aptum, ironizing and reﬂecting themselves in a system of ‘repeated reﬂections’ (HA 12, 322) und ‘very serious jests’ (WA 4:49, 283).

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the question of ‘musical theatre’ At the end of the process from ‘conception’ to ‘performance’, ‘staging’ and ‘music’ can be seen as the formative moments which supersede rhetorical and poetic moments in the form of a ‘new rhetoric’ of medialization, uniting the different forms of action. Goethe was familiar with the leading ﬁgures of architecture, painting and sculpture, as well as music, not only from his own experience, but also theoretically – as is evident from his theory of the arts and his recently rediscovered musical theory. The ‘staging’ of Part ii is clearly inspired by Philostratos’ canon of ideal motifs in ancient art, and, in the end, in the ‘Mountain Gorges’ scene, by means of ‘christlichkirchliche Figuren’.10 For Goethe, the problem of the opsis is apparently solved, and in his famous letters, when he ﬁnished the manuscript in 1832, he appears proud, indeed joyful, at having at last found a solution. But his ideas, with their ‘retrograde’ or ‘Romantic’ dimensions, caused and still cause theatrical problems. The question of musical performance – musical action – is highly complicated. On the one hand, there is the debate on Goethe’s preference for Anschauung (evidence), in the sense that he is a ‘man of the eye’. Even the metaphor for energeia is an optical one. But regarding his wording, Goethe is a perfect ‘man of the ear’, and his outstanding musicality is proved by the many adaptations of his lyrics, especially his Lieder, starting with Mozart’s little piece ‘Das Veilchen’ and continuing right up to the twentieth century. This applies particularly to the masterly musicality of Faust.11 Faust the ‘Renaissance man’ is the ‘man of the eye’ – but Goethe is a contemporary of the age of Enlightenment and the age of revolution. He no longer lives in an age of the great architects, painters and sculptors, but in that of the geniuses of music and engineering. To Goethe, the musical genius par excellence is Mozart, whom he once met. And there is an atmosphere of competition between the genius of musical poetry and the genius of poeticoperatic music. This competition is expressed in the section of the Italian Journey based on the diary entries of November 1787. Goethe reports on his musical experiences with Christoph Kayser, born in Frankfurt, whom he met in Rome, and among whose compositions was a symphony on Egmont. The composer had revitalized Goethe’s interest in the musical theatre: He [Kayser] brought with him the symphony for Egmont, and so I experienced a revitalization of my fundamental interests, which at the present time were more than before, out of necessity and preferences, directed against the musical theatre. (HA 11, 435–6)

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Goethe tried to enlist the composer’s help for the ‘performance’ of his musical works of the early Weimar years: Erwin und Elmire, Claudine von Villa Bella and Scherz, List und Rache. He obviously tried to go further than the old intermezzo, envisioning a new form of Singspiel. But Kayser deﬁnitely failed in achieving the new form of musical comedy Goethe intended. Kayser composed, in Goethe’s words, ‘nach altem Schnitt’ (in an old-fashioned manner). But Mozart more than matched his intentions: When Mozart came on the scene, all our striving to conﬁne ourselves to the simple and controlled was in vain. The Entführung aus dem Serail overwhelmed everything [schlug alles nieder], and in the theatre nobody ever spoke of our carefully crafted piece again. (HA 11, 437)

‘Schlug nieder’, in Goethe’s cryptic words, means also a real, personal depression – in terms of psychopathology, a depressing defeat of the genius of the musical word by the genius of music. In musical performance, Goethe is restricted to words. He created musical words, and he gave ‘literary’ advice to composers. This advice, or musical framing, is to be found in the text itself, and beyond it. It is to be formulated in the framework of the old musical genres of ‘intermezzo’ and ‘opera’. It uses the conventional stage directions and the formalism of musical comedy before Mozart, but is clearly intended to be performed using the musical means of the post-Mozart era. Goethe used the forms of madrigal, lied, Singspiel and even operatic arias very consciously. On the one hand, Goethe had to refer to conventions; on the other hand, he set his hopes on the genius of musical performance.

faust – paratexts, frames, medializations The Faust text is in fact commissioned by Goethe to be published according to the conventions of the musical comedy, the libretto. In a letter to the publisher Wilhelm Reichel, he refers to the mark-up of the Helena act and new scenes of 1827, and gives the following ‘permissions’ for typesetting: With the next mail coach the ﬁrst scenes of Part ii of Faust will be sent to you. I am personally convinced, that you, in printing this poem [sic!], will supervise the master typesetter as you did with ‘Helena’. Generally speaking, all verses spoken by individual persons, should be full out, and all verses spoken by a mass or a group, e.g. the murmuring, which is in shorter verses, should be indented. In the same way everything which appears as a Lied or is to be performed lyrically (as most of the

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Carnival) must be indented. Nevertheless there may be ambiguous cases, where taste has to guide judgement as to how to ﬁx the reader’s attention on certain passages, which then have to be marked according. But this will be rare, and I leave it fully to your discretion. (HA 3, 449–50)

This mixture of clear advice and formal licence exposes the problems of the performance of Faust. Formally, there are ‘full out’ and ‘indented’ passages of the text, forming three categories: spoken text, chorus or ‘murmured’ text, and text to be sung. The spoken text is rhetorical and dialogical, the chorus text is semi-rhetorical, and the passages to be sung are set up in a broad variation of madrigals, arias and, in both parts of the tragedy, of Lieder. There are, in the stage directions, additional hints regarding melodramatic accompaniment and ‘pure’ symphonic music to be performed as stage music. Thus the musical character is clearly announced to the future reader, who is, ideally, a musician. In Part i, around 750 verses out of 4,372 are indented, about one-ﬁfth of the entire text.12 In the Singspiel Claudine von Villa Bella the ratio is one to four (lyrics to prose). In the Helena act, more than 800 verses out of 1,352 are indented. It is worth remarking that ‘pure music’ in this scene begins more or less with the Euphorion part of the Phantasmagoria, which is set in ‘modern’ times, just after the ancient and medieval passages. The stage directions read: Ein reizendes, melodisches Saitenspiel erklingt aus der Höhle. Alle merken auf und scheinen bald innig gerührt. Von hier aus zur bemerkten Pause durchaus mit vollstimmiger Musik. (After 9678) Charming, purely melodic music of stringed instruments is heard from the grotto. All listen attentively, and soon seem deeply moved by it. From this point to the pause there is full musical accompaniment.

The musical ‘general pause’ ends the ‘dirge’ (9907) for Euphorion and marks the disillusionment of Faust and Helena. There is no doubt about Goethe’s intention: ‘Helena’ must be performed like an opera. The problem of the singing actress could be solved by casting two performers, a singer and an actress, as Goethe suggested in one of his conversations with Eckermann.13 ‘Mountain Gorges’ is in fact indented as a whole. Goethe uses highly melodious, hymn-like verses, in keeping with the scenic performance of Christian ﬁgures. At the end of the scene the rhetorical, dramatic and poetic actions are fully musicalized. As shown above, the ‘performance’ of Faust, Goethe’s ‘execution’, follows the Aristotelian stages of production, but leaves the staging and the music only partly to the stage director and the musician. In his

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texts and paratexts Goethe provides a rigid framework in which he reveals his scenic and musical intentions. He opens the text to performance in the widest sense of the word, and his paratextual remarks must be seen as a Derridean ‘frame’. ‘Scene’ and ‘music’ are both parerga and ergon. This frame postulates not only a genius of rhetorical and theatrical performance, but also of musical performance. In accordance with the concept of a new rhetoric, this amounts to actio in an integrated and medial sense. An analysis of the rhetorical components of Goethe’s Faust, especially his paratextual elements (e.g., the layout), leads beyond marginal phenomena and liminal devices to the very core of the production itself. These components are designed by the author to effect the greatest energy.14 They open the closed structure of the work to its medialization. Since the emergence of a ‘performative turn’ in theoretical discourses in the 1980s and 1990s,15 that is, in the age of digital media, the topic of rhetorical action has once again become actual not only in theatre studies, but also in literary and media studies. Goethe’s Faust and its paratextual structure mark an epoch in media history. Faust acts as a ‘Renaissance man’ and as a man of ‘modernity’. The tragedy of Faust was written by Goethe in a literary and musical age. Goethe’s imagination and his knowledge of the ‘machinery’ of theatre enabled him to propose the use of the pre-cinematic apparatus of phantasmagoria in Part ii, namely in the staging of the Helena tragedy. Given the theoretical approach of a ‘performative turn’, which announces a ‘performative crisis’ even in the ‘production’ of Goethe’s masterpiece, and proposes an integrative history of medialization, the question of the interrelations of rhetoric, poetics and music in Goethe’s Faust is no longer a theoretical question. It provides us with a complex structure for our discussions on Faust in the twenty-ﬁrst century. The combination of ‘word’ and ‘action’, as a combination of ‘competence’ and ‘performance’, is essential to the so-called ‘persuasive’ staging which surpasses mere wording; indeed, it surpasses the reader’s ‘theatre of memory’. Theatrical action is more than pure design: it achieves the ‘wholeness’ of the drama. This ‘wholeness’ is split up in modern media production into different professional stages. Since modern drama is a generic Gesamtkunstwerk, it deﬁnitely lacks wholeness: it is fragmented, shows upheavals, is never ﬁnished or is never to be ﬁnished. The history of medializations of Faust therefore tends to be an inﬁnite process or, in Romantic terms, a process of ‘inﬁnite rhetoric’, or of the new rhetoric of implicit musicality.

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not es 1. See John Bender and David E. Wellbery, ‘Rhetoricality’, in The Ends of Rhetoric, ed. John Bender and David E. Wellbery, Stanford University Press, 1990, 3–5. 2. See Helmut Schanze, ‘Goethes Rhetorik’, in in Rhetorik zwischen den Wissenschaften, ed. G. Ueding, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1991, 139–47. 3. All further references to Faust are by line number from HA. Translations are based on Stuart Atkins’ translation: Faust i & ii , New York: Suhrkamp, 1984; on Georg Madison Priest’s translation: www.levity.com/alchemy/faust01.html; and my own translations, for the purposes of my argument. 4. See Klaus Dockhorn’s ground-breaking essay on English Romanticism and rhetoric: ‘Wordsworth und die Rhetorik’, in Macht und Wirkung der Rhetorik. Vier Aufsätze zur Ideengeschichte der Vormoderne, Bad Homburg: Athenäum, 1968. 5. See the note by Novalis (February 1800): In a true speech an orator plays all the parts – moves through all the characters – through all situations – only for the sake of surprise – in order to observe the object from a new side, to provide the audience with an illusion, or to convince it of something; a speech is an extremely vital and witty, variant tableau of internal observations on an object. The orator will ask, then answer, then he speaks and enters into dialogue, then he narrates, then he appears to forget the object, only to return to it suddenly, then he pretends to be convinced, only to resort to cunning undermining, then becoming simply moved, courageous – he addresses his children – he acts as if it were all over and done with – then he speaks to the peasants, to one then another, even with lifeless objects. In short, a speech is a monologic drama.

6. 7.

8.

9.

Novalis, Schriften, ed. Paul Kluckhohn and Richard Samuel, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1968, iii, 648–9. The Poetics of Aristotle, trans. S. H. Butcher, London: Macmillan, 1895. See Michael Davis, Aristotle’s Poetics. The Poetry of Philosophy, Lanham: Rowman & Littleﬁeld, 1992, 45; Helmut Schanze, ‘Opsis und Melodia. Zum “Apparat” und zur “Medialisierung” ’, in Das Musiktheater in den audiovisuellen Medien, ed. P. Csobádi, G. Gruber, J. Kühnel, U. Müller, O. Pangl, F. V. Spechtler, Salzburg: Mueller-Speiser, 2001, 80–91. Ulrich Gaier, in a forthcoming study on Anthropology of Poetics, derives this triad of deﬁnitions from Plato’s positions in his dialogues Phaedrus and Politics. See Goethe’s aide-mémoire for the Duke of Sachsen-Weimar-Eisenach, Carl August, 1783. Goethe conﬁrmed the legal arguments of the time and the legality of the sentence, but he did not take part in the ‘processus’, as was recently argued by Günther Jerouschek, ‘Skandal um Goethe?’, in Goethe-Jahrbuch 2004, Weimar: Böhlau, 2005, 253–60. Goethe, conversation with Eckermann, 6 June 1831. Goethes Gespräche. Eine Sammlung zeitgenössischer Berichte aus seinem Umgang, auf Grund der Ausgabe

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11.

12.

13. 14. 15.

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und des Nachlasses, ed. Flodoard Freiherrn von Biedermann, rev. and ed. Wolfgang Herwig, Zurich: Artemis, 1965. See Helmut Schanze, ‘Christlich-kirchliche Figuren. Zur poetologischen Bedeutung mittelalterlicher “Bilder” für Goethes Spätwerk’, in Kunst als Kulturgut. Die Bildersammlung der Brüder Boisserée – ein Schritt in der Begründung des Museums, ed. Annemarie Gethmann-Siefert and Otto Pöggeler, Bonn: Bouvier, 1995, 206–11. Goethe’s ‘Musical Theatre’ has recently drawn major attention. See Tina Hartmann, Goethes Musiktheater. Singspiele, Opern, Festspiele, Faust, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2004. See also my book on Goethe-Musik, Munich: Fink, 2009. See also Detlef Altenburg, ‘Fürst Radziwills “Compositionen zu Göthe’s Faust”. Zur Geschichte der Schauspielmusik im 19. Jahrhundert’, in Festschrift Christoph-Hellmut Mahling, ed. Axel Beer et al., Tutzing: H. Schneider, 1997, 25–35, esp. 27. Altenburg also counts 20 per cent ‘musical’ text in Faust i . See Helmut Schanze, Faust-Konstellationen. Mythos und Medien, Munich: Fink, 1999, 93. Jacques Derrida, La Verité en peinture, Paris: Flammarion, 1992, 73. See Erika Fischer-Lichte, ‘Vom Text zur Performance. Der performative turn in den Kulturwissenschaften’, in Schnittstelle. Medien und kulturelle Kommunikation, ed. G. Stanitzek and W. Vosskamp, Cologne: DuMont, 2001, 111–15.

chapter 17

Directing Faust: an interview Peter Stein1

Directors are not supposed ‘to lose their way in libraries’ – that’s what an English critic recently claimed. We have the impression that you don’t care much about such wisdom. How exactly did you prepare for the staging of this difﬁcult work? Peter Stein: I’ve prepared for it all my life. In high school we read Faust i , of course, and my teacher had this great idea and told us that Faust ii wasn’t for us – so I really got curious and dug in. I didn’t understand much, but I knew that this was an incredible mountain to climb. I made a number of attempts over the years to get on top of it, through seminars, the available commentaries etc., but did not get much further. In 1969–70, Faust was on a very short list for a Schaubühne production (Berlin – see ‘Contributors: Peter Stein). I worked hard for it and at it, but again couldn’t pull it off. In 1985, I left Berlin for Paris and got involved with a medieval project. I was reminded of much in Goethe’s play, re-read the whole thing and suddenly found myself inside the text. I could read it almost like a newspaper, without commentary. Apparently I had to go through various Faustian phases of culture and life myself before I could ﬁnd my orientation and pass it on to actors. Did you consult literary historians in preparation for your production? Stein: Of course I did. As soon as I could read the text, the literature became important. So I studied the commentaries by Schöne, Gaier, Lohmeyer etc., but always came to the point where re-reading was more interesting and productive. Traditional scholarship presented you with a ‘heroic’ image of Faust, while more recent criticism tends to project an immoral, self-centred exploiter. How did you steer your own way through these alternatives? Stein: I ﬁnd this whole discussion rather stupid. Obviously, both elements in his character struggle with each other, that’s the very theme of the play. Taking sides is completely un-Goethean. ‘Whoever strives in endless toil’ (11936–7) is very ambivalent, of course – it is the destiny of his higher nature, and yet it destroys the world. For a theatre director, this is no 267

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problem: he or she is used to thinking in contradictions. The paradox is fundamental to the theatre, and that’s why it corresponds to human existence. So I have never been interested in positions and taking sides; and I ﬁnd it hilarious how such a deeply conﬂicted and ﬂawed character like Faust could become a ﬁgure-head of German imperialism. I cannot think of another piece of classical literature that has been read and produced as selectively as Faust. Stein: Nobody could read Faust ii ! That is one of the main reasons. And yet a number of themes in Faust ii have come to the surface and are accessible to young people – like environmental problems, the aimlessness of our existence, the pitfalls of capitalism . . . old stories that read like our own modern diary. . . . a central theme of our book: Goethe’s prophetic genius . . . Stein: . . . incredible! Especially if you add the reﬂections in Wilhelm Meister, Maximen und Reﬂexionen and elsewhere. It makes you very humble. You split the two main ﬁgures, and had each of them represented by two actors. What was your reason? Stein: With Faust, that is obvious: he goes through a transformation, so we have the young and the old Faust. The doubling of the Mephisto ﬁgure implies that he is not a person at all but a position, or a view of things, which can appear in inﬁnite incarnations. The same, of course, this shifting from role to role, has been said about Faust. Stein: Naturally. But there is a very clear line running through all his roles. I absolutely had to avoid jumping on that bandwagon and denying Faust a personal centre. That would not even work dramaturgically. Faust has to be strengthened, he is the one who is talked about inside and outside the play. It was a fundamental mistake of Gründgens’ production to claim the central power of the play for himself, as Mephisto, and reduce Faust to his humourless victim. In fact, it was almost criminal how Gründgens imposed himself on the history of Faust productions. So we had to weaken Mephisto’s power, assign a more primitive, shallow and square devil to Adam Oest, and the intellectual, more dangerous one to Robert Hunger-Bühler. In fact we had four Mephistos: the black dog and the ugly woman (Phorkyas) in Act 3 should be counted as well. We tried to emphasize the fact that Mephisto actually shrinks in the course of Part ii, becoming the constantly griping and grumbling assistant to Faust’s projects. Let’s look at the principles of your work. German reviews like to deride Werktreue (faithfulness to the author’s text) and Literaturtheater (literary theatre). What is your position?

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Figure 17.1 ‘This is my wager.’ – ‘Here’s my hand.’ (Photograph from the Stein production, 2000–1)

Stein: I’ve never understood that. If you allow shouting theatre and onanistic theatre, why not literary theatre as well? Especially since the dramatic art of Europe is part of its literature. Why Europe, speciﬁcally? Stein: Well, there is no other ‘theatre’. Everything else is of relative or local interest. Only European theatre has a world-wide echo, precisely because of its literary foundation. If you destroy that, of course, you need not wonder why this universal meaning disappears. Why this literary ‘faithfulness’ has fallen into disrepute is beyond me. You have been the object of such attacks yourself. Stein: Sure, they call me names, describe me as an imbecile, and yet they cannot change me or eliminate me. Such polemics are launched by fools and agitators who have no clue about literature. Fools can make theatre, too, which then itself turns into foolish agitation, or silly and infantile antics. To me, Werktreue (faithfulness to the text) is a very constructive and yet also relative term – I prefer Autortreue (faithfulness to the author). I am attempting to understand the author’s textual intentions, and this understanding already implies a modern awareness and aesthetics. Systematic ‘modernization’ would be counterproductive, since our interest in the theatre expects

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the unfamiliar, the strange and puzzling story of other times and places – that’s the same with literature. And yet it seems that in contemporary productions the strict actualization of the historical text has now become the norm. Stein: This is the ﬂip-side of democratization, this shallow sameness spreading globally through the media, this standardization of perception and reception which blocks any effort of original thought. Everything must be made familiar – ‘Aha, this means this.’ Anything enigmatic is eyed with suspicion. So my directorial colleagues start with familiar preoccupations and say, ‘This and that has to be found or invested in those classical texts, otherwise they can’t tell us anything.’ They don’t understand much, it seems, about hermeneutics. Gadamer has shown us how our modern consciousness, in its process of understanding, moves into the horizon of a cultural text to reconstitute itself. And Albrecht Schöne has demonstrated [in this book!] how such a productive fusion takes place, with Faust so remarkably ‘at home’ in our own time. While scholars have known this for many decades, directors still believe they have to erase the historical horizon from a play in order to achieve ‘presence’. Stein: Suggesting ‘presence’ is indeed essential. The stage is populated with people of our own ﬂesh and blood, with legs that drive cars and eyes that are accustomed to television screens. But they become engaging only when their modernity is discovered through their strange deeds in strange times and places. Mephisto’s carpet takes Faust not only to Greece but 3,000 years back in time – that is funny and fascinating, and releases creative imagery with modern validity. But our theatre producers would rather take it apart and ruin it, like boys do with toys. They are clearly not educated enough and are without an intellectual conscience – just people who are permitted, by the highly subsidized system in countries like Germany, to do what they want. This is terrible, because it supports the audience’s worst tendencies: not to reﬂect, not to wonder, not to be amazed. And just to say, ‘Oh there I am, yes that’s me.’ Directors like to ‘dust off classical plays’ (in Brecht’s words), partly through sometimes drastic cuts. But you have recently presented the two mightiest German classics complete and uncut. Stein: I have to correct that: 10 per cent of Wallenstein was cut. But nobody (except the Steiner gang) has ever staged both parts of Faust uncut, so that was a great experiment in trust. I really felt like an art critic who describes the structure of a painting as exactly as possible in order to ﬁnd perspectives and metaphors for his or her own existence. A literary scholar, of course, could do something similar, but drama as a performing art – the

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Figure 17.2 Helena and Phorkyas in Sparta. (Photograph from the Stein production, 2000–1)

space–time coordinates, the mediation of actors, the musical and visual experience etc. – would still be inaccessible to him or her. It was of great interest for me to see if the whole interplay of these forces would really work, or if cuts would be preferable. I’ll give you an example. Much of Act 4

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in Faust ii is so far out – all that re-organization of feudalism in the tents of the Emperor and rival Emperor, endlessly recited – that it was very hard to do. Theatre must never be boring. But then I realized that Goethe’s play breathes that way, and a contemplative relaxation in Act 4 was necessary before the most powerful elements of the whole drama swing into action in Act 5. I wanted to enable the spectator to enter such a work like a grand building, where he could freely look around and feel transported. It simply requires an interested spectator. And I work only for the interested spectator. It’s amazing how powerful Goethe’s theatrical instinct really was – this instinct is traditionally ascribed to Schiller, not Goethe. Stein: No doubt at all. The same goes for Wallenstein, of course. That many critics could not see it in the case of Faust is understandable. The theatre is wonderful in that it prevents you from being critical for more than an hour at the most. Then you switch off your critical mind and surrender to the drama. With Wallenstein, critical appreciation is much easier, since Schiller is much more accommodating and effective for his audience. You always know exactly where you are, whereas with Goethe that is never quite the case – until you think you understand. That, too, is eminently theatrical, everything remains in suspense. I did not know this when I read the text. It was only the theatre that brought it out. You have been talking about your experience and experiments with this production. Modern theatre theorists start there as well, but come to different conclusions: texts are raw material for the director, who is the real author. According to Erika Fischer-Lichte, the original text is only a ‘pre-text’ for the actual ‘performative text’. And only the latter creates meaning. Stein: It is normal for people in the public eye to throw their weight around. So directors have for some time gone far, far beyond their historical role and declared themselves authors, the authors even. Authors are everywhere nowadays. Theatre directors who act like that can remain unchallenged, not only as a result of state subsidies, but also because they appeal to universal but primitive, anti-artistic and anti-intellectual emotions. This has always been a subcurrent in youth culture, and it has become the main current – but I can’t call it theory. Meaning, what is meaning? Meaning is in everything. Even in a fart, which works on the olfactory organs, etc. etc. It’s the self-importance of these people that creates such theories. It is unfortunately more than self-importance. We have to call it a wide-scale modern movement, this self-emancipation of the performing arts. The praxis of ‘performative’ theatre and ‘event’ theatre has been supported by countless, more or less scholarly, publications, revoking any textual orientation in contemporary theatre.

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Stein: Clearly this contradicts the very idea and history of the theatre as it emerged in Ancient Greece. The textual basis has always been decisive – for a very good reason: it makes theatre conceivable, conservable and transportable – to the times and places and languages of this world. It unites people and peoples; and it ‘globalizes’ by cultivating memory, not by destroying it. It ought to be the fundamental responsibility of the subsidizing powers to uphold the institution of European theatre. Instead, irrelevant ‘performers’ are given blank cheques. If the literary texts don’t count, why do they use them at all – why don’t they write or extemporize their own texts? Because they are completely impotent. It goes even further than that: instead of ﬁnding stimulation and invigoration in the study of these texts (which are great works of art), they allow them to drift out of reach. Most of our actors are already unable to speak and perform a classical text, since they have lost the opportunity to practise this skill. Why then do so many directors have a preference for the classics? Is it because these well-known works allow them to demonstrate their de-constructive powers? Stein: Absolutely. And because they still sell tickets. But the label is fraudulent: it doesn’t say ‘freely adapted from Goethe’, it says it is ‘Goethe’s Faust’. This is sold to young people, schools etc., who see and learn things that have nothing to do with Goethe or Faust. Again, why do directors get money for this? If they feel like authors working in the theatre, they ought to ﬁnance things out of their own pockets, like any literary author or composer. Another aspect of this treatment of the classics is the prohibition of historical costumes. I heard it again and again, ad nauseam, when I prepared my Wallenstein. If anything goes in this ‘performative’ age, what justiﬁes such a totalitarian decree of what must and must not be? If I look at the ﬁlm and television genres, the most successful and most globalized of the performing media, I see costume ﬁlms, any century, en masse – why is it allowed there, but not in theatres? It may have something to do with the fact that Brecht never really broke through in North America (especially Hollywood). Stanislavski’s psychological theatre of illusion is still taught in American theatre schools. Stein: There is no doubt that in Germany both Brecht and the collapse of culture during the Nazi era played a big role. Which may explain the fact that the arbitrary rule of theatre directors is much more at home in Germany than anywhere else. Stein: It’s called ‘German theatre’ in international theatre circles. German style means: keep away from the stage, there are people in pyjamas running around. With suitcases.

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We don’t know of any other director who has focused so keenly on the language of Goethe and Schiller. Is the spoken word on stage a matter of great importance to you? Stein: Of course. I ﬁnd the fact that theatre is spoken, and the way it is spoken, highly interesting. There is no other place in society which deals with the spoken language, and works on its enrichment and reﬁnement – supposedly at least. It’s not done in schools any more. The theatre is now the place for it, and the importance of the theatre’s culture of the spoken word cannot be overrated in view of the fact that language is the supreme creator of a cultural identity. This alone justiﬁes the investment of public money. It does not justify the lack of control over this investment. You are thinking about the decline of theatrical language – Goethe as a reformer of the Weimar theatre found himself in a similar situation. I have seen your Faust and Wallenstein productions, and it became obvious to me that you invested much of your time and energy – and interpretive efforts – in the classical language and poetry. Stein: Yes, and I also love it! I constantly discover fundamental, everyday behaviour in this language, I see how alive it is, and I try to communicate this vitality. I even consider myself my own – trained and paid – spectator, and this helps me ﬁnd my function as director. I make sure that I never lose my contact with the audience – I read papers, watch TV and keep myself informed about the themes that move people, including young people. And of course I try to get to know and speak to and correspond with as many theatre-going people as possible. That way I can establish myself as my ﬁrst professional spectator and make sure that I never become a kind of sectarian, somebody who has drifted away from the audience. I have to make my actors play to this audience. But then comes the point when I am not interested in people any more, just in the living language and performance of the work of art. It’s interesting that you are trying to reach young people as well. I’ve often heard the argument that our directors have a special interest in – and responsibility for – the younger generation, which can only be attracted by a contemporary event and performance. Stein: Do you really believe that young people go to the theatre in order to see someone on a bed of nails in a bath tub jerking off? Running after the younger generation has never paid off. Inserting ‘youth culture’ into performance texts to cater to 20-somethings also destroys a director’s artistic integrity. People who work for the general infantilization of society can do that – I won’t. Children are introduced into society ever earlier as a market segment and grow up ever later. They claim for themselves the right to

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remain infantile until the age of 35. But if the people who are running the show at the age of 40 or 60 justify their arbitrary operations with the youth vote, it is nothing short of appalling, and both artistically and intellectually dishonest. Mr Stein, we would like to lead you back to our text and ask you to comment on the ‘sehr ernsten Scherze’ (very serious jests) in Faust. Dieter Borchmeyer, in his contribution to this book, even called the play a covert Divina Commedia. Stein: Oh yes, I agree! It was only through my work on Faust that I discovered how profoundly humorous this text really was. As a matter of principle, the theatre needs humour. Not just because it has to tell jokes, like a professor whose prolonged seriousness would otherwise bore people, but also because it’s an essential part of the theatre. Tragedy cannot exist without its comic elements. In all historical tragedies, the comedians have to appear within an hour at the most, otherwise you can’t stand it. In Faust, comedy sneaks in everywhere, especially through Mephisto – in short, these Scherze were extremely important to me, and I ﬁnd that formula (‘Divine Comedy’) completely apt. Also because Dante’s epic poem was an essential model for Goethe – the whole redemption process at the end would be unthinkable without Dante. Borchmeyer also calls Faust an opera. Would you comment on the operatic and musical elements in Faust, and in your production? Stein: The text of both parts is teeming with musical inserts and stage directions, as you know. In Faust ii, moreover, the whole versiﬁcation is tied to music. A musicalization of language takes place, which reminds us that language itself is a kind of dried or solidiﬁed music and wants to turn liquid again. So you would agree with the description of Faust as ‘opera’? Stein: Absolutely. All the stage effects contribute to this: large choruses appear and vanish, etc. Clearly, Goethe would have loved to see and hear the third act of Part ii completely sung. Thank God it wasn’t done. In the ‘Prologue on the Stage’, the director requests there be no skimping on stage props and machinery. Modern directors therefore like to exploit the vast offerings of media and technology. It seems that you engineered the ‘phantasmagoric’ spectacles rather conservatively. Stein: I would have liked to do more, but there were ﬁnancial limits. I would have liked to have Homunculus ﬂy around freely. My solution was a compromise. I invested an enormous amount of money in something completely innovative: the heavenly spiral with all the moving lights slowly unfolding at the end, and creating a path of redemption 50 metres in length

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Figure 17.3 Mountain Gorges: the heavenly spiral. (Photograph from the Stein production, 2000–1)

(and requiring a stage far larger than Michael Jackson’s) – the planning alone cost me 100,000 Marks (see Figure 17.3). No, I didn’t spare the budget, but I always insisted on staying within Goethe’s imagery and perceptions. Goethe researched possible stage representations of the Earth Spirit himself and found a suitable laterna magica projection developed in Paris. We followed his descriptions, created smoke and projected the image onto the smoke – that was the Earth Spirit. It was fun to explore how far we could go with the technologies that had been available to Goethe himself. We are very interested, ﬁnally, in your understanding of Faust as ‘tragedy’. Modern productions (like that of Thalheimer recently) like to present the protagonist as some kind of autistic person or egomaniac, incapable of tragedy. Do they have a point? Faust does not seem to suffer, learn or feel remorse. He seems oblivious, insatiable and blind even in the face of his own grave. Stein: First, I don’t know anyone who is not egocentric and autistic, so this deﬁnition does not apply. What is decisive is how it translates into action. Faust’s action is a verdict against human activity as such. The futility of all human ‘striving’ becomes evident – here we have the tragic foundation. The reference to Greek tragedy is quite obvious. The famous law of the

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Oresteia, the pathein-mathos, means that man acts, and he has to act because otherwise his life is not guaranteed. But the decisions which human beings take according to their insights and possibilities are punished by the gods. Life itself becomes a matter of irony, as life-to-death. Man tries to learn and adjust, for which he is punished again. Faust’s ‘striving’ is, of course, cathartically reconstrued in the end, which seems outside Greek tragedy. Seems – but implicitly you ﬁnd it there, too. Also, the individual, Faust, is never the tragic target. It is essential that we understand him as the representative of the human condition. Then suddenly a new dimension opens up, tragedy ﬁlls the space, and we are part of it. Faust’s character does betray an increasingly consuming blindness towards the consequences of his own deeds. Stein: Sure. But we have to consider that the whole thing is constructed like a kind of Bildungsroman (novel of education), with important experiences happening in phases or stages. And Faust works through it without revealing his reactions to the consequences. This was clearly not of vital interest to the author. So we don’t know what Faust thinks about his role in the Gretchen tragedy or about the collapse of his ﬁnancial reform. His life goes on. Psychologically, I have to confess, this does not pose a problem to me. I see myself portrayed in Faust. I ﬁnd myself incapable of drawing any conclusions from my productivity, or working out its mistakes in any consequential way, either personally or intellectually. Many people have great problems with this Faustian ‘deﬁcit’, and if we take Freud’s understanding of humanity it looks bad, since this whole process of self-consciousness is missing in the Faust saga. But to me it is clearly Goethe’s method to propel this life of action, drive it further and further, until at the end everything is turned into derisive laughter: everything Faust seemingly achieved, his victories in war, his invention of capitalism, his creation of a free society, ends up in his grave. This is powerful tragic sarcasm. It seems that this darkened vision of Faust in his last act corresponds to the old Goethe’s deepened scepticism concerning ‘modernity’. Stein: I wonder. I have never been particularly interested in Goethe’s biography. But I know that keeping up the pace and working on in all kinds of adversity, even of his own making, was very much his style of living. And so this was Faust’s behaviour as well, right until death. I experienced much of twentieth-century Germany, saw unbelievable destruction and depravity, and yet life went on, shockingly as if none of this had happened, and the country was accepted back into the family of nations. It would have happened even without self-searching and guilty confessions.

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But once again: if Faust just muddles on, how can he be eligible for tragedy? The tradition of the tragic genre implies conditions like freedom, character, pathos, hubris, sacriﬁce, fate and guilt informed by some transcendent belief system – these are not present any more, not in our time, nor in Faust’s behaviour as you’ve just described it. Stein: It’s hard for me to respond, since I have never understood tragedy like that, in relation to some transcendence. In Greek tragedy, heaven is totally humanized. You cannot encase tragedy in some religious or philosophical system. The tragic situation is simply a protagonist confronting a superior power against which any struggle would be futile – like nature, societal forces and of course death. It is therefore inconceivable to me why tragedy presented in the theatre should have lost its credibility with the audience – in my opinion, the very opposite is the case. The tragic frailty of the human race has come into the focus of our consciousness like never before. I did not make myself clear enough – I thought we were talking about the ‘tragic’ as a viable aesthetic concept in modern theatre. I do believe that you ‘pulled it off’ with your Faust interpretation. The mystery frame helped, Faust had a free choice, etc. But tragedies aren’t really written any more, and past tragedies tend to be turned into travesties by our directors. Why? Because we are lacking a basis for the ‘pathos’ which can only arise from individual freedom. His or her suffering and death bears witness to a higher spiritual order and can therefore be cathartic. Schiller’s Maria Stuart, after much suffering before her unjust execution, ﬁnds herself free at last to sacriﬁce herself to a moral world order. ‘Tragic dignity’ is a lost concept today (when we talk about ‘tragic accidents’ etc.). But its determinants – like freedom, pathos, guilt and catharsis – are still powerfully present in classical plays. How do you put them on the modern stage? Stein: Well, I have my problems with Schiller. No, if I talk about tragedy, I mean Greek tragedy; everything else is imitation or deviation. Chekhov tried to create a tragic ﬁgure, and the situation is that someone sees his existence determined by powers against which he can do nothing. And yet he must, and will, continue the ﬁght. There are theoretical switches in people’s brains today that were installed in the eighteenth or nineteenth century. The bourgeois tragedy of the Enlightenment cannot easily be understood nowadays, but the globalized tragedy is understood – it is dished out every day. In fact we invite this tragedy and walk into it with open eyes. We live this paradox where black becomes white and vice versa, and it always changes. It is no coincidence that over these last twenty years more Greek tragedies have been performed than ever before. I took part in this

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movement, too: my Oresteia production stirred up many things. People simply understood, although I did not ‘modernize’ the text. It speaks to our so-called democracies – we see, for instance, in the Eumenides what a fragile achievement a democratic court really is. It assembles itself through such tricks and lies and betrayal and corruption that the mechanism itself breaks down and is barely – and only temporarily – saved by personal pleading and pressures. Are you involved in such a project right now? Stein: I’ve just ﬁnished one, in Greece and in Greek. I would love to continue directing in that country, especially since the people embrace my work with incredible enthusiasm – as if I were their ‘tragic god’. You have to understand, of course, that several plays of the canon have to be staged there every year, and nothing good can come of that. Mr Stein, we thank you very much for this conversation. n ot e 1. This chapter was revised and translated by Hans Schulte.

chapter 18

A contradictory whole: Peter Stein stages Faust Dirk Pilz

The moment when Faust is ﬁnally allowed to hold Helena in his arms (he is in fact paralysed by her, according to Mephisto, who watches with equal amusement and impatience), they are seated on a little, gold-covered sofa on a plinth under a canopy. ‘Now the soul does not look forwards nor backwards / The moment counts –’, says Faust, played by Bruno Ganz with a touch of inner salvation and inner emotion (9381–2).1 And Helena, played by Corinna Kirchhoff as equally moved by events and lost in the moment, adds, ‘it is our happiness’ (9382). Faust believes he has held this feeling of time-melting, moment-ﬁlling happiness in his hands once before: in Part i of the tragedy, when the devil helped him to understand and gain the ‘model of all women’ (2601), which led him to indulge in ‘the sweet pain of love’ (2689). Margarete (Gretchen) is played by Dorothee Hartinger as the epitome of naturalness, which is only possible on stage, not in reality. On stage, the home for this happiness is represented by a simple wooden bed, covered with a white, creased bedcover which triggers in Faust a feeling of ‘awesome ecstasy’ (2709) and seduces him into the high-ﬂown yet honest words ‘I wish that I had hours to spend here’ (2710). Gretchen’s bed is placed in a highly visible position centre stage, surrounded by little houses in the background – it is a measured area of happiness, the poverty of which enables Faust to recognize ‘abundance’ (2693). He calls it ‘bliss in a dungeon’ (2694). With these words Faust already anticipates the real dungeon ending this bliss; he doesn’t know it, but he does have some dark foreboding of it. The set also underlines Faust’s foreboding: the dungeon in which Margarete will be imprisoned at the end of Part i bears a striking resemblance to Gretchen’s bed in size and shape; the latter is a cube with bars made of steel stakes, its ﬂoor is covered with straw like an animal’s cage, and it takes up a lonely spot on the stage. From the much-hoped-for delight has come the much-feared horror, and from the sweetness has indeed come pain. 280

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Faust, on the other hand, has not become wiser. In Peter Stein’s production, Faust is certainly able to learn, but this knowledge does not protect him from further suffering: for Stein, Faust is a tragic character in a comprehensive as well as a more fundamental sense. This Faust is a man driven not only by the two souls in his breast, but also by a destiny of inescapable recurrence. Even before making the bet with Mephisto he reveals his motto to the devil: ‘If on a bed of sloth I lie contented / May I be done for then and there!’ (1692–3). That is why he will repeat the Gretchen encounter with Helena, in another guise and maybe under other circumstances, but nevertheless it will run a similar course. At least according to Stein – if not necessarily according to Goethe. It is a clear directorial decision to make Faust ﬁnd his ostensible happiness with Helena at a place comparable to that of the encounter with Gretchen. In this version, Helena is embodied by Corinna Kirchhoff, who is graceful but distant and unapproachable. She is a ‘noble lady’ (9360), wrapped in golden clothing and with elaborately plaited hair, in contrast to Gretchen, who has naturally curly hair and wears a skirt of coarse material and a modest blouse. This time their different backgrounds and different ways of thinking and feeling are signalled not only by their speech patterns and choice of words, but also by their manner of speaking and gestures. As far as Faust is concerned, they are both ‘passion’s essence’ (6499), leading him, what’s more, to the brink of ‘madness’ (6500) – to such an extent that Mephisto feels compelled to admonish his pupil: ‘Control yourself and don’t forget your part!’ (6501). Although Faust might believe that Gretchen, like the ‘lovely form’ (6495) in the ‘Witch’s’ Kitchen’, might be just a ‘feeble counterfeit’ (6497) of Helena’s beauty, he does hope that with both of them his ‘dread ordeal’ with the Mothers (6489) will turn into ‘glorious reward’ (6489). However, he is to be deluded in this and by this – at least in Peter Stein’s production. The text depicts Helena as the noble and universally desired representative of classical antiquity, in contrast to Gretchen, who is a ‘simple girl’ (2644) of the people. Helena is conceived as a heightening – a Steigerung in Goethe’s language – of the Gretchen ﬁgure, and consequently Faust becomes an Entwicklungsﬁgur, a character that continues to develop and realize its entelechy. Peter Stein, on the other hand, emphasizes the resemblance between the two ideal women. From Goethe’s point of view, Helena combines the spirit of antiquity and of the Middle Ages. He allows her to remain a Greek symbol, a woman who is then kidnapped by medieval horsemen. Faust encounters her in her country, but in his time. Thus she comes to signify the blissful moment of timelessness. Stein, on the other hand, positions this timeless moment by

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placing Helena in the Gretchen context. And not content with that, the production conceives the whole plot as a network of references going backwards and forwards, not really as a linear development but rather as a complex interweaving of symbols, action and scenes. It is in small details that these differences from Goethe’s text become clear. The chain ﬁxed to Gretchen’s dungeon is the same one that chains Lynceus (played by Michael Rotschopf ) when he kneels before Helena, praising her in the ‘Inner Courtyard of a Castle’ scene. Helena’s golden gown quite noticeably resembles the light in the scene, where Faust (played by Christian Nickel) encounters Gretchen for the very ﬁrst time. And then there are the knights surrounding the sofa–throne of Helena who wear the armour that dangles from a cross-beam in the fourth act of Faust ii and, along with an overturned chair hung from the top of the stage at the beginning, hints at the bottomless abyss over which Faust wanders. In precisely the same way, the elevated sofa upon which Faust (now played by Bruno Ganz) and Helena solemnly experience the bliss of the moment points to Margarete’s dungeon-bed. Helena too will lose Faust, because he does not understand how to be satisﬁed by and with her. Mephisto, in Robert Hunger-Bühler’s interpretation a vain and sly daemon, urges him on, as his restless motor. Only death will bring peace. At ﬁrst glance, some of these may be insigniﬁcant details of the costumes designed by Moidele Bickel or of the set designed by Ferdinand W. Wögerbauer and Stefan Mayer. The details, however, reveal crucial aspects of the basic concept of Peter Stein’s interpretation. He views Faust as an example of the all too humanly tragic nature of man; he knocks Faust down from his pedestal of pretended uniqueness and at the same time lifts him up as an outstanding literary example of tragedy. All this is quite different from what the German critics usually emphasized. The reviewers were harshly critical of the fact that Stein did not change the structure of the 12,111 verses of Goethe’s Faust, which required a total performance time of 23 hours. Such phrases as ‘slavish ﬁdelity to the text’, ‘literary theatre’ and ‘Goethe idolatry’ were used against such an undertaking. The critics referred to Stein’s inherent unwillingness or inability to take on board the latest stylistic developments in theatre. The simple fact of staging Faust without making any attempt to shorten it is not necessarily worth commenting on, whether or not the director is an outstanding and famous one such as Peter Stein. Stein’s Faust would not deserve our discussion had he not come up with an independent interpretation of the text. Admittedly, the excessive physical and mental demands exacted by this lengthy performance could occasionally lead the viewer to be

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unclear about the director’s real intentions. And sometimes the audience would feel that the production attempted to speak primarily to their sensual desires, namely by the actors’ explicit manner of speaking and moving, by means of the sumptuous pictures and by the exuberant lighting designs of Heinrich Brunke, and Vera and Konrad Lindenberg. Such scenes as the ‘Masquerade’, which allowed the audience to marvel at an illuminated quadriga, or the elaborate setting of ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’ are clear indications of a certain love for stage effects. Nevertheless, Stein’s essential artistic concept not only holds the whole project together, but also reveals an understanding of the text which presents a great gain for the stage. The fact that Goethe scholars have laid the foundations makes this gain even more relevant. The realized text lights up with numerous cross-references which are preﬁgured but not predetermined. This is interpretation, not slavery. It is in fact a mode of understanding which Hans-Georg Gadamer deﬁned in his theory of hermeneutics: the art of interpretation lies in the ability to weigh the speciﬁc ‘volume’ of a text and thereby unveil its poetic truth. Its moment of truth comes at the point of realization (Vollzugswahrheit). The performing arts have the task of presenting the textual preﬁguration in a given sensory material through a unique re-creation. This way the ‘character of an original creation’ is attained.2 It is precisely in this respect that Stein adheres to the original and yet achieves an original work of theatrical art that does so much more than follow Goethe’s ‘intentions’. The multidimensional meaning that Stein creates reveals an image of Faust that not only refers back to the tragedies of antiquity, but also looks forward to the present, to reveal the tragic elements there as well. This is also the reason for the double casting of Bruno Ganz as the older and Christian Nickel as the younger Faust. The essential connection that draws the Faustian states and phases together is the tragic line: it is not an exclusive concept of Faust as a failed and despairing aged scholar, but clearly encompasses the generations, a whole lifetime. The scenes in which both Faust performers appear together – such as the ‘Walpurgis Night’ scene in Part i – clearly reveal this aspect. This is a scene in which the concepts and coordinates of time and space appear to be abolished so that the past can appear alongside the future and the heavenly can meet the earthly (or even the underworldly). According to the director’s logic, it is precisely in the extraordinariness of this situation that the ordinariness, the tragic nature of man, is most clearly revealed. The ‘Walpurgis Night’ scene, for example, uses the stage principle of simultaneity to account for the ‘volume’ (Gadamer) of the Faustian experience,

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beyond all probability, and to look behind the façade of the phenomenal. Stein brings out a whole raft of dancing ﬁgures to serve that purpose: we see characters wearing Baroque wigs, young people crouching on car tyres and grilling sausages, witches riding on broomsticks through the mist and, ﬁnally, Faust equipped with a radio microphone. These are all conﬂicting stage elements that make up a contradictory whole and are dramaturgically interlinked by recurring props and by repeated postures, gestures or stage elements. This whole is indeed contradictory, as the individual elements are in their separate spheres. Nevertheless, it is a whole, since it delineates the fullness of Faust’s tragic nature. Belief in the existence of a whole is as important as doubting its existence. This technique of juxtaposition is characteristic of the entire production. The most striking parallels are those between the beginning and the end. As the play opens, concentric metallic circles hang over the small stage rostrum that is surrounded by the audience on four sides. There is also a ladder coming out of the sky that very much suggests Beckett’s Krapp’s Last Tape. At the end, in the ‘Interment’ scene, these circles open up to make a descending spiral. So the kingdom of heaven has descended to earth, leaving no path for man to ascend to heaven but only for heaven to descend to man. This also symbolizes the limits of man’s power, limits that once more refer to the foundations of tragedy. To understand this tragic foundation of the Faust production, we need to explain Peter Stein’s concept of tragedy, because it reveals most clearly the anti-fashionable character of this production. It seems to be a commonplace of present-day theatre to regard tragedy as a dead genre – despite the fact that many theatre directors, not only Peter Stein, continue to stage tragedies. If those advocating the death of tragedy are right, then this genre should no longer exist, as contemporary authors and directors assure us that tragedies are nothing more than witnesses to past times. At the same time, the Greeks and Shakespeare are suitably updated, and Schiller, Goethe & Co. are docked with the present. But the structures and meanings of tragedy, we are assured on all sides, are hopelessly chained to yesteryear. ‘A tragic hero is a man who creates and destroys himself. The man of today is able only to conform’, writes Imre Kertész in his Galeerentagebuch, and his views are widely representative. The man of today is a functional man. ‘Nothingness pervades his fate, since the meaning is lacking which provides the basis for tragedy.’3 Tragedy is lost. Over half a century ago, in 1955, Friedrich Dürrenmatt poured some of this history of loss into his story ‘Die Panne’ (The Breakdown) in the form of an axiom: ‘Fate has left the arena of performance to lurk backstage,

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beyond a valid dramaturgy . . . Now there is no longer a threatening god, no justice . . . just trafﬁc accidents, or dykes that burst as a result of bad construction. Or there is an explosion in a nuclear power station caused by an absent-minded lab assistant or badly built core.’4 God is dead, technology reigns. But technology without God does not allow for tragedy. At best it can be resurrected as a farce or a comedy. According to Peter Stein, this is ‘utter nonsense, old men’s pessimistic reﬂections that have nothing to do with theatre. Trafﬁc accidents, dyke breaches – these are incarnations of fate! If, in a modern mass democracy, there is a collection of individual tragedies and no superordinated fate, then this has nothing to do with fate leaving the stage; it is simply presenting itself in a different way.’5 Virtually any human existence, according to Stein, bears the nucleus of tragedy, as the paradoxical nature of human life is death: ‘Man is born to die.’ For Stein, this paradoxical nature is summarized in the formula ‘to do, to suffer, to learn’ – his own translation of the pivotal passage from the Oresteia.6 It does not simply sum up the core of ancient tragedy, but the core of the tragedy of all time. First, because ‘man has no other option but to learn . . . To change, to adapt onself is a law of nature.’ But more importantly, ‘a process of learning is always followed by an action. Even after you have learned something you have to take action again – and to suffer, because nothing good ever comes of action.’7 This is the situation for Faust. A universal law is revealed in the speciﬁc Faustian situation. In Stein’s production it is even indicated by the manner of speaking and is especially striking in the ﬁrst, most famous monologue of Faust. Bruno Ganz, dressed in a long, black robe and initially sitting in a leather armchair with large wheels, stands up in front of a high wall of papers, books and manuscripts that is enveloped in mists, ﬁrst in a white, then a blue and ﬁnally a green light. This Bruno Ganz speaks the lines ‘I’ve studied now, to my regret’ (354) in a balanced rhythm; balanced because his dark rolling voice admits the high tone of classical tragedy as well as ironic, even mocking nuances which have become popular today as a means to distance roles and the characters. It is as if Ganz kept the Faust ﬁgure in a suspension between the various worlds of stage and performance, as if he was already circling those existential and experiential modes which the inner and outer action was holding in store. Bruno Ganz speaks as if his character already has a premonition of what will happen, but is unable to translate this feeling into certain knowledge. He too – especially he! – must take action and as a consequence, according to Stein, must suffer. He is a tragic character because he believes he knows everything, but has to learn that through action he must suffer and make suffer. It is quite correct to see the

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analogy with the present. The scientiﬁc community today in its Faustian blindness believes that it has ‘the world’ in its grip, although it is forced to admit the self-deceit on a regular basis. But that is not the only issue Stein is concerned with: by no means can his production be tied to simple contemporary references – these are just directorial hints. The shifting character of Faust is decisive for the dramatic structure of the project, as it presents Faust as an all-in-one ﬁgure – not as the ﬁxed centre of a static production, but as the projection plane of all thought and vision in this massive drama. In his character all the dimensions developed in the unfolding action are united; all the other characters can be seen as Faustian attributes in this context. They even ‘quote’ Faust in their manner of speaking and performing: Helena uses his ‘high’ tone, the young Faust leans towards his impetuous expression and Gretchen ﬁnds the level of naturalness. Only Mephisto – played by Robert Hunger-Bühler and by Johann Adam Oest – has really been divided into two roles. He is related to Faust as the opponent who imitates him, while at the same time Faust himself knows how to adapt to Mephisto. Faust and Mephisto are mirror ﬁgures: their reﬂections always relate to each other, perhaps with ﬁssures and distortions, but relating to each other mimetically. Mephisto is more than the representative of the dark side of the Faustian ﬁgure, just as Faust is more than the victim of a diabolic pact. Mephisto also plays the part of Faust’s leader, whereas Faust puts Mephisto under pressure in the way he is pressurized by him. Faust is essentially an all-in-one ﬁgure, but not, for Stein, a mixed and moderated character. On the contrary. Since he assembles in himself a totality of feeling, thought and experience, he becomes the stage of all the conﬂicts that surround and happen to him and the action. This, too, is tragic for Stein: Faust’s character has no ability to reconcile, there is no prospect of any higher harmony, he is and remains a tragic ﬁgure. This highlights again Stein’s deﬁnition of tragedy. The tragic process can never come to an end; its cathartic effect aims not at cleansing the affects but at the creation of consciousness. Stein therefore supports a concept of tragedy and catharsis which decisively differs from Goethe’s own. For Goethe, the pleasure speciﬁc to tragic catharsis is based on ‘aussöhnende Abrundung’ (conciliatory conclusion).8 It thereby takes up the classicist notion of wholeness and harmony: the unity of the autonomous piece of art is equivalent to the metaphysical whole.9 In Stein’s production, however, conﬂicts are not rounded off or transcended into harmony, but fully exposed in an open process. Although his chorus mysticus speaks of the ‘symbol’ of transience as well, it is meant not as a reconciliatory ending but as an accentuation of the

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tragic nature of Faust and humanity: the choir stands on the steel path forming a spiral, and the most important word in those last verses is ‘the unachievable’ (12106), which, according to the text, has become an ‘event’ and a revelation of tragedy. Exactly because Faust is the all-in-one character and has absorbed every single conﬂict, there is no possible reconciliatory ending: Faust dies, the conﬂicts which have been played out remain. The essence of these conﬂicts is the irreconcilable side-by-side of death and life, striving and arriving, happiness and desire. It is a whole, but a contradictary (and not a harmonized) whole. Where Goethe gives us an antiphony of conﬂicting voices, Stein gives us a polyphony of images and voices, a concerted and orchestrated dramaturgy. Stein’s production committed itself to this credo in several regards. Like the relationship between the characters of Faust (and Mephisto), the relationship of the scenes to each other is styled in accordance with the law of contradictory unity. The sequence of the scenes is not dissolved in a ﬂawless continuity because Stein sets strong and distinct cuts and breaks, without running the risk of arbitrariness. This cutting technique, also borrowed from ﬁlm, is already reﬂected in the multitude of different stages. Nearly every stage type in theatre history is introduced: the picture-frame stage, the central platform, the three-quarter-round, the ancient theatre forum, the traverse, or an open scenario where the actors mingle with the audience. Each type triggers different means of perceiving and receiving; no single form is privileged. This also works for Stein’s non-hierarchical and non-harmonious concept. It should not be mistaken, however, for a nonreferential coexistence of different types of presentation. The secret heart of the play is always its tragic foundation, personiﬁed by the ﬁgure of Faust. Like the diversity of the stage presentation and therefore audience reception, the palette of ﬁgure formations is displayed as a panorama of theatrical appearances, always bound to speciﬁc metres. Stein stages the classical choir (as, in the third act of Part ii, the choir of the Trojan women, which does not consist of ‘ﬁgures’ in the modern sense), he depicts the Emperor (Stefan Baumecker) as a stereotype of fading power. Characters such as the SheApes (Gisela Salcher and Daniel Keberle) are symbols turned into strong ﬁgures acting expressively; Erichtho (Ana Kerezovic), Manto (Schirin Sanaiha) and Panthalis (Elke Petri) become allegories in their manner of abstract de-individualized speaking. Even more clearly, the ﬁgures of Galatea (Tanja Kübler) and Lilith (Melanie Blocksdorf ) are not only naked, but are in fact just pictures, appearances without any individual traits. The frequent masks have a similar function, especially in the ‘Masquerade’ scene. All these serve not only the theatrical realization, but

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also the shaping of an all-too-human tragedy in the character of Faust. This way Stein ﬁnds a form or, rather, he ﬁnds a meta-form by way of quoting different forms. He reveals a Faust within his Faust that could be described as the ﬁgure of ﬁgures, a melting-pot of what is possible theatrically. Theatre itself makes an entrance: Stein depicts and reﬂects its potential by making full use of it. This is what makes Stein’s project so markedly different from other attempts in more recent theatre history: they almost exclusively experiment with the transfer of Goethe’s drama to an obviously contemporary context. Volker Lösch, for example, had Faust ii (Faust 21 as he called it) premiered at the Staatstheater Stuttgart in February 2006, where he used the original text to launch a separate discussion: ‘What are you afraid of?’ ‘Why is going to war necessary?’ ‘What are the good aspects of capitalism?’ Such were the questions that Lösch asked the citizens of Stuttgart. They were at ﬁrst a tool to prepare a production which would short-circuit the Goethean universe with the reality of Baden-Württemberg [Stuttgart is the capital of this German federal state]. It was also zeitgeist-research into the realm of people’s thoughts. Lösch brought unformulated preconceptions resident in the mentality of the participants to light and integrated the results in his production; there was a choir on stage that alternately spoke the drastically shortened Goethean text or the subtext of the actors (see Chapter 19 in this volume). This is how Lösch always does it: he stages his work in a concrete context. For his production of Gerhard Hauptmann’s Die Weber (The Weavers) at the Dresdner Staatsschauspiel (in October 2004), which was famous for having created a scandal, he worked with a choir of amateur actors who were unemployed in real life. His production of Dogville (based on the ﬁlm by the Danish director Lars von Trier) in Stuttgart in October 2005 put a local manager (of Mercedes-Benz) and Swabian folk songs on the stage. This idea was as simple as it was superﬁcially convincing: for Lösch, theatre cannot take place in a void, there is no stage play without political, ethnic or regional implications. According to him, theatre has the power to irritate at the point where unspoken thoughts are expressed. He therefore not only collected the answers to his questions, but opened them up to debate by means of a big choir thundering at the audience. In Stuttgart, the choir consisted of nineteen amateur actors and ten members of the ensemble – as public representatives. However, Lösch’s method of using the text as a source for contemporary discussions failed this time, primarily because his new version of Faust was reduced to slogans and obvious associations. Faust’s transformation from

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scholar to world ruler was used to launch a simplistic critique of globalization; the invention of paper money served to ridicule economic thinking. In his production of Die Weber, Lösch derived the inserted texts from the literary characters. Here, with Faust, he simply pastes the texts onto the characters. Goethe’s original text was not charged with our present, but rather trivialized by contemporary and random comments. The machinery of the choir began to stutter because it had been fed all kinds of possible and impossible material. That did not lead to the intended irritation. Helena entered as a pretty choir of brides, Thomas Eisen and Ursula Renneke as Philemon and Baucis were two eco-naïfs after Eisen had partly played Mephisto and partly sung in the Faust choir, while Renneke had been ‘Miss Stuttgart 21’ and a stripper – all this offered more slapstick out of the rag-bag rather than political friction. Reﬂection and discussion remained superﬂuous, especially since the normally provocative difference between amateurs and professionals could only be established by their degree of text control. The congenial connection with content, usually Lösch’s forte, was cut. Faust resisted this kind of abuse. On the other hand, Michael Thalheimer’s Faust i (October 2004) and Faust ii (a year later), both produced at the Deutsches Theater Berlin, showed that a concentration on one motif or one line of thought does not necessarily go awry, but would create revealing difﬁculties. For Faust i , Thalheimer had decided to concentrate on the Gretchen plot, and thus to produce a Faust as a complete contemporary. More wrapped than dressed in a beige shirt, he walked at a measured pace to the front of the stage, where he stood and remained silent for a very long time – until he changed his posture by straightening his hollowed back, glanced into the audience and cautiously tried his ﬁrst words, ‘Habe nun, ach!’ (354, I’ve studied now, to my regret). There is no doubt that this tall Faust with the furrowed face has been deeply involved in the study of science and philosophy. But does this make him a wiser man than all the ‘doctors, magisters, ofﬁcials and priests’? He was unable to utter the words. He knew that we can know nothing, but he also knew that nothing and nobody could ever change this fact. No Mephisto, no Gretchen, no magic potion. This Faust (Ingo Hülsmann) had learned his postmodern lesson: everything is in vain because everything is built upon coincidence. Everything is as much a reason to despair as it is to be happy. This alternately whispering and screaming Faust was well beyond belief in otherness. And yet, being confronted with Gretchen’s question about his religion he could not help but give the answer that he would always repeat: earth without any heaven is hell. This state of mind characterized him both as a comic and as a tragic character; he was more an

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inhabitant of Beckett’s world than of the German classical period – an absurd anti-hero, sometimes amusing in his gymnastics of despair. And when he later got involved with the devil, it was just another game for him: he knew the outcome already. In the end, Gretchen was not saved. Instead, Faust spoke words from Part ii: ‘What we have as life is many-hued reﬂection’ (4727). It’s all just a game: the truth, the devil, love – it’s all imagined. What was exciting and stimulating in Thalheimer’s production was the way he depicted a Faust who was overenlightened, and therefore he exactly continued the bad game – out of a boredom or hopelessness that had become his status quo. Moreover, Faust was no German oddball, no ﬂipped-out ideologue. All the ﬁgures that crossed the stage over the course of two hours had been contaminated by the toxin of negativity. Even before speaking the ﬁrst line to her beloved Heinrich, Gretchen (Regine Zimmermann) knew the end of their story, so she simply pretended to be in love. Wagner (Peter Pagel) asked his master all the questions, although he already knew the stale answers. Accordingly, the devil (Sven Lehmann) was more of a slimy coach than a powerful seducer. He directed a play that followed his rules: love, impregnate, leave. With this production concentrating on the love(less) story Thalheimer drove all metaphysical whims out of Faust. Out of the quintessentially German protagonist he created a homeless man of the present, who checks off life like a business appointment. That’s why the action was cut in favour of the unhappy Gretchen story. The accents were set, by a good ensemble, on naked existentialism, and poured into cold choreography. For an hour this absurd tragi-comedy was played out in front of a black, turning cylinder, which then revealed its great round emptiness: a bed in the middle, a cross behind. The ﬁgures in it appear like forgotten ideas. Thalheimer’s method of subjecting the text to a rigid rhythm and forcing the actors to execute a programme of action rather than present a dramatic plot almost became a mannerism. In his Three Sisters he actually missed the core of the play with his method and was unable to deliver more than an elaborated doubling of the text. This time, however, his surgical cuts had uncovered a Faust who sometimes provided just good effects, but mostly the rich potential for irritation. He treated his subject-matter like a physician observing an interesting pathological case: sober and with no regard to the person. The result of this autopsy of Faust: a homo egoisticus. A lost candidate. Apparently, even massive cuts can bring a text back to life. But they can also suffocate the text if the creative intervention cuts to the quick and kills

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it with directorial ideas instead of reviving it. That is precisely what happened with Thalheimer’s production of Faust ii set on Olaf Altmann’s cold and functional stage. There were three Faustian threads: the ﬁrst one was Faust as a cool observer of the Emperor’s court at the time of the invention of paper money, combined with the creation of man by man himself; the second plot was Faust under the spell of the beautiful Helena, trembling yet hopeful (Nina Hoss played Helena as a drug-addicted angel of revenge); the third plot depicted Faust as a domineering colonizer doomed to fail. This time, Thalheimer reduced Ingo Hülsmann’s ﬁgure to a presentday footnote: Faust the unredeemed contemporary. This thematic and formal reduction contained a wealth of political material: money, genetic engineering, an imperial war. Thalheimer clearly politicized Faust ii, but those political ideas were bereft of their context. That made them incomprehensible, victims of Thalheimer’s form. Faust served as a demonstration of a stage language rather than as a transmitter of meaningful content. The attempt to reduce Faust ii to slogans had to fail, since all these slogans lose their power outside their context. They become nothing more than headlines. Apart from these productions there have been other projects that were entertaining in the best sense of the word: Jan Bosse’s ironically embued production of Faust i at the Hamburger Schauspielhaus in 2004 is one such example. Other productions have been conceptually ambitious: Hasko Weber’s Faust i at the Staatsschauspiel Stuttgart in October 2005 depicted Faust as an epitome of the postmodern question of identity. Both productions focused on only one aspect of the whole in order to ﬁnd a viable theatrical form. Peter Stein’s production, on the other hand, delivers poetic messages about the tragic fate of man – the sort of messages that would defy any clearcut explanation. The length of the performance, the abundance of tableaux and scenes, of moods and reﬂection taxed and even overtaxed the audience’s capacity. Stein’s production of Faust was like Faust himself: it challenged by overtaxing. This was precisely Stein’s admiring interest in this piece of theatre. We might say, with Manto, ‘I love those who strive for the unattainable’ (7488). not es Translated by Nina Peters. 1. All references to Faust are by line number to HA. 2. Hans-Georg Gadamer, ‘Wort und Bild – so wahr, so seiend’, in Gesammelte Werke, Tübingen: Mohr, 1993, viii, 391.

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3. Imre Kertész, Galeerentagebuch, trans. Christina Viragh, Reinbek b. Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1999, 8 f. 4. Friedrich Dürrenmatt, ‘Die Panne. Eine noch mögliche Geschichte’ (1955), in Gesammelte Werke, Zurich: Artemis, 1996, v, 271. 5. Peter Stein, ‘Zum Tode geboren. Ein Gespräch mit dem Regisseur Peter Stein über Theater, Tragödie und das Los des Menschen – von Dirk Pilz’, Theater der Zeit 10 (2005). 6. Die Orestie des Aischylos, trans. Peter Stein, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1997, 23. 7. Peter Stein, ‘Zum Tode geboren’. 8. Goethe, Nachlese zu Aristoteles’ Poetik, HA 12, 343. 9. Ulrich Port, Pathosformeln. Die Tragödie und die Geschichte exaltierter Affekte (1755–1888), Munich: W. Fink, 2005, 38.

chapter 19

Re-thinking and staging Goethe’s Faust at the State Theatre Stuttgart 2005–6 Jörg Bochow

the point of departure: why faust today? In the ﬁve or so years since Peter Stein’s project of staging the complete Faust, Goethe’s text has seen an astonishing revival on major German stages. The Hamburger Schauspielhaus, Deutsches Theater Berlin and the State Theatre Stuttgart presented their productions of Faust almost simultaneously. Clearly, there has been a surge of renewed general interest in Goethe’s major dramatic and poetic work. Moreover, German theatres have begun to feel the limits of ‘post-dramatic’ and ‘pop-theatre’ productions, with their deconstruction of dramatic conventions and textual structures, and returned to great narratives like Goethe’s Faust. This work also seemed to present a much more relevant model for the discussion of our ‘postmodernity’ than those experiments in style and performance. Goethe’s Faust had emerged between the French and the Industrial Revolutions, the two pivotal events of our modernity, and had anticipated, from this vantage point, not only the evolution of post-medieval man and society, but also their fate, our own rather rootless and anxiety-ridden world. Of course, such a critique of our time is not immediately obvious to a reader of Faust. We as theatre producers have to ‘reveal’ it. Staging the classical play in such a relevant way serves one essential purpose: it allows us to step out of our time and look at it from the viewpoint of the historical model. Only by historicizing our experience can we subvert current ideologies and stereotypes – Brecht taught us that many decades ago. We often hear that our modern existence has become too complex to be touched by a classical text. But Goethe’s Faust, like no other work of world literature, employs a vast array of hermeneutic media – not only poetry and music, but also history and politics, philosophy and theology, sociology, economics and science – to provide a powerful focus for the discussion of our modernity. Thus the conceptual foundation of the production of Goethe’s Faust at the State Theatre Stuttgart was: we are Faust. 293

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jo¨ rg bochow the structure of the performances

After several sessions of discussing the text with the team of dramaturges it was decided that there would be different teams producing the two parts of Faust.1 At ﬁrst there was even the idea of splitting the whole material into four or ﬁve parts and letting them be staged by four or ﬁve different directors. The reason for this approach lies in the structure of the text itself. Thematically the poem can be divided into four parts: 1) the scholar’s tragedy, which includes the scenes from ‘Night’ to ‘Witch’s Kitchen’, 2) Margarete’s tragedy, which covers the second part of Faust i , 3) the Helena tragedy, which includes the ﬁrst three acts of ii, and 4) the old Faust’s tragedy, which includes the last two acts of Faust ii. The themes of the ﬁrst parts have been widely discussed, but less attention has been given to the differences between the themes of longing for a solution in the realm of play and beauty, which determine Faust’s way at the Emperor’s court through the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ and the Helena act, and the search for a solution in the ‘real world’, which begins with Faust’s new demand: ‘Herrschaft gewinn ich, Eigentum’ (10187, I’ll gain power and possessions). Given the different magnitude of the four parts, and considering that the two parts of Faust i are meaningful only when performed as a whole, Faust could be produced as a tragedy of failure in three parts, each ending in death (Margarete and her child in the ﬁrst, Helena and Euphorion in the second, Faust himself in the third part). However, the death of Euphorion and the failure of the ideal marriage between beauty (Helena) and science (Faust) neither determine a ﬁnal solution for Faust’s pact with Mephistopheles nor imply the end of Faust’s longings. Therefore Faust ii needs a closure that only the last two acts provide. The idea of splitting Faust into four or ﬁve parts and producing it with four or ﬁve different directors was dismissed: the concept of traditional unities prevailed, and Faust was produced in two parts.

faust i – the cast of characters: faust and mephistopheles The complexity and multivalence of the main character informed both productions. In Faust i , three young men in identical costumes appear and speak – partly as a chorus – the opening lines of Faust (see Figure 19.1). As this unity of three, Faust meets the Earth Spirit and Wagner. The three listen to the church bells that announce the beginning of the Easter ceremonies. Faust intends to poison himself, but by listening to the bells

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Figure 19.1 The three young men as Faust. (Photograph from the Stuttgart production, 2005–6)

he is reminded of his youth. The memory of the feeling of unity with the world that he experienced as a child brings him back to the world, and the wish to live prevails over his despair. ‘Die Erde hat mich wieder’ (784, I am earth’s again), he announces. At this decisive moment of Faust’s story, the Stuttgart production of Faust i splits Faust into the one who survives (he does not drink the poison) and the two who go the way of destruction and death in order to return as alter egos of Faust – they become the two Mephistopheles who accompany Faust and lead him to Margarete. Thus in the production of Faust i we presented the idea of reducing the multitude of options that lay in the character of Faust. By joining Mephistopheles, Faust gets rid of parts of his human qualities; the reduction of moral and psychological constraints is the foundation of his new career. The emergence of Mephistopheles out of the two personalities of Faust who have died allows for no external framing of the Faust story: there is no ‘Prologue in Heaven’ in this production. Therefore it is not the ‘pact’ between the Lord and Mephistopheles that – as a metaphysical force – drives the story of Faust’s transformation in our production. The leading metaphysical force, the ghost of the ghosts, became the character of the Earth Spirit.

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jo¨ rg bochow the earth spirit

The concept of the Earth Spirit existed in Goethe’s text long before he wrote the ‘Prologue in Heaven’. For Faust and his driving impulse of understanding and experiencing the world as a whole, the Earth Spirit and his refusal to accept Faust as one of his equals is a central motif of the narrative. It is the reason for Faust’s despair and attempt at suicide, and it determines his actions even after Faust has made his famous pact with Mephistopheles. In ‘Forest and Cave’, the decisive scene in which Faust for a single and last moment reﬂects on his deeds and almost refrains from going further on his path of destruction, Faust again appeals to the Earth Spirit. The experience of being one with nature in his love for Margarete appears to be a gift from the spirit of nature, the Earth Spirit. Moreover, Mephistopheles himself is described in this scene as an agent of the great spirit, another gift of the Earth Spirit. For the production of Faust i we focused on the concept of the Earth Spirit by presenting it as a female spirit of nature that manipulates the narrative and also takes over the function of Ariel in ‘Pleasant Landscape’. The gifts the Earth Spirit provides are beyond ‘good and evil’: nature does not know ethics. It is Faust’s task to deal with the moral consequences of his deeds. In our production, the Earth Spirit takes on the role of the leading metaphysical force: the female spirit of nature. Merging different ﬁgures – Earth Spirit, Witches, Ariel – the character appeared in our production as the Ghost.

wagner The concept of the ‘trinity’ of Faust had further consequences for the cast of characters. Attempting to reveal the solitude, the isolation of Faust, the production settled him in a depopulated universe. There is only one human ﬁgure Faust has contact with – his colleague, Wagner. This colleague is eager to gain insight into Faust’s secrets, but on the other hand he is careful enough to avoid looking for contacts with the daemonic world. When Faust meets Mephistopheles, Wagner has to disappear. The production of Faust i presented Faust as a restless but also an isolated scholar: there is no room for students in his universe. Faust has already left the centres of traditional academia. In his refuge, his self-inﬂicted isolation, there is only Wagner to visit him. He cares for Faust, provides food and interrogates him about his illegal experiments – he is the caretaker and the ward in Faust’s retreat.

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margarete and her world Leaving Wagner behind, Faust sets out on his way with his daemon Mephistopheles and enters the world of Margarete. With her he encounters two further characters: Marthe and Valentin, Margarete’s brother. But it is Mephistopheles – in our production the dual character – who takes care of them in order to lure Faust into his trap. When Faust has ﬁnally murdered Valentin, there is only Margarete and a world of ghosts that surround him. Goethe modernized the legend of Faust by linking the canonical character with the story of a loving woman who ﬁnally murders her and Faust’s child. Goethe was familiar with similar real cases, and characters like Margarete became a new topic in literature, especially in bourgeois tragedy. Margarete herself is presented by Goethe ﬁrst through the eyes of Faust: he calls her ‘Dirne’ (lass) and ‘Engel’ (angel). On the one hand, the transition within his terminology marks the change of feelings – from sexual desire to love. On the other hand, the name ‘Margarete’ connotes a female saint, whereas the diminutive ‘Gretchen’ reminds us of a prostitute. Ulrich Gaier has given a thorough analysis of the different names and meanings of Margarete in Faust i , and in particular the production of the Deutsches Theater Berlin relied on this double image of Margarete (see Chapter 4 in this volume). In the production of the Deutsches Theater (directed by Michael Thalheimer), her bed stood under the sign of the cruciﬁx, and Faust violates this space of integrity by painting Margarete’s face and exposing her as a prostitute – Margarete becomes Gretchen. However, Goethe’s Margarete is driven not by poverty, but by her religious consciousness. Her religiosity is not naïve – she clearly understands the conﬂicts of love, sexual desire and the law of the church. And she recognizes Mephistopheles as an evil force. Her famous question to Faust, ‘Nun sag, wie hast du’s mit der Religion?’ (3415, Say then, what is your religion?), reﬂects a very rational attempt at ﬁguring out whether there is any chance of compromise between her love and the rules of religion and society. The production in Stuttgart paid attention to the conscious decisions Margarete makes. Her decision regarding her love and all the attendant consequences marks a radical step of emancipation which is no less radical than Faust’s decision to leave the realms of human society and join the daemon Mephistopheles. By the end of the eighteenth century, when Goethe wrote Faust i , the modern industrial states of the West had all but erased the pre-industrial societies and cultures of the colonized territories. Western industrialization and ‘globalization’ abused and discarded traditions, just as Faust abused and discarded Margarete. Faust becomes a colonizer, and not just at the end of Faust ii : he is already

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Figure 19.2 Margarete’s attempt at an abortion. (Photograph from the Stuttgart production, 2005–6)

one by the end of the Gretchen tragedy. For Margarete there is no outcome in Faust’s world except death. Our production aimed at underlining the process of Faust’s colonizing of Margarete and her resistance to this colonization. Faust, dressed in a suit and a white shirt, enters Margarete’s bedroom, removes his trousers and thus – half-naked – tries to overcome her religious concerns. When he gives her the sleeping potion, the poison, she consciously takes it. Joyfully,

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Margarete returns from the night with Faust, and in the following scenes she is scorned by Marthe. Left alone, Margarete discovers that she is pregnant. She climbs up onto the kitchen counter and jumps twenty, thirty times in order to rid herself of her unborn child (see Figure 19.2). During this attempt at an abortion she sings and cries out the lines dedicated to the Mater dolorosa: ‘Ach neige, / Du Schmerzensreiche . . .’ (3587–8, Deign, O deign, / You who are sorrow-laden). After the unsuccessful attempt at killing the unborn child, she goes to bed. Her brother Valentin appears and is about to kill her by smashing her head with a stone – but is unable to do so. After he is killed by Faust, he re-emerges as a ghost and threatens to disclose Margarete’s guilt. It is he who transforms her into a witch; he puts artiﬁcial blonde hair on her head and stuffs her belly with the puppet of the unborn child. Then three masqueraded black ﬁgures appear: as black angels they celebrate a black mass, the ‘Walpurgis Night’. Margarete gives birth to the puppet-child, but the child is taken away by the black ﬁgures. Margarete ﬁghts to get the ‘child’ back. When she does get it, she saves it from the reach of the black ﬁgures by drowning it. The ‘Walpurgis Night’ is over, and Faust shows his face – he was one of the three black angels. Now he has already become indistinguishable from the other ghosts – the two Mephistopheles. Half-hearted is his attempt at rescuing Margarete from her imprisonment. There remains only one way to rescue her: when Mephistopheles says ‘She is judged!’ Faust takes a pillow and suffocates her, replying to Mephistopheles, ‘She is rescued!’ This line belongs originally to the Lord – in Goethe’s text Faust simply ﬂees from Margarete’s cell. Thus the performance burdens Faust with the full responsibility for murdering and ‘rescuing’ Margarete. from faust i to faust ii The performance of Faust ii begins where the ﬁrst part ended: with the awakening of Faust in ‘Pleasant Landscape’. Although the so-called Gretchen tragedy dominated the second half of Faust i , it did not mark the ﬁnal point of this production. In order to show the way of ‘no return’ for Faust after he has murdered Margarete, but also to present this deed as a necessary step within the evolution of a new Faust, the performance did not end with Margarete’s death, but with Faust’s rebirth. Through the Earth Spirit (Ariel) Faust receives the gift of amnesia: awakening, he turns his eye away from the heavenly sunlight – he has ﬁnally cast off all moral constraints. Having the rays of sunlight at his back, he is able to see and to

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conquer the world – but he is not alone. His ﬁnal lines are spoken in unison with the two Mephistopheles: Des Lebens Pulse schlagen frisch lebendig, Ätherische Dämmerung milde zu begrüβen; Du, Erde, warst auch diese Nacht beständig Und atmest neu erquickt zu meinen Füβen, Beginnest schon, mit Lust mich zu umgeben, Du regst und rührst ein kräftiges Beschlieβen, Zum höchsten Dasein immerfort zu streben.

(4679–85)

Life’s pulses beat with fresh vitality And gently greet the sky’s ﬁrst glimmering; You also, Earth, have lasted out this night And breathe new-quickened there below, Compassing me already with inchoate joy. You rouse and stir a vigorous resolve To strive henceforth towards being’s highest form.

The ﬁrst lines of our production of ii were Ariel’s words consoling the sleeping Faust and giving him amnesia. Thus ‘Pleasant Landscape’ functioned as a link between both productions. Otherwise there was no repetition of cast, structure or setting, and the two performances followed different aesthetic principles.

faust ii – the chorus The idea of Faust’s multiplicity is expanded in the production of Faust ii : the ﬁrst scene presents a chorus of eighteen citizens of Stuttgart and eight actors (see Figure 19.3). The eighteen citizens were chosen after a casting process in which about one hundred citizens of Stuttgart participated. Together with the eight actors of the ensemble, they formed the Faust chorus that acts throughout the whole second part of the tragedy. The idea of ‘we are Faust’ is therefore taken to its radical consequence: all performers are Faust. Only one or two of them are temporarily singled out as the voice of the provocateur Mephistopheles, who encourages the Faust chorus to pursue the way of radical economic endeavour. The concept of the Faust chorus shaped the dramaturgy and the perspective on Faust’s development entirely – not only Mephistopheles, but also Helena, Euphorion, Philemon and Baucis are performed by members of the chorus: these characters thus come ‘out of the womb’ of Faust and his imagination. This approach does not allow the audience to enjoy any form of identiﬁcation with or compassion for any of the heroes of the

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Figure 19.3 Mephistopheles and the Faust chorus. (Photograph from the Stuttgart production, 2005–6)

Faustian universe. The epic structure, the concept of collage and the performance of the group – these are the aesthetic foundations of this production. the set: contemporizing faust Both production teams found very different solutions to the problem of connecting Faust to our contemporary world. For Faust i we were looking for stories and careers of individuals who bear similarities to Faust. We found the most interesting examples of similar developments of individuals in contemporary Russia. In 1989, the mathematician and noted scholar Boris Beresovsky founded the motorcar trading company LogoWAS. It was the same year that he published one of his many books on mathematical models of complex networks for optimal decisions. Being at the top of his career as a scholar, Beresovsky suddenly became a businessman, owning at ﬁrst shares in the car retail trade, and soon becoming the executive manager of a car empire. Only a few years later, the former scholar had become one of the richest men in the world. Buying a national TV channel, Beresovsky expanded his power

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into politics. Using his media power he helped Boris Yeltsin to win the election and become president of the Russian Federation. The political reforms of Gorbachev in the 1980s had paved the way for this unbelievable career of a Soviet scholar. Our production placed Faust in an imaginary world that was modelled on post-Soviet Russia. At the beginning of the tragedy, Faust is just like one of the many scholars who continue to work in the deserted research laboratories of the former Soviet Union. A catastrophe, the collapse of a society, has already occurred. When Faust is refused acceptance by the Earth Spirit he has to decide: either to give up and destroy himself or search for new approaches to life. The wish to live prevails and, with the help of Mephistopheles, Faust’s analytical mind is now turned towards ﬁrst conquering the ‘little world’ of Margarete, and then entering into ‘big business’. Being inspired by the images of decay and destruction in Andrei Tarkovsky’s movies, in particular his Stalker, the set designer found similar images in photographs of the ruined landscape and the deserted areas around Chernobyl, where many public and private places were destroyed and abandoned after the catastrophe at the nuclear plant. The image of a deserted indoor sports arena served as a model for the stage: a vast hall, half destroyed and completely empty. This is the place where – in the imagination of the performance – Faust’s laboratory once was and where he now lives. Faust ii places the story in the environment of the performance: Stuttgart. The stage resembles a reception hall in the style of the 1970s. Wood panels cover the ﬂoor and the walls. The ceiling is low above a space shaped in a half circle. The set openly recalls the image of the reception hall of the ‘embassy’ of the state of Baden-Württemberg in Germany’s capital, Berlin. Moreover, a Baden-Württemberg flag is presented during the ﬁrst scenes, and many inserted texts make it clear that the Faust chorus represents contemporary citizens of Stuttgart. There are, of course, many consequences that result from this approach: in the world of this production of Faust ii there is neither place for the ghosts of the ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’ nor for the story of Homunculus. the texts of the performances: faust i Like the concepts of the characters and settings, the treatment of Goethe’s text also differs in the two productions. Both performances are of similar length, each lasting less than two hours. The concept of the Faust– Mephistopheles dualism in Faust i excluded two of Goethe’s three frames. The performance opens with the ‘Dedication’. These thoughts of the

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author are spoken by the female performer of the Earth Spirit. Goethe’s philosophy of nature and his conscious gender-transformation of the driving spiritual force in Faust (see the end of Faust ii) led us to identify the (imaginary) narrator of the ‘Dedication’ with the Earth Spirit. The subsequent text of Part i was divided into forty scenes. To each of the scenes a banner was assigned that characterized the main process in each scene (for instance, ‘Rescue’ for the sequence when Faust hears the Easter bells of the church, or ‘Refusal’ for the ﬁrst meeting between Faust and Margarete in Goethe’s ‘Street’ scene). The focus in the scenes of the ﬁrst part of Faust i (the scholar’s tragedy) was on Faust, therefore, and scenes in which Mephistopheles dominates, like the scene with the student or the drinking scene at ‘Auerbach’s Cellar’, were cut. In order to enhance the isolation of Faust in his refuge, the appearances of peasants and dancing folk during the Easter sequence were also cut entirely. During the black mass of the ‘Walpurgis Night’ the emphasis was on visual imagery, the dance of the vampire-like black angels, supported by music. A scene where Margarete gives birth replaces the ‘Blocksberg’ scenes. Here, the original text is closely linked with medieval imagery that was – we assume – provocative in Goethe’s time, but seems ‘folkloristic’ today. In our production the images of the ‘Walpurgis Night’ were presented as Margarete’s nightmare, an apocalyptic dance without spoken text. Altogether the production reduced the original text to its bare bones, leaving only the essential parts and thus allowing the audience to focus on the tragedy of Margarete and on the transformation of the main character, Faust. The popular and comic elements of the ‘Volksstück’ (popular play) Faust were radically reduced. The result could be described as a black ‘Lehrstück’ (didactic play) of the evolution of modern individualism.

faust ii = faust 21? Whereas the production of Faust i used only Goethe’s text – with one exception where some lines by Karl Marx discussing the play were added – Faust ii was presented as a collage, mingling passages of Faust ii with contemporary statements from citizens, politicians and businessmen. Goethe’s text was taken as a point of departure for exploring the hopes and failures of contemporary society in Stuttgart. The most widely discussed mega-project of the city, the construction of a new underground train station, including the development of the whole area towards a new business district, gave the production the impulse to choose the title Faust 21 – Stuttgart’s current mega-project of a new city is called ‘Stuttgart 21’. This refers to the

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year of the project’s completion, 2010, but also has the meaning ‘twenty-ﬁrst century’. By adopting the name of this project, the production claimed not to be performing the second part of Goethe’s Faust. After opening with Ariel’s lines, spoken by the chorus, the scene shifts immediately from ‘Pleasant Landscape’ to the discussion of the ﬁnancial crisis at the Emperor’s court (Act 1 of Faust ii). But the lines of Goethe’s text soon become mingled with lines of the citizens of Stuttgart, which they had ﬁrst improvised and then studied for the production. One actor cites lines from a speech by Germany’s president, Horst Köhler. Another replies with a line from Goethe: citizen roloff (the name of the actor) Germany is a beautiful part of the world. Why shouldn’t we be happy? (From Köhler’s speech) chorus That the Chinese take everything away from us: Production, research, vaccines, raw materials (Then, citizens’ text) citizen manteuffel (Goethe’s text, Faust ii) Everyone’s scraping, digging and amassing, And still our coffers are unﬁlled. all I’m a good Swabian. I’ve saved and inherited and so on. But the monetary system in itself worries me a bit, The general debt will catch up with us, I see the social peace of our city in great danger. They should start a revolution against the banking system. (Then, citizens’ text) mephistopheles Be done with toying with your sorrows That, vulture-like, consume your being; The worst society there is could show you That you are just another human being. [. . .] I bind myself to serve you here, Be at your beck and call without respite; And if or when we meet again beyond, Then you will do the same for me.

(4850–1)

(1635–8)

(1656–9)

These excerpts may serve to exemplify the collage-like structure of the performance text. The ‘pact’ sequence between Faust and Mephistopheles from Faust i is repeated several times and serves as a link between the scenes of the Faust ii collage. Focusing thematically on the evolution of the ‘economic

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man’, the Faust ii production used only those scenes of the original text that are linked to the economic discourse. Having just overcome the economic crisis at the Emperor’s court by the magic power of Mephistopheles’ ‘paper money’, the Faust chorus hails consumerism, eternal beauty and youth. Thus, cutting the second act entirely, the Faust chorus ﬁnds itself at an arranged mass wedding, celebrating the marriage between Helena and Faust. In the production, Euphorion (performed by an actress) leaves the stage, climbs up the rows of the auditorium and ‘disappears’. After the death of Euphorion, the male part of the Faust chorus gathers in a sauna and dreams about world conquest. One of them is dressed as a modern soldier by the female Faust chorus. Speaking parts of the lines of the Three Mighty Men, the newborn soldier goes into war (Act 4). The ﬁnal scenes follow Goethe’s ﬁfth act: Faust, now performed in part by an older actor, destroys the last remnants of the old world, Philemon and Baucis. In the end, the Faust chorus refuses to die. Mephistopheles cannot lay him in the grave; Faust revels in the new world of a global capitalist economy. He becomes the eternal bourgeois. n ot e 1. Faust i was premiered on 30 September 2005, directed by Hasko Weber. Set design: Cary Gailer; costumes: Regine Standfuss; music: FM Einheit; dramaturgy: Jörg Bochow. Faust 21 (Faust ii) was premiered on 25 February 2006, directed by Volker Lösch. Training of the chorus: Bernd Freytag; set design: Cary Gailer; costumes: Carola Reuther; dramaturgy: Beate Seidel.

chapter 20

Strehler’s Faust in performance Laura Caretti

I believe above all that our production is the unequivocal demonstration of the endurance, and thus of the modernity, of Goethe’s text. People today should tremble before the relevance of this text.1 Ours has been a work of humility in our attempt to give real body, on the stage, to one of the greatest works of human culture, which Goethe himself had written and intended as a work for the theatre. On this point we have never had any doubt. We have never hesitated to believe in the ‘performability’ of the Faust-Tragedy, deemed by so many to be ‘unperformable’ in the case of the Second Part. For us there is no higher, more complex, more experimental and dazzling theatricality than this journey towards the Inﬁnite.2 Giorgio Strehler

a project for a new theatre A ‘challenge’, a ‘journey’, an ‘adventure’: these are some of the words which recur in Giorgio Strehler’s presentation of his Faust. And the undertaking of such a theatrical enterprise is described as ‘daring’, ‘risky’, ‘perilous’, ‘hazardous’, ‘intrepid’ . . . Intense excitement together with the thrill of danger are the pervading emotions conveyed by Strehler’s notes on the Faust project. Not only did he conceive and direct the project, but he played numerous roles, translated Goethe’s text, was dramaturge of the script and, still more striking and unprecedented in the light of his career up to that time, interpreted the role of Faust. But let us go back to 1987, when this intrepid journey began, when the ship of the Piccolo Teatro in Milan set sail on the vast ocean of Goethe’s work. Strehler was 66, at the peak of his career, acclaimed world-wide for his inspired, magical staging of some of the world’s greatest plays: from Shakespeare’s The Tempest to Pirandello’s The Giants of the Mountain, from the commedia dell’arte of Goldoni’s Arlecchino Servant of Two 306

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Masters to Eduardo’s The Great Magic, from Brecht’s The Threepenny Opera, Life of Galileo and The Good Person of Szechwan to Strindberg’s The Storm. In 1987 he had just celebrated the fortieth anniversary of his Piccolo Teatro. The old, glorious theatre (founded in 1947) had long become too small for some of the productions and the ever-swelling number of spectators. The company had frequently been compelled to seek hospitality in other theatres (such as the opera house, the Lirico). At the same time, Strehler had been gathering cultural and ﬁnancial support for the building of a new and spacious theatre, ﬁnally approved after years of setbacks and postponements. While battling for the longed-for and long-awaited construction of his ‘Grande Teatro’, Strehler had inaugurated the Teatro Studio – to study and work with his company in extending the boundaries of theatrical performance and audience involvement. The new space proved ideal for this purpose, as well as for the project of focusing attention on the ‘Faust Myth’ and Goethe’s extraordinary re-creation of it. In this exceptional, possibly unique, theatrical venue, with its wood, its simple forms, its artisan severity and its poetic atmosphere which continues to affect me, for over three years we’ve been creating not only theatre productions but also, I hope, a new relationship between performance and actors, between actors and spectators, between the magic of make-believe and the clarity of critical commitment. A critical commitment which is never cold and ascetic or purely academic, but always an attempt to communicate, to express ideas and emotions, to make proposals, to embark on little-known paths. (Strehler, 20 January 1990)3

Situated in Milan’s artistic quarter, the Teatro Studio was an old variety theatre before being restored for Strehler’s company. It differs from the traditional teatro all’italiana (with its proscenium arch framing the stage and separating it from the audience). Here, the acting area stretches out into the audience seated in circular fashion in direct, intimate communication with the actors, as in classical Greek theatre. A high ceiling makes for the creation of scenographic areas, as in Goethe’s ‘Prologue in Heaven’ (see Figure 20.1). Downstage, a huge curtain opens onto a deep inner stage. The theatre then, when necessary, made it possible to alternate short and long perspectives. In the central arena Goethe’s words were thus able to resound with their full dramatic force, above all in the monologues and dialogues illuminated by a single spotlight in the dark of the empty stage. In other cases, by contrast, the backcloth revealed striking sequences of distant landscapes, such as the idyllic, limetree-dotted hill of the Philemon and Baucis episode, or mythic apparitions (the Sphinxes, the Mothers).

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Figure 20.1 Prologue in Heaven. (Photograph from the Strehler production, 1989–91)

On this experimental stage, work on Goethe’s Faust began in 1987. Unlike Strehler’s other productions, here there was no precise director’s blueprint for the staging. Instead, the Teatro Studio itself provided the space for a new creative ‘method’: We started with the determination to carry through with the project, with some intuitions – not certainties – some achievements, some images to test out. In short, we started with a general idea for the mise-en-scène of Goethe’s Faust, but with no precise vision of what the end result would be: the place itself, the Teatro Studio, demanded this approach. (Strehler, 20 January 1990)4

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In any case, it was not originally envisaged that the project would be staged in its ﬁnal form at the Teatro Studio. The idea was for the smaller theatre to be a testing-ground for the project, as work in progress which would project into the future and ﬁnd its ﬁnished form in a new and spacious theatre already under construction. ‘The project is divided into two phases’, Strehler announced in November 1988: ‘a) the research phase; and b) the phase of the production itself. The ﬁrst phase is in progress at the Teatro Studio of the Piccolo Teatro of Milan, Theatre of Europe; the second phase is due to be accomplished in the Nuovo Grande Teatro.’ This link between the two theatres and consequently between the work in progress and the full, ﬁnished production did not come about in Strehler’s lifetime. When he died, the building of the ‘Nuovo Grande Teatro’ (today dedicated to him) was almost complete, but had not been assigned to his Piccolo Teatro by Milan’s majority right-wing administration. Anger, disappointment and frustration account for Strehler’s resignation from his role as director and a decisive crisis in the last years of his life. Although never accomplished, the plan to stage the whole of Goethe’s Faust did work as a catalyst of energy, an inspiring dream. It made the whole project profoundly Faustian in its spirit of endeavour, its striving after the highest achievement. What was actually staged, though not complete, was even more exciting: the adventure of approaching that goal of completeness. Not being under close pressure for a ﬁnal production, Strehler was able to give free rein to his desire to experiment with a new form of theatre focused on multiple perspectives, and open to different modes and styles of performance. Which was, as he saw it, what Goethe’s text demanded.5

the production in progress From the start, Strehler imbued the project with the full resources of his volcanic artistry and imagination. At the Teatro Studio he set in motion an extraordinary laboratory of words and visions. It was there that he planned to show the development of the creative process, the gradual coming to life on stage of scenes from Goethe’s work. But before and during rehearsal, he revisited the multiple versions of the Faust myth in visual art, theatre, music, cinema and so on. Both performances, Faust Part i (in March 1989) and Faust Part ii two years later (in April 1991), were preceded by a series of readings, dress rehearsals and performances open to the public. The intimate connection between research, rehearsal and production gave Strehler’s Faust its true

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originality: ‘A fundamental novelty of the project and its enactment: true live research is organized in performance and offered to the public.’6 Whilst working on the translation of Goethe’s play, Strehler promoted a series of ‘encounters’ with artists, critics, historians and philosophers in order to discuss the traditions and genres of the Faust legend from different angles. The metamorphosis of the story in different contexts and times was explored:7 from Marlowe to Thomas Mann, from Boito’s Mephistopheles to Murnau’s ﬁlm, from Bulgakov to Valéry, whose Mon Faust (directed by Walter Pagliaro) was staged at the Teatro Studio in 1987. The aim was to focus attention on the profound relevance of Faust’s human adventure for us today and for our understanding of our Faustian times. Strehler wished to kindle a new insight into Goethe’s work and to share the adventure of rediscovering its dramatic power and inventiveness.8 Convinced of its essentially theatrical nature, Strehler spoke out on many occasions against the idea that it is a poem that can be appreciated only on the printed page. We should not, he insisted, be misled by its overwhelming complexity, its asymmetric structure and the multiplicity of its languages into believing that it was not written for the stage. Witness his notes: I’m aware that we are confronted with a theatricality that relies on different necessities, different styles of performances, different expressive languages. But what we have always is a work rich in asymmetries, variables, brimming with imagination, extremely intricate and complex but conceived absolutely for the theatre, for the stage, to be acted, body and voice, intelligence and heart, by the actors.9

Challenging the stage conventions of his time, with this highly composite work Goethe deliberately intended to expand the creative resources of theatre itself. Strehler was ready to take up this challenge, to put to the test all the potentialities of stage art. He admiringly recognized the greatness of the work; and with (in his words) ‘humility’ and ‘love’ he worked together with his actors to bring it to life on the contemporary stage. It was idle, he said, to persist in discussing whether or not the play is performable: the spectators themselves conﬁrm that Goethe’s Faust is made for the theatre and that it speaks in a way that stirs audiences even today. At the same time, the difﬁcult work of translation conﬁrms the theatrical effectiveness of Goethe’s poetry. Strehler’s excellent knowledge of German meant that he was able to produce a script which avoids the monochord literariness of other Italian versions and which aims to give polyphony back to the word.10 The result is a translation free of archaisms, clear in its intent

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to communicate with a present-day public, yet remaining faithful to the original (‘My translation has one sole purpose, besides textual correctness: to be born above all for the stage, that is, for the live voices of the actors’).11 Printed words translated into spoken words make up a script which, above all in the ﬁrst part, is deliberately left naked, merely ‘said’ by the actors. In this form of ‘dramatic reading’ spoken from the lectern, Goethe’s text becomes the true demiurge of the stage: it gives material life to the characters, reveals their inner selves, visually conjures before the mind’s eye of the audience illusory phantasmagoria. In Part ii, by contrast, when Faust enters history, more space is given to the theatricality of the scenes. And thus in some cases the ‘director’s imagination’ inﬂuences his choice of lexis. A case in point is the Fourth Hag, Care (‘Die Sorge’), who torments and blinds Faust in the closing stages of the play. Here, by giving her the name ‘Angoscia’, Strehler accentuates the interior nature of the confrontation: he sees her as Faust’s female double, a projection of his guilty despair. The struggle between the two takes place in a ring, in a hand-to-hand combat which is also a violent embrace. It would of course be wrong to imagine that Strehler completed the whole translation single-handed before starting rehearsing.12 The words were endlessly tested out, tuned and even altered on stage. Very often, while acting or directing, he revised a line, reordered the words, constantly bent as he was on achieving a translation that would preserve the expressive power of the original. The stage version thereby became an integral part of the staging process: work in progress pursued in collaboration with the actors. a dramaturgy of fragments Strehler’s belief that Goethe’s Faust is ‘an epic tragedy’ that can ﬁnd its full expression in the visual language of the theatre did not, however, prevent him from foreseeing how arduous the enterprise would be. He was well aware that the project would require ‘many years’, and that in this long period the great poem could only gradually be revived on stage. He saw Faust as a work with many doors that could not all be opened together. He began with a selection of certain sections, adding to the title of his production of Part i the word ‘fragments’ (Faust frammenti). Goethe’s Faust was explored as an immense creative resource from which to draw characters, situations, images. The fragments were lifted from the pages and each unit carefully inserted into a new dramatic texture. Some were tried out on stage and then put to one side, while others were immediately included or

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excluded. In the end, this process of selection and montage became the basis of Strehler’s dramaturgic work, a compositional metodo which left room for additions and variations: ‘The performable material that we’ve found before us is so vast as to require not so much “cuts” as “omissions”, to be kept in reserve for next year’s research, naturally following the same method that has accompanied our work so far.’13 On close examination, we can see that the ‘fragments’ are actually single scenes or whole clutches of scenes with minimal cuts within the chosen episodes. Strehler calls them the ‘bones’, the ‘pillars’, the ‘embryos’ of the production. With these selected threads, he worked with his company for ﬁve years (from 1987 to 1992), weaving together the web of his production of the two parts of the poem. The resulting structure which evolved in this way was then able to include other pieces of the mosaic.14 This was Strehler’s purpose: to continue his journey, adding other fragments to the play during rehearsal. Goethe’s written Faust was thus transformed into a ‘rappresentazione in continuo divenire’ (performance in continuous development). We know now that at a certain point the plan to enlarge the view to an ever-broader spectrum of the poem stopped. After the ﬁrst 2,000 lines of Part i others were added, in successive performances; in the end, of Goethe’s 12,111 lines 6,500 were staged – a cause for pride, however, if one considers that in his production, which Strehler had the good fortune to see in 1957, and which was considered complete, even the great Gustaf Gründgens actually cut away more than half the poem. If we look at the table on page 313 of the chosen fragments we can see that various sections were omitted. Yet despite these leaps, the tension of the performance never slackened; in some cases (for example, the Gretchen episode) it was actually intensiﬁed. The theatre lights ﬂashed on certain moments of Goethe’s work, and the selected scenes followed each other in quick succession, as in a musical composition. The production never once gave the impression of being unﬁnished, or slack. I would call Strehler’s Faust an ‘opera aperta’ (to use Umberto Eco’s illuminating expression, which is equally applicable to Goethe’s work): an ‘open work’ coherent in its dramaturgic design, powerful in its impact on our eyes, minds and emotions. ‘The openness (apertura) and dynamism of a work’, writes Eco, ‘consist in its receptivity to various acts of integration, concrete complementary elements, channelling them a priori into the game of a structural vitality which the work possesses even if in its unﬁnished state, and which appears valuable even for diverse and multiple possible end results.’15

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Faust, fragments: Selection of scenes in Strehler’s production (in bold type) Dedication Prologue on the Stage Prologue in Heaven FAUST PART i Night Outside the City Gate Study 1 Study 2 Auerbach’s Cellar Witch’s Kitchen Street 1 Evening A Walk The Neighbour’s House Street 2 Garden A Summerhouse Forest and Cave Gretchen’s Room Marthe’s Garden At the Well A Shrine Night Cathedral Walpurgis Night Walpurgis Night’s Dream Dreary Day, Field Night, Open Country Dungeon

FAUST PART ii ACT 1 Pleasant Landscape The Emperor’s Court Throne Room Masquerade Garden Dark Gallery Brightly Lit Rooms Great Hall ACT 2 High-Vaulted, Narrow Gothic Chamber Laboratory Classical Walpurgis Night Pharsalian Fields On the Peneius Sphinxes Peneius Chiron Manto ACT 3 Palace of Menelaus in Sparta Inner Courtyard of a Castle Arcadia ACT 4 High Mountains On the Foothills The Rival Emperor’s Tent ACT 5 Open Country Palace Deep Night Midnight Great Courtyard before the Palace Burial Mountain Gorges

the arrow and the spiral Two images give an idea of the difference between the two parts of Strehler’s Faust, suggesting their respective dynamics and rhythms. The ﬁrst of these images, the arrow, conveys the breakneck succession of events: from Mephistopheles’ appearance at the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’ to the immediately ensuing meeting with Margarete and the drama of love and death which occupies the ﬁnal sequence. It has the impetus of youth and of sexual desire.

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Figure 20.2 Faust and Helena’s veil. (Photograph from the Strehler production, 1989–91)

The precipitous descent of the action into tragedy is continuously accelerated by Mephistopheles, who urges Faust to abandon his meditative seclusion and act. By contrast, Part ii proceeds in a circular fashion. It takes the form of a spiral ascent towards power and conversely a winding descent from the purgatorial rebirth of the beginning towards the grave: a slow, unwitting fall which concedes moments of illusory felicity only to reveal suddenly the deception and vanity of the dream. Witness the ﬁne scene in which Helena dissolves into the void and Faust is left embracing a long white veil (see Figure 20.2). Here is how Strehler imagines it, even before giving it stage form, and how he describes it to his set designer: Helena sorrowfully bids farewell to Faust and to life itself – ‘Persephoneia, nimm den Knaben auf und mich!’ (Persephone, I come, take now the child and me) – frees herself from the embrace leaving a hem of her marvellous white robe in Faust’s hand and runs off. As she is retreating her robe unravels and little by little becomes a long strip of veil, which Faust holds at its end – until the last layer falls away and for an instant Helena, naked, divinely naked, vanishes in a ﬂash of sunlight.16

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Strehler’s constant exchange of ideas with Joseph Svoboda is fundamental to the invention of the play’s scenography. In their dialogue every image is conceived and tested out. The symbol of the ‘spiral’, suggested by Svoboda, is discussed at length by Strehler, who appreciates its metaphorical value, but sees the risk of reducing it to a stage prop. (‘The spiral is the inﬁnite totalizing and untouchable universe that dominates Goethe’s work. Your intuition is absolute . . . It mustn’t, however, become a “utilitarian object”.’)17 At the same time, Gilberto Tofano, another of Strehler’s collaborators, identiﬁed, in Part i, a structure of ‘almost uninterrupted linearity’.18 After the great meditations and dialogues of the opening, the progress of Faust’s life is ‘a tragic race’ which destroys everything he believed he could conquer and possess. Faust’s subsequent journey no longer has the wings of youth and love. It becomes an earthly journey that takes him into the maze of history – not only the real and mythical history of Ancient Greece, but into modern times, in Strehler’s staging, including our own. I have already mentioned the different kinds of theatricality of the two parts, not least in terms of performance. Part i is entrusted primarily to the actors’ voices. It pivots on a marked contrast between the scenes read aloud at the lectern and those in which the curtain opens and the ‘spectacle’ erupts suddenly onto the stage. Strehler deﬁnes it as an ‘oratorio drammatico’ and insists on the need for impersonal acting, in keeping with the ‘epic’ nature of the tragedy. Faust’s and then Gretchen’s introspective solitude is therefore given greater relief, while Mephistopheles acquires the role of antagonist of their tormented conscience. The audience is called on to listen only to Goethe’s words and simply to imagine places and objects on the empty stage. Their only aids are a few visible signs (for example, the projection onto the ﬂoor of a lighted window is all there is to designate Faust’s study or the interior of the cathedral). The rest, as in Shakespearean theatre, is left to the imagination of the spectators, ‘capable, at the very instant of the performance, of inventing for themselves the most extraordinary theatre possible, from the weft of the words, sounds, gestures and atmospheres offered to them’.19 In Part ii, greater onstage scenic visualization transports the spectator into the different places encountered on the journey in time and space. It is a continuous, startling variety of forms: from Baroque theatre to Romantic opera, from Greek tragedy to Brechtian contemporary drama. Here Faust appears less central to the action, less alone with himself, except in the epilogue. We see him immersed in the choral ensemble of the scenes, possessed by the evils of our history. It’s the triumph of Mephistopheles, that chameleon-like ﬁgure of the inﬁnite masks on a stage dominated by the trinity of ‘War, Trade and Piracy’.

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Mephistopheles’ relation with the modern world is repeatedly stressed in Strehler’s production, beginning with the scene in which his ﬂying cloak is substituted by a black air-balloon emerging from an infernal trapdoor on the stage to bear Faust on high; and then in the ensuing scenes where the signs of contemporaneity are still more recognizable. The ‘Witch’s Kitchen’ is transformed into a discotheque with young punks swaying to the deafening rhythm of hard-rock music, illumined by a stroboscopic light ﬂashing in the dark.20 Bawdy Mephistopheles delights in this orgiastic frenzy and from this moment on assumes the role of director which Strehler deliberately emphasizes. Faust, by contrast, wanders bewildered among this tribe of metropolitan savages until, having drunk the Witch’s potion, he is seduced by the virtual reality of the dazzling nudity of a gigantic projection of Giorgione’s ‘Sleeping Venus’. This Fellinian scene has a marvellous visual impact. In this utterly original manner Strehler settles the much-debated question of this female apparition (Helena? Margarete?) in Goethe’s text. The illusory vision of the great reclining body that Faust attempts to grasp is shot through with an intense sensuality in keeping with the ‘Witch’s Kitchen’ and in contrast to the virginal Gretchen, who materializes in the luminous scene that follows (see Figure 20.3). In the staging of the war we once again recognize our own predicament. The spectator is suddenly deafened by the din of aerial bombing, which Mephistopheles directs by remote control from the centre of the stage. And again, in the play’s Brechtian ﬁnale, the ﬁgures of the lemurs in the service of Mephistopheles evoke the alienation of our industrial world and the slavery of a concentration camp. Strehler, in short, and above all in Part ii with the shift from the small to the ‘great world’, accelerates the pace, hurling the time machine that Goethe ignited towards us. Mephistopheles, lover of the modern metropolis, inventor of paper money and the incarnation of the accumulation of capital, delighting in war, robbing and killing remorselessly, already belongs to a reality familiar to us and which Goethe preﬁgures. strehler and his company of actors So far I have given prominence to Giorgio Strehler as the true dynamo of the entire production in his multiple roles as project deviser, director, translator and dramaturge. The time has come to speak of him as stage interpreter of Faust, an interpreter applauded by many but also criticized by many. I do not share the view of those who condemn his decision to play Faust claiming that he should have concerned himself only with directing the work – or

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that, if he had to play a part, he would have done better to play Mephistopheles. Implicit here is a failure to recognize that Strehler’s interpretation of Faust grew hand in hand with his acting, and that the two cannot be severed one from the other. His idea of Faust the character has many layers, including autobiographical ones. Deep down he identiﬁed himself with Faust, with his loneliness, his philosophical quest, his rejection of a dead culture, his desire for youth and beauty, his thirst for knowledge, even with his delusions of power. And these themes come to the fore in his performance. Besides, Strehler’s casting himself as Faust was from the beginning part of the adventure. It lay at the core of his ‘Faustian’ project. It is well known that as a director Strehler always valued and praised the art of his actors, even to the point of envying them for truly belonging to the stage and the audience. This time he wanted to be of their number. It meant a new challenge and a passionate effort. He had been an actor in his youth and with Faust wished again to hurdle the fence that excludes a director from the actual performance of a play. It was not an easy hurdle. He had to develop an impossible, double presence on and offstage, and when acting alone, blinded by the lights, he missed the overview he was so accustomed to having (‘I can’t see a bloody thing’, he would shout on numerous occasions to his collaborators). Pia Kleber recorded many hours of the Faust rehearsals, and there we can see how conﬁdent Strehler is when working with the other actors, arranging the scene, giving orders for the lighting, the sound, and how tense he becomes when performing his role. At one point he is trying out Faust’s ﬁrst monologue. He keeps repeating the ﬁrst lines over and over again, changing the order of the words, unhappy with his own translation which fails to render the German ‘ach’ at the very beginning (‘Habe nun, ach! Philosophie’). He says the lines in German and then exclaims ‘It’s untranslatable!’ He listens to the sound of his own voice as if it were an instrument he is learning to play in a new way. After a lifetime spent teaching other actors, he discovers the difﬁculty of teaching himself. Unlike Goethe, Strehler was not alone in his endeavour, but was accompanied by some of his best interpreters. He chose only a few, on whom he could totally rely, and cast them in different roles.21 He gave Faust a privileged space for his soliloquies, but often stood aside and let Mephistopheles, played by Paolo Graziosi, occupy the centre of the action. In Strehler’s production, Mephistopheles has lost all the trappings of devilish iconography. Not only does he have human features, but also his transformations, his constant disguises belong to the world of men. He is the great actor of a theatre of artiﬁce and illusion. From the very beginning

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he catalyses the audience’s attention. He comes on stage in the ‘Prologue in Heaven’, which sets Strehler’s play in motion.22 While the angels sing and turn harmoniously on the upper stage, a large trapdoor opens (in the front arena next to the spectators) to reveal a smoky, magmatic underworld which contrasts sharply with the pure golden light of heaven. Mephistopheles’ shaved head and naked body emerge from this boiling quagmire of hell. It is a stunning apparition (see Figure 20.1). From down there he challenges God (a voice offstage). He is utterly conﬁdent in his own power, ready to prove his evil skill, utterly contemptuous of the stupidity of humankind. With his powerful, rich voice, the actor Paolo Graziosi gives strength to the bitter humour and sardonic boldness of his Mephisto. We have already touched on the multiple masks donned by Mephistopheles and of the fact that he belongs to the modern world. Strehler invents continuous transformations. Exceptional, for instance, is his stage entry, in Part ii, riding a motorcycle which takes the place of Goethe’s ‘seven-league boots’. This is how Strehler puts the idea in 1990, in a letter to Svoboda: Obviously it’s impossible to think of the seven-league boots. But we might just try something equally extraordinary, not of the kind found in fables but terrifying. The terrible roar of a motorcycle, a Kawasaki or Suzuki or Yamaha approaching behind the curtain. The curtain opens but not completely, and a monstrous, gleaming machine can be seen, with all its side mirrors, accessories, headlights, radio aerials, fumes, racing, it seems, towards the audience and on it an equally monstrous ﬁgure in a terrifying red crash-helmet, and metallic, phosphorescent gloves and leather jacket. A ﬂash of quotidian terror in a Tokyo inferno!23

As well as this polyhedric Mephistopheles, Paolo Graziosi interprets the role of Phorkyas, another mask, borrowed this time from Greek theatre. And again, in the guise of tragic chorister, he recounts the birth and death of Euphorion. gretchen’s stream of consciousness The composite form of Faust requires continuous changes in performance style. Strehler is the ﬁrst to recognize the difﬁculties that the actors have to face, above all when they are not supported by the theatrical machine and are left alone in the empty space of the stage. Nevertheless, he is convinced that this nakedness restores dramatic force to Goethe’s text, and in Part i saves the story of Gretchen from a conventional representation. Determined to concede nothing to the romance (highly familiar to the audience), he dramatizes the interiorized experience of the events in a

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dramatic monologue. He cuts several scenes, accelerates the action and divides the role of Gretchen, giving the ﬁrst part to a young actress (Laura Pasini) and the ﬁnal delirium to one of his most accomplished actresses, Giulia Lazzarini. Only the encounter is ‘represented’ on a stage ﬂooded in the brightest light. When Margarete ﬁrst appears she is just a silhouette, the image of a jeune ﬁlle en ﬂeur coming out of church. Walking home alone, she is lusted after by a Faust whose desires have been aroused, but whose rejuvenation is an illusion. A theatrical illusion, as if Mephistopheles had cast him in the role of Don Juan, changing the Doctor’s long black tunic into the traditional tights, cloak and sword borrowed from the wardrobe of a nineteenthcentury theatre company. Unlike other directors, such as Peter Stein, who substitutes the old Faust with a handsome young man, Strehler plays the role himself in a different costume and uses a backlight to pull off the trick – an ironic coup de théâtre (see Figure 20.3). After this ﬁrst brief dialogue the dramaturgy jumps various scenes and we do not see the development of the love story. As I have said, Strehler intentionally avoids the duets between the two lovers – already exploited by opera. He tells the drama from their different viewpoints. Faust the seducer recalls the meeting in Martha’s

Figure 20.3 ‘My lovely young lady, may I venture . . .?’ (Photograph from the Strehler production, 1989–91)

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garden, while Gretchen plays the last scene alone as a delirious stream of consciousness. The lines are ‘played’ on a lectern and the scenery is left to the stagecraft of Goethe’s words. The dialogues become solos: There, a sole actress, in an almost absolute void, with a lectern, interprets, reads, speaks, performs in diverse styles – from Stanislavskian identiﬁcation to Brechtian epic – her own part and that of Faust. One of the hardest ‘dramatic-interpretive’ exercises I know. (Strehler, 20 January 1990)24

Giulia Lazzarini begins as if reading from Goethe’s book, but then turns away from it, as if she had been led to an imaginary scaffold, her hands tied behind her back, her body bent, ready for the axe. Her performance is a prodigious shifting of voices, tones and emotions. She is the loving young girl who has given herself to Faust, the woman burdened with grief, beset by terror, afﬂicted by haunting memories. Faust’s presence in the prison is evoked in a delirium of fear, love, guilt and resignation. Her dialogue with him is made real and imaginary at the same time. He is there, he grabs her violently by the arm trying to force her out of her prison, yet she remains utterly alone with her hallucinations. She seems overwhelmed by contrasting emotions, tormented by the recollection of her drowning baby, torn between desire for and horror of her lover. The solo voice of the actress turns the dialogue into a visionary dream of reunion and a nightmare of separation. There is a subtle link between the roles played by the same actress in the second part of Strehler’s production: she is the soothing Ariel who comforts and revives the fallen Faust.25 She is Poetry, as against the power of money. Dressed in a harlequin’s costume borrowed from a painting by Picasso, she offers the audience the luminous sparks of her verses. Later in the story, she plays the part of the generous, peaceful Baucis. All these characters, with their gift of love, stand against the driving urge to grab and to destroy. They seem perilously fragile in the cruel world they inhabit, yet they cannot be conquered. They are the antagonists, not simply the victims. In the end, Faust–Mephistopheles’ dreams of power and possession fail. Only Care (Angoscia), also played by Giulia Lazzarini, envelops and possesses Faust’s heart. She is Faust’s last companion. the last act Several times, in his dialogue with Svoboda, Strehler speaks again of the difﬁculty presented by the ﬁnal scenes and of the responsibility he feels he must shoulder as an actor on whom, at this point, the conclusion of the

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tragedy depends (‘It’s an act I am wholly responsible for as an actor. I must try it and retry it and correct mercilessly’). He asks the set designer to invent something for Faust’s palace that must be simple, essential, but at the same time have a powerful impact. It would be enough, he suggests, to have ‘a usable stage object’ which enables the ‘Dictator Faust’ to mount and then fall into the trap. What we see on stage is a symbolic pedestal, where Faust suddenly appears transformed into a fearsome old man. The contrast with the philosopher of the opening scenes is enormous. The same dark tunic is no longer the full-ﬂowing academic’s gown; it is now drawn tight around his withered body, giving him the appearance of a black insect. His head, by contrast, appears enormous, with its great shock of white hair. He leans on a stick with which he beats the ground to give his orders. While Mephistopheles is to the last ever more active and immutable, Faust’s decaying change is horriﬁc. ‘He has a crazed look on his face, a little like Doctor Mabuse in Metropolis’, writes Strehler, but is also a tormented old man. What we see represented on stage is not only the violence of his power, but also its desperate loneliness. After the struggle with Care it seems that blindness has given him an inner capacity to see. And yet he reverts to being the ruthless master of a world of slaves and pirates. An utterly negative world. In performance the work of the lemurs evokes the alienating mechanical labour of the industrial world; it becomes the symbol of a society whose ‘progress’ devastates the earth and kills life. The foundations dug with a view to the future are nothing other than the grave into which Faust falls. Faust–Mephistopheles together create the modern world, a world in which one vies for ephemeral possession, which lasts an instant, which is ferocious and wants everything, which is an obsessive and voracious drive, uncontrollable and lacerating. Even his ﬁnal dream of a free and happy humanity appears to be a way of deferring to an eternal tomorrow a utopia which should instead change the present. (‘Faust imagines paradisal visions deferred to tomorrow, always to tomorrow, oblivious of today’s evil and of the ‘price’ that such visions costs humanity.’) Does this glimmer of humanity save him? In Strehler’s interpretation the ending acquires a different meaning. After the Brechtian vision of a capitalist metropolis, we are shifted away from the reality of time and history into the cycle of life and death. There is a sudden change of style in the performance. Faust’s death is a downfall from his illusionary pedestal of power and a return to the earth. The grave becomes the loving womb of a feminine, maternal Eternity. The symbol of the spiral reappears: ‘The ﬁnal image is the inﬁnite which has absorbed Faust “into itself ”: a foetus/embryo in a cloudy azure. All this, while the light descends in a

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cosmic sound.’26 It is a striking, visual reinterpretation of Goethe’s ending. Stripped of his individual identity, Faust’s naked body lies on the stage. Mysteriously, the shadows of the Mothers and of Gretchen reappear to draw over him and across the entire stage a black veil as the ﬁnal curtain. notes 1. Giorgio Strehler, ‘La nostra ricerca sul Faust continua’, in Faust frammenti parte prima, Milano: Piccolo Teatro, 1989–90 (pages are unnumbered). This article, dated 20 January 1990, is printed in one of the two programme-books devoted to the presentation of Part i and Part ii (Parte prima e Parte seconda) of his Faust, edited by the Piccolo Teatro, on the occasion of the 1989 and 1991 performances. In addition to Strehler’s director’s notes and critical remarks, these books include other essays by critics and writers, as well as splendid photographic documentation by Luigi Ciminaghi. These two programme-books, together with the scripts containing Strehler’s unpublished translation of Goethe’s Faust i–ii, unpublished letters, photographs and videos are part of the rich documentary material of the staging of Goethe’s Faust kept in the Archivio Multimediale del Piccolo Teatro di Milano (hereafter AMPT). 2. Giorgio Strehler, ‘Faust frammenti parte seconda’, in Faust frammenti parte seconda, Milano: Piccolo Teatro, 1990–1 (pages are unnumbered). 3. Giorgio Strehler, ‘La nostra ricerca sul Faust continua’. 4. Ibid. 5. In his notes Strehler repeatedly insists on the fact that Faust cannot be reduced to a single interpretation and on the need to resort to a plurality of expressive languages. 6. Giorgio Strehler, ‘Il progetto Faust’ (dated November 1988), in Faust frammenti parte seconda. 7. Relevant to this analysis was Claudio Magris’ essay on ‘Le metamorfosi di Faust’, in Itaca e oltre, Milano: Garzanti, 1982. 8. Speaking of his direction of Shakespeare’s plays, he deﬁnes the staging as ‘a critical operation written with the material of the theatre, with all the material of the theatre, on a stage, and which presupposes another initial critical operation which then takes precise form in the theatre work’. Giorgio Strehler, Inscenare Shakespeare, Rome: Bulzoni, 1999, 9. 9. Giorgio Strehler, ‘Il progetto Faust’. 10. In a note dated Milan 18 March 1989 Strehler thanks the translators who have preceded him, above all acknowledging his debt to the poet Franco Fortini’s ‘poetic, often dazzling solutions’ in his version of Goethe, Faust, Parte I e II, Milan: Mondadori, 1970, 2 vols. 11. Giorgio Strehler, ‘La nostra ricerca sul Faust è incominciata’, in Faust frammenti parte prima. 12. Strehler translated the ﬁrst part, but for the second he worked in collaboration with Gilberto Tofano, another director with wide cultural knowledge and a talent for theatre translation.

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13. Giorgio Strehler, ‘Faust frammenti parte seconda’, in Faust frammenti parte seconda. 14. Stuart Atkins also uses the image of a mosaic when speaking of Goethe’s work. 15. Umberto Eco, Opera aperta, Milan: Bompiani, 1962, 51–2. 16. In this long, typewritten letter, kept in the AMPT (Giorgio Strehler, Lettera a Joseph Svoboda con indicazioni registiche sul disegno tecnico della struttura del Faust, Frammenti parte seconda, 1990, unpublished, 14 pp., unnumbered), Strehler proposes to Svoboda a whole series of illuminating scenic ideas to solve the difﬁculties of Part ii of Faust (namely, the representation of Ancient Greece, the tragedy of Helena, the war and above all the ﬁnale). Some of these were duly staged, while others were discarded or modiﬁed. Strehler’s letter is an exceptional document for the insight it gives us into his mental laboratory and for understanding how his director’s vision always embraces the full range of theatrical languages. Actors, scenes, lights and costumes coexist in his imaginative staging. 17. Giorgio Strehler, Lettera a Joseph Svoboda. 18. Gilberto Tofano, ‘Faust frammenti parte seconda: alle radici della storia europea’, in Faust frammenti parte seconda. 19. Giorgio Strehler, ‘La nostra ricerca sul Faust continua’. 20. Strehler takes his cue for this leap in time from Gustav Gründgens, who had already used rumba rhythms for this scene. 21. Giulia Lazzarini was Margarete, the ﬂying Ariel, the Boy-Charioteer/Poetry, Baucis, Care (Angoscia) and again Gretchen in the last scene. Tino Carraro was Chiron and the offstage voice of God in the ‘Prologue in Heaven’. Gianfranco Mauri played Wagner and Philemon. The ﬁrst Helena was Eleonora Brigliadori, and later the German actress Andrea Jonasson, Strehler’s young wife, bestowed on the character her talent and beauty. When the scene required many extras, Strehler cast the pupils of his theatre school. 22. As can been seen from his table of scenes, Strehler omits the ‘Prologue on the Stage’. 23. Giorgio Strehler, Lettera a Joseph Svoboda. 24. Giorgio Strehler, ‘La nostra ricerca sul Faust continua’. 25. The actress descends, wafting down, suspended on a thread, as in Strehler’s 1978 staging of The Tempest. Regarding this production, see Pia Kleber, Theatrical Continuities in Giorgio Strehler’s The Tempest, in Foreign Shakespeare. Contemporary Performance, ed. Dennis Kennedy, Cambridge University Press, 1993. 26. Giorgio Strehler, Lettera a Joseph Svoboda.

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Alewyn, Richard, ‘Goethe und die Antike’, in Probleme und Gestalten. Essays, Richard Alewyn, Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1982, 255–70. Alt, Peter-André, ‘Aufgeklärte Teufel. Modellierungen des Bösen im Trauerspiel des 18. Jahrhunderts’, in Die deutsche Tragödie. Neue Lektüren einer Gattung im europäischen Kontext, ed. Volker C. Dörr et al., Bielefeld: Aisthesis, 2006. Altenburg, Detlef, ‘Fürst Radziwills “Compositionen zu Göthe’s Faust”. Zur Geschichte der Schauspielmusik im 19. Jahrhundert’, in Festschrift Christoph-Hellmut Mahling, ed. Axel Beer et al., Tutzing: H. Schneider, 1997. Anglet, Andreas, ‘Der reﬂektierte Mythos in Goethes “Klassischer Walpurgisnacht”’, Jahrbuch des Freien Deutschen Hochstifts 32 (1992), 142–4. Arendt, Hannah, Eichmann in Jerusalem. A Report on the Banality of Evil, New York: Viking Press, 1963. (German original: Eichmann in Jerusalem. Ein Bericht von der Banalität des Bösen, Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1978.) Arens, Hans, Kommentar zu Goethes Faust ii, Heidelberg: Carl Winter Verlag, 1989. Atkins, Stuart, ‘Goethe, Aristophanes and the “Classical Walpurgisnacht”’, Comparative Literature 6 (1954). Bennet, Benjamin, Goethe’s Theory of Poetry. Faust and the Regeneration of Language, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986. Beutler, Ernst, Essays um Goethe, 4th edn, Wiesbaden: Diederich, 1948. Birk, Manfred, ‘Goethes Typologie der Epochenschwelle im vierten Akt des Faust ii’, Jahrbuch der deutschen Schillergesellschaft 33 (1989), 261–80. Borchmeyer, Dieter, Goethe. Der Zeitbürger, Munich: Hanser, 1999. Böttiger, Karl August, Literarische Zustände und Zeitgenossen. Begegnungen und Gespräche im klassischen Weimar, ed. Klaus Gerlach and René Sternke, Berlin: Aufbau, 1998. Boyle, Nicholas, Goethe. The Poet and the Age, 2 vols., Oxford: Clarendon, 2000–6. ‘The Politics of Faust ii. Another Look at the Stratum of 1831’, Publications of the English Goethe Society 52 (1983), 4–43. Brittnacher, Hans Richard, Ästhetik des Horrors, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1994.

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Janz, Rolf-Peter, ‘“Vom Harz bis Hellas immer Vettern”. Mephistopheles in der “Klassischen Walpurgisnacht”’, in Peter Stein inszeniert Faust von Johann Wolfgang Goethe, ed. Peter Stein and Roswitha Schieb, Ostﬁldern: DuMont Reiseverlag, 2000, 274–6. Jaspers, Karl, ‘Unsere Zukunft und Goethe. Rede, am 28. August 1947 anlässlich der Verteilung des Goethepreises der Stadt Frankfurt am Main gehalten’, in Jaspers, Die Goethe-Schriften, Zurich: Artemis, 1948. Jerouschek, Günther, ‘Skandal um Goethe?’, Goethe-Jahrbuch 2004, Weimar: Böhlau, 2005, 253–60. Keudell, Elise von, Goethe als Benutzer der Weimarer Bibliothek. Ein Verzeichnis der von ihm entliehenen Werke, Weimar: H. Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1931. Kiefer, Klaus H., ‘Balsamo, Giuseppe’, in Goethe-Handbuch, vol. iv/1, ed. HansDietrich Dahnke und Regine Otto, Stuttgart-Weimar: Metzler, 1998. Kommerell, Max, ‘Faust Zweiter Teil. Zum Verständnis der Form’, Corona 7 (1937). Geist und Buchstabe der Dichtung. Goethe, Schiller, Kleist, Hölderlin, Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1940. Landeck, Ulrich, Der fünfte Akt von Goethes Faust ii. Kommentierte kritische Ausgabe, Zurich: Artemis, 1981. Litzmann, Bertold, Goethes Faust, Berlin: Fleischel, 1904. Lohmeyer, Dorothea, Faust und die Welt. Der zweite Teil der Dichtung, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1975. Lützeler, Paul Michael, ‘Goethes “Faust” und der Sozialismus. Zur Rezeption des klassischen Erbes in der DDR’, in Basis. Jahrbuch für deutsche Gegenwartsliteratur 5, Frankfurt: Athenäum, 1975, 31–55. Mahl, Bernd, Goethes Faust auf der Bühne, 1806–1998, Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 1999. Martens, Wolfgang, Der patriotische Minister. Fürstendiener in der Literatur der Aufklärungszeit, Weimar-Cologne-Vienna: Böhlau, 1996. Mattenklott, Gert, ‘Der Medien-Mephistopheles. Gustav Gründgens als Mephistopheles in Goethes Faust’, Theater heute 2 (2000), 23–7. Michelsen, Peter, Im Banne Fausts. Zwölf Faust-Studien, Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2000. Molnár, Géza von, ‘Goethes Studium der Kritik der Urteilskraft. Eine Zusammenstellung nach den Eintragungen in seinem Handexemplar’, Goethe Yearbook: Publications of the Goethe Society of North America 2 (1984), 137–222. Mommsen, Katharina, ‘Faust ii als politisches Vermächtnis des Staatsmannes Goethe’, Jahrbuch des freien deutschen Hochstifts (1989), 1–36. Natur- und Fabelreich in Faust ii, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1968. Osterkamp, Ernst, Lucifer. Stationen eines Motivs, Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1979. Paracelsus, Sämtliche Werke. Erste Abteilung: Medizinische, naturwissenschaftliche und philosophische Schriften, ed. Karl Sudhoff, vol. xi, Munich and Berlin: Oldenbourg, 1922–33.

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Reinhardt, Karl, ‘Die klassische Walpurgisnacht. Entstehung und Bedeutung’, in Tradition und Geist. Gesammelte Essays zur Dichtung, ed. Carl Becker, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960, 309–56. Richter, Simon, Laocoon’s Body and the Aesthetics of Pain. Winckelmann, Lessing, Herder, Moritz, Goethe, Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992. Sahlberg, Oskar N., ‘Goethes Faust. Homunculus und die Neuzeugung der Schwestergeliebten’, The International Journal of Prenatal and Perinatal Psychology and Medicine 13/1–2 (2001), 193–200. Schanze, Helmut, Faust-Konstellationen. Mythos und Medien, Munich: Fink, 1999. Goethes Dramatik. Theater der Erinnerung, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1989. ‘Goethes Rhetorik’, in Rhetorik zwischen den Wissenschaften, ed. G. Ueding, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1991. Schieb, Roswitha, ‘Probentagebuch’, in Peter Stein inszeniert Faust, ed. Roswitha Schieb, Cologne: DuMont, 2000, 144–51. Schings, Hans-Jürgen, ‘Faust and the “God of the Modern Age”. Goethe as Critic of the Faustian Urge’, Goethe-Jahrbuch der Goethe-Gesellschaft in Japan 43 (2001), 33–43. Melancholie und Aufklärung. Melancholiker und ihre Kritiker in Literatur und Erfahrungsseelenkunde des 18. Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1977. Schlaffer, Heinz, Faust Zweiter Teil. Die Allegorie des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1981. Schleif, Walter, Goethes Diener, Berlin and Weimar: Aufbau, 1965. Schmidt, Jochen, Goethes Faust. Erster und Zweiter Teil. Grundlagen–Werk– Wirkung, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1999. Schmidt-Biggemann, Wilhelm, ‘Über die unfaßliche Evidenz des Bösen’, in Das Böse. Eine historische Phänomenologie des Unerklärlichen, ed. Carsten Colpe and W. Schmidt-Biggemann, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1993. Schneider, Steffen, ‘Mnemonische Imaginationen in Goethes Faust ii. Eine Lektüre der Klassischen Walpurgisnacht’, Goethe-Jahrbuch 119 (2002). Schöne, Albrecht, Götterzeichen, Liebeszauber, Satanskult. Neue Einblicke in alte Goethetexte, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1993. Schuchard, G. C. L., ‘Julirevolution, St Simonismus und die Faustpartien von 1831’, ZfdPh 60 (1935), 240–74 and 362–84. Schulz, Gerhard, Die deutsche Literatur zwischen französischer Revolution und Restauration, Part ii, Munich: C. H. Beck, 1989. Snell, Bruno, ‘Arkadien. Die Entdeckung einer geistigen Landschaft’, in Antike und Abendland, vol. i, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1945. Stein, Peter, ‘Zum Tode geboren. Ein Gespräch mit dem Regisseur Peter Stein über Theater, Tragödie und das Los des Menschen – von Dirk Pilz’, Theater der Zeit 10 (2005). Tobin, Robert D., ‘Faust’s Membership in Male Society. Prometheus and Ganymede as Models’, Interpreting Goethe’s Faust Today, ed. Jane K. Brown et al., Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1994. Warm Brothers. Queer Theory and the Age of Goethe, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000.

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Volkelt, Hans, Auf freiem Grund mit freiem Volke stehen. Goethes Faust und Deutschlands Lebensanspruch, Leipzig: Psychol.-Pädag. Institut d. Univ., 1944. Volkmann, Ernst, ‘Gestalt und Wandel der Kentauren-Idee bei Goethe’, in Lebendiges Erbe. Festschrift für Dr Ernst Reclam, ed. E. Reclam, Leipzig: Philipp Reclam, 1936, 123–37. Wegner, Max, Goethes Anschauung antiker Kunst, Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1944. Weinrich, Harald, Lethe. The Art and Critique of Forgetting, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004. Williams, John R., ‘Die Deutung geschichtlicher Epochen im zweiten Teil des Faust’, Goethe-Jahrbuch 110 (1993), 89–103. ‘Mephisto’s Magical Mystery Tour. Goethe, Cagliostro, and the Mothers in Faust, Part Two’, Publications of the English Goethe Society 58 (1989), 84–102. Wübben, Yvonne ‘“. . . und dennoch spukt’s in Tegel” – Zu Goethes CagliostroRezeption’, Goethe-Jahrbuch 119 (2002), 96–119. Zabka, Thomas, ‘Dialektik des Bösen. Warum es in Goethes “Walpurgisnacht” keinen Satan gibt’, DVJs 72 (1998), 201–26. Faust ii – Das Klassische und das Romantische. Goethes ‘Eingriff in die neueste Literatur’, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1993. Zagari, Luciano, ‘Natur und Geschichte. Metamorphotisches und Archetypisches in der Klassischen Walpurgisnacht’, Bausteine zu einem neuen Goethe, ed. Paolo Chiarini, Frankfurt am Main: Athenäum, 1987.

Index

alchemy, 25, 42, 81, 82, 83, 85 Arendt, Hannah, 38, 39 Aristotle, 231, 257 Atkins, Stuart, xi, 52, 90, 126, 154, 323 beautiful moment, der schöne Augenblick, 3, 7, 59, 104, 167, 168, 200, 239 Benn, Gottfried, 19 Berzelius, Jöns Jakob, 26, 31 blindness, blind, 6, 29, 58, 89, 104, 105, 109, 286 Boisserée, Sulpice, 21 Book of Job, 55, 57, 58, 86, 204 Borchmeyer, Dieter, vi, viii, xiv, 1, 9, 68 Boyle, Nicholas, 5, 78, 86, 250 Brecht, Bertolt, 6, 17, 125, 198, 202, 205, 273, 293, 307, 316, 321 Brown, Jane, vi, viii, 1, 6, 9, 152 Care, Sorge, 75, 101, 102, 230, 243, 311, 320 catharsis, 231, 233, 257, 286 chapbook, Volksbuch, 42 Chiron, 2, 65, 116, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 125, 130, 137, 143, 144, 145, 146, 149, 165, 170 classic, classical classicist, 156, 163 Weimar, 51, 52, 172, 177, 206, 253, 286 ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, 2, 36, 73, 116, 122, 138, 157, 160, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 185, 186, 204, 228 colonization, 6, 20, 60, 66, 74, 298 daemon, daemonic, 4, 41, 42, 43, 44, 48, 79, 80, 85 despair, 9, 94, 105, 197, 203, 283, 289, 295, 296, 311 Dichtung und Wahrheit, 41, 45, 50, 67 directorial theatre, 1, 6, 10, 11, 19, 206, 288, 291 Divina Commedia, 9, 65, 275 Earth Spirit, 4, 9, 48, 49, 55, 105, 206, 239, 247, 276, 295, 299 Eissler, Kurt, 175, 189, 190

emperor, Kaiser, 22, 44, 46, 62, 72, 78, 81, 223, 228, 241, 287 Emrich, Wilhelm, 78, 102, 111, 138, 152 Enlightenment, 6, 42, 43, 80, 81, 82, 89, 106, 121, 125, 156, 159, 178, 212, 278 entelechy, 3, 7, 57, 63, 78, 281 enthusiasm, 7, 8, 107, 122 Euphorion, 6, 46, 80, 132, 135, 137, 171, 206, 228, 229, 233, 263 evil, das Böse, 7, 9, 32, 33, 51 metaphysical, 32, 40, 48, 49, 50, 55, 61, 241, 297 modern, 4, 32, 34, 36, 39, 56, 59, 60 phenomenal, 32, 33, 35, 37, 38, 52, 56, 60, 79, 318 fantastic errors, phantastische Irrtümer, 3, 7, 78, 112 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, 43 Fischer-Lichte, Erika, 13 ‘Forest and Cave’, 46, 48, 58, 61, 69, 105, 218, 296 French Revolution, 23, 27, 56, 61, 79, 80, 141 Freud, Sigmund, 11, 68, 127, 277 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 115, 270, 283, 291 Gaier, Ulrich, v, viii, 4, 5, 8, 9, 138, 139, 152, 154, 187, 208, 265, 267, 297 Gestalt, 65, 66, 162, 163, 166, 170 God, the Lord, 3, 32, 33, 41, 44, 45, 46, 48, 49, 52, 55, 57, 60, 63, 64, 102, 199, 211, 214, 318 good and evil, 4, 6, 37, 38, 40, 49, 50, 52, 199 Gretchen, Margarete, 63, 64, 65, 109, 298 ﬁgure, 64, 72, 75, 224, 240, 247, 280, 281, 297, 299, 318, 320 tragedy, 69, 72, 105, 106, 210, 217, 222, 240, 243, 258, 277, 297, 298 grotesque, 138, 154, 168, 178, 223 in ‘Classical Walpurgis Night’, 2, 142, 143, 146, 150, 152 meaning, 139, 140, 141, 151, 153 Gründgens, Gustav, 7, 19, 203, 268, 312, 323

330

Index Hederich, Benjamin, 116, 159, 192 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm, 6, 7, 115, 205 Helena, 137, 165, 168, 169, 271, 314 act, 9, 105, 135, 163, 171, 212, 243, 255, 260, 262 antecedents, 2, 61, 130 ﬁgure, 37, 63, 130, 132, 160, 260, 280, 281, 282 symbol, 130, 136, 172 hermeneutics, hermeneutic, 13, 270, 283 Hölscher-Lohmeyer, Dorothea, 78, 154 Homer, 18, 24, 116, 132, 165 Homunculus, 25, 26, 27, 31, 138, 143, 145, 151, 204, 223, 242, 244, 248, 249 immortality, 3, 7, 75 industrial revolution, 30, 63, 85, 297 inner light, 6, 89, 102, 105, 243 Jaspers, Karl, 6, 13, 23, 24 Kant, Immanuel, 43, 121, 236, 237, 248, 250 Kommerell, Max, 78, 101 Lavater, Johann Caspar, 82, 91 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 6, 66, 205 Liszt, Franz, 206, 225 Lucifer, 3, 39, 42, 56, 181, 193 magic creative, 7, 82 Mephistophelean, 3, 59, 79, 81 theosophic, 62, 80 Mann, Thomas, 17, 102, 118, 127, 213, 310 Manto, 8, 122, 158, 159, 160, 287 Marlowe, Christopher, 42, 66, 154, 205, 310 Marx, Karl, 21, 22, 303 Medusa, 2, 80, 154, 156, 158, 159, 160, 161, 163, 164, 166, 167, 169, 171, 172 memory cultural, 12, 68, 69, 70, 73, 76, 273, 274 Faust’s, 68, 295 Mensch, der gute, 3, 211 Middle Ages, 66, 132, 171, 201, 281 modernity, modern, 1, 2, 4, 8, 11, 12, 55, 146, 164, 169, 188, 202 early, 2, 57, 202 Goethezeit, 2, 30, 74, 79, 80, 85, 87, 201, 228, 253, 264, 277 present, 2, 3, 4, 13, 40, 77, 205, 235, 270, 293, 306 Western, 1, 3, 8, 9, 12, 57, 105, 125, 152, 156, 171, 172, 187, 197, 198, 204, 205, 207, 293 Moritz, Karl Philipp, 70, 71, 116, 127, 142, 206 Mothers, the, 62, 63, 64, 81, 82, 83, 85, 111, 242, 243, 281

331

‘Mountain Gorges’, 95, 225, 230, 232, 233, 259, 261, 263, 276 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 54, 224, 257, 261, 262 music, musical aesthetically, 9, 10, 226, 227, 228, 231, 232 composed, 54, 224, 225, 228 poetic, 9, 227, 228, 230, 233, 259, 261, 263, 264, 271, 275 Napoleon Bonaparte, 7, 62, 79, 178 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 6, 40, 107, 205 nihilism, 9, 202 opera, 2, 8, 9, 65, 157, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 230, 263, 315 Origen, 108, 109, 188 pantheism, 43, 51 Paracelsus, Theophrastus Bombastus, 3, 25 Pelagianism, 50, 53 performance, performative, 10 concept, 256, 263 deconstructivist, 10, 12, 206, 264, 274, 293 review, 302, 309, 312, 315, 317, 318, 320 phantasmagoria, 2, 7, 111, 138, 143, 169, 171, 197, 201, 210, 255 Philemon and Baucis, 20, 27, 28, 34, 35, 38, 41, 50, 58, 74, 99, 101, 197, 210 polarity, 4, 48, 50, 199 ‘Prologue in Heaven’, 7, 41, 45, 48, 55, 57, 65, 199, 204, 210, 211, 212, 227, 231, 307, 308, 318 Proteus, 26, 32 psychoanalysis, 25 Renaissance, 7, 9, 62, 138, 140, 144, 151, 154, 179, 205, 217, 244, 247, 254, 255 Romanticism, 6, 19, 255 period, 3, 253 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 58, 84, 235 Russell, Jeffrey Burton, 1 Saint-Simonism, 5, 6, 86, 88 salvation, 48, 50, 51, 70, 74, 75, 77, 108, 188, 193, 197, 199, 207, 211, 214, 222, 235, 241 Satan, 39, 42, 43, 55, 57, 58, 59, 185, 204, 219, 221, 222 Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph, 48, 107, 209 Schiller, Friedrich, 8, 9, 43, 90, 121, 177, 205, 226, 228 Schings, Hans-Jürgen, v, ix, 5, 6, 7, 8, 93, 112 Schlaffer, Heinz, 5, 138, 152, 208 Schmidt, Jochen, 5, 39, 78, 208

332

Index

Schöne, Albrecht, v, ix, xiv, 1, 4, 5, 8, 39, 82, 99, 100, 108, 111, 112, 127, 138, 139, 152, 185, 192, 267 Schuchard, Gottlieb C. L., 5, 78, 86, 87 Schumann, Robert, 206, 224, 225, 227, 228, 230 schwankende Gestalten, wavering shapes, 4, 41, 46, 60, 62, 65 Spinoza, Spinozism, 43, 48 Stein, Peter as a director, 1, 11, 12, 143, 207, 208, 281, 283, 285, 287, 291 on directorial theatre, 6, 11, 270, 272 on Faust, 7, 268, 270, 275, 276, 277, 281 Strehler, Giorgio, 10, 12, 313, 315, 316, 317, 318, 319, 321 striving, Streben for the absolute, 3, 4, 6, 8, 30, 243, 254, 276, 277 self-centred, 88, 235, 267 technology, 3, 59, 61, 85, 87, 88, 172 Thales, 26, 27 Thalheimer, Michael, 10, 289, 290, 291, 297 theatricality, theatrical, 9, 243, 244, 250, 253

totalitarianism, 13 tragedy, 168, 169, 217, 325 disputed, 9, 68, 209, 210, 211, 223, 224, 284, 285 Faust’s, 8, 199, 233, 278, 281, 282, 286, 314 structural, 6, 11, 65, 68, 94, 97, 199, 205, 208, 210, 231, 256, 257, 275, 276, 278, 284, 286, 311, 315 trickster, 49, 50, 51, 52, 212, 213, 214, 221 two souls, 9, 114, 198, 239, 281 ultimate formulae, 3, 4, 22 Urfaust, 6, 42, 43, 51 utopia, 3, 8, 63, 85, 87, 88, 135, 223, 321 wager, 41, 51, 55, 57, 58, 59, 74, 94, 104, 197, 199, 200, 204, 207, 218, 269 Wagner, Richard, 52, 213, 225, 227, 257 Weinrich, Harald, 68, 69 Wieland, Christoph Martin, 141, 174, 175, 189, 221, 222 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim, 164, 165, 166, 176, 177, 178, 179, 181, 328

Goethe's Faust: Theatre of Modernity

Goethes Faust als Bild seiner esoterischen Weltanschauung (1902)

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Goethe's Faust: Theatre of Modernity

Goethes Faust als Bild seiner esoterischen Weltanschauung (1902)

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