DURING the next period of Goethe’s life, extending from 1794 to 1805—that is, from his forty-fifth to his fifty-sixth year—the central facts are those relating to his friendship with Schiller.

Schiller, who was ten years younger than Goethe, came to Weimar from Dresden in 1787, when Goethe was in Italy. He was then twenty-eight years of age, and was known chiefly as the author of “The Robbers” and “Don Carlos.” He had passed through many a harsh and stern experience, but retained in all their freshness the high, ideal impulses of his early youth. Of the many striking figures who arose in Germany during the second half of the eighteenth century, Schiller, not as a writer only but as a man, was one of the noblest. It was his destiny to have to endure much physical pain, but his sufferings were never allowed to embitter his spirit or to depress his courage. He marched steadily forward on his chosen path, keeping always before himself the loftiest aims, and kindling in other minds something of his own generous passion for truth, humanity, and freedom.

Dramatic work having been anything but profitable in a material sense, Schiller began, soon after his arrival at Weimar, to write his book on the revolt of the Netherlands, hoping that as an historian he might secure the independence that was necessary to enable him to do justice to his powers as a poet. He had the warmest admiration for Goethe’s genius, and looked forward eagerly to his return.

The two poets met for the first time in the summer of 1788, at Rudolstadt, in the house of Frau von Lengefeld, whose daughter Charlotte afterwards became Schiller’s wife. Goethe, who had no means of knowing that Schiller’s ideas had been in some respects gradually approaching his own, thought of him simply as one of the vehement “Sturm und Drang” writers. On this occasion, therefore, their talk did not pass beyond the limits of ordinary politeness, and Schiller obtained the impression that they were so different from one another that friendship between them would be impossible. Nevertheless, he thought much about Goethe, and sometimes could not help rather enviously contrasting Goethe’s prosperity with his own crushing difficulties.

In 1789 Schiller settled in Jena as a professor of history, having obtained this appointment through Goethe’s influence. Early in the following year he married Charlotte von Lengefeld, his union with whom may have brought him repeatedly into contact with Goethe, who was an old friend of Charlotte’s family. We know of one meeting between them in the autumn of 1790, when Goethe called at Schiller’s house. They talked of the philosophy of Kant; and Schiller, in writing about the conversation to his friend KÖrner, spoke of Goethe as being, in his opinion, too much occupied with the laws of the outward world. He recognized, however, Goethe’s great way of thinking, and his effort to detect the meaning of individual facts by combining them in a whole.

Broken in health, Schiller went with his wife, in 1793, to WÜrtemberg, in the hope that he might benefit by his native air. While staying at Stuttgart, he made arrangements with the publisher Cotta for the issue of a literary periodical, the Horen (“The Hours”); and after his return to Jena, in 1794, he wrote to Goethe, asking him to become a contributor. Goethe cordially undertook to give what help he could. Shortly afterwards they both happened to attend a meeting of a scientific society at Jena, and as they walked together towards Schiller’s house they had an interesting discussion about the true method of science. In the course of this conversation Goethe was for the first time attracted by Schiller; and he was drawn towards him still more strongly by a later talk, in which he found that they did not essentially differ from one another in their ideas about art.

In September of the same year Goethe invited Schiller to visit him, that they might come to an understanding about the nature of the work to be done for the Horen. Schiller gladly promised to spend a fortnight in Goethe’s house, and it was during this visit that the deep and solid bases of their friendship were laid. Each gave his heart to the other without reserve, and to the end of Schiller’s life nothing was permitted to stand in the way of their mutual love and confidence. Goethe often went to Jena, where he had rooms in the old Schloss, and Schiller was never happier than when he had an opportunity of spending some time at Weimar. On every occasion when they met, each seemed to find some new quality to intensify his admiration for the other’s thought and character.

Goethe and Schiller took the purest delight in one another’s achievements, and neither of them was ever tired of stimulating the other to bring forth the noblest fruits of his genius. The tendency of Schiller, who was hardly less a philosopher than a poet, was to give his ideas, even in poetry, an abstract expression. Through contact with Goethe he was led, almost unconsciously, to present his conceptions in more imaginative forms. His style became more direct, lucid, and animated, and deeper appreciation of the real world around him imparted fresh life and colour to his pictures of purely ideal realms. Goethe, whose genius was of an incomparably higher order, and responded to a wider range of influences, had nothing, so far as art was concerned, to learn from Schiller. Nevertheless, he owed to Schiller, as he himself was always eager to acknowledge, a deep debt of gratitude. From the time when he had finished “Tasso” and the “Roman Elegies,” he had produced nothing that was worthy to rank with his best work. He had occupied himself chiefly with ministerial business and physical science, and seemed almost to have lost the impulse to visit the imaginative world in which he had for a while moved so freely and so happily. His power of poetic creation was, however, only slumbering; and by his intercourse with Schiller it was awakened to splendid activity. Schiller’s enthusiasm called forth in him what Goethe himself called “a second youth,” “a new spring.”

The Horen, which began to appear in 1795, excited much antagonism, and Schiller was excessively annoyed by the attacks directed against it. Goethe did not let himself be disturbed by hostile judgments, but towards the end of the year he proposed that they should amuse themselves by making their opponents the subjects of a series of epigrams, each epigram consisting of a distich. This suggestion delighted Schiller, and they lost no time in giving effect to it. The scheme widened as they went on, being made to include not only writers who had directly assailed them, but others whose methods and tendencies they disliked. They also seized the opportunity to do honour to various great writers, such as Lessing and Kant. A vast collection of epigrams soon accumulated, some by Goethe, some by Schiller, and some the work of both poets. They were called “Xenien” (“Xenia,” hospitable gifts: a title borrowed from Martial), and published in the “Musenalmanach,” a yearly volume of poems, edited by Schiller. These epigrams, many of which are bright and keen, fluttered the dovecots of criticism, and caused Goethe and Schiller, whose names were always henceforth closely associated, to be held in wholesome dread by pedants and literary impostors.

The first important work completed by Goethe after the beginning of his friendship with Schiller was “Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre” (“Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship”). In 1793 he had taken in hand the task of revising the part he had written before his sojourn in Italy, but it is doubtful whether he would have gone on with it but for Schiller’s influence. Schiller was intensely interested in the book, and often talked about it with Goethe, who sought his advice as to the best way of rounding it off. Encouraged by his friend’s enthusiasm, Goethe carried on his labours steadily until it was finished in 1796.

In “Werther,” Goethe’s first romance, he deals only with one great crisis in the history of his hero. “Wilhelm Meister,” on the contrary, is a picture of the entire course of a young man’s life. Meister is the son of a merchant, and at the point where the tale begins he is associated with his father in business. He has a touch of poetry, and longs for a freer, more exciting, more interesting career, in which he may find scope for the development of his individuality. He is profoundly interested in the drama, and this feeling is deepened by his relation with Marianne, a beautiful actress whom he passionately loves. At last he decides to escape with Marianne from his commonplace surroundings, and to become an actor; and all his arrangements are made, when he is led, by some incidents which he misinterprets, to believe that the girl to whom he has been devoted is unfaithful to him. Shocked by this supposed discovery, he abandons her, and in a dejected mood continues to go through his ordinary duties. But by and by, when travelling to execute some business commissions, he meets several actors and actresses, and his old love for the stage is revived. A theatrical company is formed; the director receives from Meister enough money for the necessary expenses; and the players are invited by a count to give performances at his country house. Here Meister becomes acquainted with the works of Shakespeare, and his ideas about the drama are transformed. He is excited, too, by a romantic relation with the young and beautiful countess. When the players, after the fulfilment of their engagement, are leaving the castle, he is attacked by bandits, and, as he lies wounded and apparently dying, help is brought to him by “the Amazon,” a woman who makes a deep impression upon him. She suddenly appears, and as suddenly disappears, and he hardly knows, when he thinks of her, whether she is real or only a figure in a dream.

He forms a connection with a regular theatre, and, when acting the part of Hamlet, is so startled by the Ghost (the mystery of whose appearance is explained in the course of the story) that he produces a powerful effect by the truth of his representation. He has not, however, the capacity of becoming a great player, the reason being—as one of the characters tells him—that, no matter what part he assumes, it is always his own personality that he represents. He does not possess the faculty of giving living form to the thoughts and feelings of a type of mind different from his own. One of the actresses of the company, Aurelia, excites his sympathy by her settled melancholy, which is due to the fact that she has been deserted by Lothario, a lover, of high station, whom she is unable to forget. Before her death she intrusts a letter to Meister, asking him to place it, when all is over, in Lothario’s hands.

In fulfilment of this mission, Meister quits the stage; and by Lothario, who has many great qualities, he is introduced to a circle widely different from anything he has yet seen. He finds that there is a secret society by which, unknown to himself, he has been closely watched and in some measure guided. This society, of which Lothario is one of the leading members, has been formed for the cultivation of all that is highest and noblest in humanity; and Meister, his “Lehrjahre” over, is admitted into it with much pomp and ceremony. He learns the truth about his first love, Marianne, and at the same time hears that she is dead. He then wins the affections of a woman who appeals rather to his intellect than to his feeling; but he is afterwards brought into contact with “The Amazon,” who had passed before him so strangely and beneficently, and the tale ends with the description of the somewhat complicated circumstances which lead to their betrothal.

Meister does not convey the impression of having profited very largely by his “Lehrjahre.” About this, Goethe appears to have given himself little trouble. His object was to present a series of striking pictures of life, and this purpose he accomplished with brilliant power. The execution is, however, very unequal. The last part lacks the life, vigour, and movement of the earlier scenes, and all that relates to the secret society is strained and unnatural. In this part Goethe appears to have been misled by Schiller, who insisted that the problems suggested in the course of the narrative should be worked out and solved. The elements of the original conception were not knit together closely enough for this rigorous treatment.

In the books dealing with Meister’s connection with the drama Goethe displays to perfection his matchless power of giving charm, through sheer force of style, even to scenes and incidents that are not in themselves very impressive. The characters, too, have astonishing vitality. We are told little about them, and their motives are never elaborately analysed. They are simply made to act before us, and we thus learn to know them, each in his and her own clearly marked individuality, as if we had met them in real life. Meister himself, with his wavering impulses and vague strivings after an ideal existence, is revealed with absolute truth to nature, and, although he never wins (nor is intended to win) our full respect, we are compelled, almost in spite of ourselves, to follow him with interest from stage to stage of his career. The most important character, however, is not Meister, but Mignon, one of the strangest, most pathetic figures in the world’s literature. Transported in childhood from “the land where the citrons blossom” to the cold North, she is never at home in the scenes in which we find her. Calm, gentle, self-possessed, she conceals a burning passion that in the end consumes her life; yet she is of so ethereal a nature that she seems to glide through the world as one who in no way belongs to it. A more truly poetic conception never took form in a romance; and Mignon alone, even if “Wilhelm Meister” had contained no other element of interest, would have sufficed to make the book immortal. In relation to her the hero is seen at his best, and it is she who gives the work such unity as it possesses—a unity of spirit rather than of form. The songs sung by Mignon and by the Harper (another highly poetic figure, marked out from the beginning, like Mignon, for a tragic doom) are among Goethe’s lyrical masterpieces, remarkable equally for the depth of their meaning and the purity, sweetness, and grace of their expression. In almost startling contrast to Mignon is the gay, bright, coquettish Philline—the type of feminine Bohemianism; a character thoroughly self-consistent and full of bounding life until we hear about her in the unfortunate concluding scenes, when things are told of her that tend to make her utterly unintelligible.

In “Wilhelm Meister” Goethe gives us much dramatic criticism. It has, of course, no vital relation to the story, but it is penetrating and suggestive, and the famous criticism of “Hamlet” marked an era in the modern appreciation of Shakespeare’s methods. “The Confessions of a Fair Soul,” of which the sixth book consists, have no connection whatever with the romance except that Meister is described as reading them. Yet who would wish that this exquisite study had been excluded? The original of the “SchÖne Seele” was Goethe’s friend FrÄulein von Klettenberg. In presenting the history of her inward life, he penetrates to the very depths of a spirit purified, calmed, and ennobled by mystic contemplation of the invisible world.

The next great work completed during this period was “Hermann und Dorothea,” an idyllic poem in hexameters. The idea of using classic forms in the treatment of a domestic theme was suggested to Goethe by Voss’s “Luise,” an idyll in hexameters, which he had read again and again with warm interest. “Hermann und Dorothea” consists of nine cantos, each of which is headed with the name of one of the Muses. The first five cantos (originally four) were written in nine days in the autumn of 1796, when Goethe spent some weeks at Jena. The work was resumed from time to time, and finished in the following year.

Nothing could be simpler than the tale told in this poem. Hermann is the son of an innkeeper in a Rhenish town. A band of emigrants, driven from their homes by stress of war in the period of the French Revolution, happen to come to the neighbourhood in the course of their wanderings, and Hermann’s good mother sends him to them with a supply of clothing and provisions. Among them he sees Dorothea, who at once wins his heart. On his return he finds his father and mother in conversation with the pastor and the druggist; and the pastor, a man of insight, perceives at a glance, from Hermann’s heightened colour and sparkling eyes, that something has happened to excite and gladden him. He relates what has happened, and his father suspects that he loves Dorothea. The old man has always wished that his son should marry a maiden of a prosperous family, and angrily declares that he will never receive as a daughter a common peasant girl. Hermann sorrowfully leaves the room, and is soon followed by his mother, who finds him seated in deep dejection under a pear-tree which, crowning vine-clad slopes behind the inn, serves as a landmark far over the country. He opens his heart to her, and she consoles him, and gives him hope that his father’s resistance may be overcome. It is finally arranged that the pastor and the druggist shall go and see Dorothea, and form an opinion of her fitness to be Hermann’s wife, and that Hermann shall drive with them to the place where the emigrants have for the time taken up their abode. The pastor and the druggist are captivated by Dorothea, and return to the inn to communicate their impressions. Hermann remains behind to woo the maiden he loves. He is, however, deterred by seeing that she wears an engagement ring, and simply asks whether she will come with him and help his mother in her housewifely duties. She supposes that he wishes to engage her as a servant, and, on this understanding, frankly accepts his offer. Then they walk back together, and by the time they reach the pear-tree the landscape is lighted by the full moon, while heavy masses of clouds, betokening the approach of a storm, gather over the sky. They enter the house together, and after an animated scene, during which Dorothea—while thunder is heard to crash—tells her history, all is brought to a satisfactory end by the happy union of the lovers.

The substance of this story is contained in an old pamphlet describing the adventures of a group of Protestant exiles who were expelled from the archbishopric of Salzburg in 1731. The tale, however, owes its charm, not to the bare facts of which it consists, but to the life breathed into them by Goethe’s art. In old age he said that “Hermann und Dorothea” was the only one of his greater poems which he could still read with pleasure, and it is certainly as near perfection as any of his creations. The central figure is Dorothea, and we readily understand her sway over Hermann, for she combines strength with tenderness, and acts nobly, not from a sense of duty merely, but because she is impelled by the instincts of a true and generous spirit. There is a striking fitness between her vigorous, handsome form and her frank and wholesome character; and we feel that of such stuff the women are made who keep a nation’s life sound and pure. Hermann, who has not, like Dorothea, been disciplined by hard experience, is less independent, but he has qualities which, when he is fully matured, will give his character the firmness of outline possessed by that of the wife he has won. Already he has courage to be true to his own choice, and he awakens our sympathy by the depth and ardour of his love. His mother’s gentleness is finely contrasted with the rough, worldly, but not essentially unkind disposition of his father; and the wise, good pastor, and the gossiping, self-important druggist help to bring out one another’s peculiarities by the differences of their modes of thought and feeling. Goethe never pauses to call our attention to this or that element of the tale; all is stir and movement, and the imagination is excited to form for itself a series of graphic pictures and to combine them into a living whole. The story advances so simply and naturally that it carries us on with growing interest to the end, and its significance is deepened by the vast world-movement of which we are continually reminded by the presence of the emigrants. The antique form of the poem is in perfect keeping with the theme as Goethe conceives it. His hexameters flow lightly and freely, and aid rather than hamper the harmonious development of his ideas.

In 1796 Goethe wrote “Alexis und Dora,” which serves as a splendid pendant to the “Roman Elegies;” and in the summer of the following year, while he was staying at Jena, he began, in friendly rivalry with Schiller, to compose a series of ballads. Goethe generously yielded the palm as a ballad-writer to Schiller; and it is true that Schiller’s ballads, which are among the finest of his works, have a dramatic force that makes them more akin than Goethe’s to the old popular poems of this class. But such ballads as “Der ErlkÖnig” (“The King of the Erls or Elves”), “Die Braut von Corinth” (“The Bride of Corinth”), and “Der Gott und Die Bajadere” (“The God and the Bayadere”) have a subtle charm of expression that was far beyond Schiller’s range.

Goethe’s lyrical poems, too, many of which were written during this period, have a freshness and a lightness of touch which Schiller himself felt to be unapproachable. Whatever may be thought of Goethe as a dramatist or a writer of romance, there never has been, and never can be, any dispute as to his greatness as a lyrical poet. The secret of the unfading charm of his lyrics lies chiefly in their truth and spontaneity. Goethe never sought to express in writings of this kind what he himself did not feel; but if a strong feeling took possession of his mind, he could not rest until it found lyrical utterance. And in passing into form in verse, his feeling lost all that was accidental or of merely passing interest; its expression became the reflection, not of one man’s experience only, but of the ever-recurring experience of humanity. There are few elements of the inward life that Goethe does not touch in his lyrics, and all that he approaches is within the scope of his art. The German language, often so harsh and obscure, has in these perfect products of his genius an exquisite softness, richness, and transparency. Goethe, who knew well the difficulties it presented, found in it an organ equally fitted for the lightest play of fancy and the loftiest flights of the imagination.

In 1797 Goethe visited Switzerland for the third time, and enjoyed heartily a long holiday with his friend Meyer, who had been in Italy collecting materials for a work which they thought of writing in common. This work, in which they proposed to show the relation of Italian art to the physical features of the country and to its social and political development, was never begun; but Goethe’s studies for it gave a fresh impetus to his enthusiasm for art, and for years one of the objects he had most at heart was to communicate his enthusiasm to an ever widening circle among the educated classes of Germany. In 1798 he started an art journal called “Die PropylÄen” (the German form of [Greek: ta propylaia], The Gateway); but the public had little interest in the questions with which it dealt, and after the appearance of four numbers the enterprise had to be abandoned. Another result of Goethe’s labours in connection with art was his masterly book on “Winckelmann und sein Jahrhundert” (“Winckelmann and his Century”), published in 1805. In this work, to which contributions were made by Meyer and the great Homeric scholar Wolf, Goethe offered a magnificent tribute to the memory of the writer who, by his insight and learning, had opened the way to a true appreciation of the artistic achievements of the ancient world.

Among other prose writings of this period may be mentioned Goethe’s translation of the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, a task undertaken for the Horen; and “Rameaus Neffe” (“Rameau’s Nephew”), a translation of what is, on the whole, the most powerful of Diderot’s works. “Le Neveu de Rameau” had not yet been printed, and Goethe’s rendering was made from a manuscript which had come into Schiller’s hands. A more searching study of the baser possibilities of human nature has never, perhaps, been written, and Goethe faithfully reproduced it with all its original force and vividness.

Schiller occupied himself for several years, at intervals, with his great drama “Wallenstein.” The mass of his materials made it hard for him to see his way to an adequate treatment of the subject; but in 1798, having discussed his scheme thoroughly with Goethe, he was able to arrive at a final decision as to its form. The Prelude, “Wallensteins Lager” (“Wallenstein’s Camp”), in the extraordinary vividness of which there are unmistakable marks of Goethe’s influence, was represented for the first time at the Weimar Theatre in October, 1798. “The Piccolomini” was given early in 1799; and soon afterwards the entire work, including “Wallenstein’s Death,” was performed, a night being devoted to each of its three parts. Goethe, as the director of the theatre, worked hard to secure that full justice should be done to his friend’s masterpiece, and his disinterested efforts were crowned with what was then considered unparalleled success.

The effect of this triumph was that Schiller resolved not only to devote himself almost exclusively to dramatic work, but to transfer his residence from Jena to Weimar, where he would have the advantage of being near the theatre, and possess unlimited opportunities of intercourse with Goethe. Before the end of 1799 this plan was carried out, and all the benefits Schiller hoped to derive from it were realized. Goethe and he became, if possible, more intimate friends than ever, and never tired in their efforts to make the Weimar Theatre a great centre for the creation of a truly national stage. They were virtually joint directors, but Goethe retained, of course, supreme control.

This was the most brilliant period in the history of Weimar, for it was now the home of four famous writers, Goethe, Schiller, Herder, and Wieland. Herder died in 1803, and during his last years he became bitter and morose, so that, to Goethe’s intense regret, he brought to an end the relations which had formerly been a source of so much happiness to both. With Wieland, who survived Herder ten years, Goethe remained on friendly terms to the last.

The great philosophical movement of Germany was now in full progress. It began with the publication, in 1781, of Kant’s “Critique of Pure Reason,” and was continued in different directions, first by Fichte, then by Schelling, and afterwards by Hegel and Schopenhauer. Goethe was not so fascinated as Schiller by the suggestions which were being offered by so many fine minds for the solution of the highest problems; but he was too keenly alive to every kind of intellectual influence to allow any deep current of contemporary thought to escape his notice. He read with profound interest the second of Kant’s great works, “The Critique of Judgment,” and thoroughly mastered Fichte’s system of ideas as expounded in the “Wissenschaftslehre” (“Theory of Knowledge”). He was still more strongly attracted by Schilling, in whose philosophy he found much that accorded with his own conceptions of Nature. Fichte and Schelling were for several years professors at Jena, and Goethe, to whom they owed their appointments, had many opportunities of discussing with them the questions to the study of which they had devoted their lives.

Another important movement, closely connected with the philosophical ideas of Fichte and Schelling, began at this time to arrest attention. It was the movement which led to the formation of the Romantic School. The critical leaders of this school, August and Frederick Schlegel, were both for a while lecturers at the University of Jena, where they exercised a powerful influence through their literary journal, The AthenÆum. With them, and with Tieck and Novalis, Goethe, always anxious to encourage young writers who seemed to give indications of genius, sought to maintain the most friendly relations. He even caused to be represented on the Weimar stage two rather crude plays, “Ion” and “Alarcos,” the former by August Schlegel, the latter by Frederick Schlegel. The writers of the Romantic school ultimately diverged widely from Goethe’s methods, but all that was really vital in their teaching had already been embodied in his works, and it was chiefly from him that they originally derived the best and most fruitful of their impulses.

In the winter of 1803-4 Madame de StaËl paid her famous visit to Weimar. Goethe did not fail to do due honour to so distinguished a guest, but, like Schiller, he was soon fatigued by her restless curiosity and endless talk. He interested her the more deeply because she could not but see that the air of patronage with which she had been disposed to meet him was wholly out of place. For no other German writer did she conceive so strong a respect.

Meanwhile, Schiller, quickened by Goethe’s unfailing sympathy, had been producing in rapid succession the great plays of his last years—“Mary Stuart,” “The Maid of Orleans,” “The Bride of Messina,” and “William Tell.” Goethe had at this period, so far as the drama was concerned, no corresponding period of activity. In 1800 and 1801 he produced only translations of Voltaire’s “Mahomet” and “Tancred.” He was working, however, at an important poetical drama, “Die NatÜrliche Tochter” (“The Natural Daughter”). This drama was intended to be the first member of a trilogy dealing with the ideas on which the French Revolution had been compelling all the world to reflect. The trilogy was to represent the overthrow and re-establishment of an ancient monarchy, its overthrow being due to corrupt government, its re-establishment to the frank recognition of popular rights. The only part of the scheme he succeeded in working out was “Die NatÜrliche Tochter,” in which we are permitted to see some of the abuses that were to have led to revolution. The facts on which the idea of the play was based Goethe found in the “MÉmoires historiques de StÉphanie Louise de Bourbon Conti,” published at Paris in 1797. Eugenie, the heroine, is the natural daughter of a duke, the uncle of the king; and the question on which the interest depends is whether she shall allow herself to be publicly acknowledged as one in whose veins there is royal blood, or whether she shall remain, as she has been educated, in seclusion. Fascinated by the charm of a lofty social position, she decides to claim the rights which the king, at her father’s intercession, is willing to confer upon her. Then she becomes a victim of treachery and violence. Of all Goethe’s plays this is the one in which he allows the idea of necessity to exercise the most rigid control over the development of the action. The circumstances being such as are described, there is no way of escape from the consequences of Eugenie’s decision; all is ordered in accordance with an inevitable law. The characters, therefore, have no very distinct individuality. They are so completely subordinated to the general scheme that only the heroine receives a special name. The other characters appear simply as the King, the Duke, the Secretary, and so forth. The play, if we estimate it from the point of view selected by Goethe, is one of great power; but had he devoted himself to works of this kind he could never have shown the true character of his genius. His strength lay in the development, not of plot, but of character.

From time to time Goethe worked at a scheme very different from “Die NatÜrliche Tochter.” Schiller had been greatly impressed by the fragment of “Faust” published in 1790, and in season and out of season urged and entreated him to complete it. Goethe himself had a secret consciousness that this was to be the highest of his achievements, and took advantage of every favourable mood to return to it. He was in no hurry, however, to bring the work to an end. All the deepest elements of his life were being expressed in it, and he could afford to let the harvest ripen slowly.

Early in 1801 Goethe had a serious illness, and for a good many years afterwards he was liable to attacks of a painful malady. Schiller also suffered from bad health, and it was too certain that his life would not be greatly prolonged. The crisis came in the spring of 1805. Schiller and Goethe had both been ill, but on the 29th of April Goethe felt well enough to visit his friend. Schiller was about to go to the play, and Goethe would not hear of his changing his plan. So they parted, never to see one another again. While in his place in the theatre Schiller caught a severe chill, and on the 9th of May he died.

Goethe, who was confined to his room, suspected, when he heard of Schiller’s condition, that the result would be fatal. “Destiny is inexorable,” he said, sadly; “man of little moment.” When the tidings of death were brought to his house, Meyer, who was spending the evening with him, was called out of the room. He had not courage to give so dreadful a message, and went away without taking leave. Something in the manner of the members of his household made Goethe uneasy, but he would not put his doubts at rest by asking any direct question. “I observe,” he said to Christiane, “that Schiller must be very ill.” During the night he was heard to sob loudly. Next morning, again addressing Christiane, he said, “It is true, is it not, that Schiller was very ill yesterday?” Christiane burst into tears. “He is dead?” asked Goethe, in a firm voice. Christiane, still crying, at last told him the bitter truth. “He is dead!” Goethe repeated, and covered his eyes with his hand. He had never lived through a sadder moment, and for several days no one dared to mention Schiller’s name in his presence.