In explaining his Eighth Symphony to contemporaries, Gustav Mahler called it a “gift to the entire nation” (Geschenk an die ganze Nation).1 He thereby helped create a genealogy for the work that would have occurred to few people on the basis of the music alone, and simultaneously provoked a number of questions. Mahler refers to a tradition of composing works for national occasions, but does he identify with that tradition or distance himself from it? Characterizing the Eighth as a “gift” to the “nation” does not necessarily mean that Mahler intended it to be a piece of national music. But he certainly wanted to write music that engaged critically with the tradition of composing for national occasions.
One legacy of Mahler’s membership in the Pernerstorfer Circle (discussed in the introduction to this study) was his interest in the political dimension of German culture rather than in Austrian particularism — although, like other former members, by 1906 he had long distanced himself from the circle’s nationalist and conservative political ambitions.2 In the following I examine the debates about the national function of culture in Germany and Austria around the turn of the century, and in particular the role that Goethe and his works played in this debate. There was of course a powerful musical tradition of composing works for national occasions during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.3 In addition to referencing this tradition in musical history, though, Mahler’s comment on the Eighth Symphony also evokes a literary paradigm. Throughout the nineteenth century, Goethe and Schiller were the focal points in a prolific discourse on the national functions of German literature. The last three decades of that century in particular were marked by a lively debate that conceived of Goethe’s Faust as a “national” text — a debate in which Wagner and Nietzsche happened to be key figures. While Mahler’s literary and philosophical interests were firmly rooted in his student days in the 1870s, I want to show that in his critical reading of German cultural history, he ultimately takes a stance against the nationalist and conservative functionalization of art so characteristic of the cultural climate during his student days in general and the Pernerstorfer Circle in particular,4 a mobilization of art that by 1900 had gained a clear anti-Semitic dimension.
For a literary and cultural historian, Mahler’s choice of Goethe as the literary reference point for his symphony, in contrast to Beethoven, for instance, who used a text by Schiller for his Ninth Symphony, is striking. Throughout the nineteenth century, Goethe and Schiller competed for the status of favored national symbol. In 1827 Wolfgang Menzel had published Die deutsche Literatur, a handbook that would become one of the first popular histories of German literature and that remained influential throughout the century. Menzel’s negative stance toward Goethe is surprising now. He admits Goethe’s great talent but finds his work without inner core and religious stance.5 He feels that Goethe was too influenced by the here-and-now and by the fashion of the day, and too materialistic and focused on the senses and on physical pleasure (217–19). Menzel also sees Goethe as too international, too fixated on other national cultures (228). Rejecting the modern materialist Goethe, Menzel worships the idealist Schiller, whose works he finds characterized by the “spirit of a moral beauty” (Geist einer sittlichen Schönheit; 121). Die deutsche Literatur quite explicitly promotes Schiller as the poet of the German people and in particular also of German youth (130). Menzel is full of praise for those among Schiller’s followers who gave his work more of a political and patriotic interpretation (132). Menzel’s ideas resonated throughout the nineteenth century. Scholars of German literary history agree that, in general, Schiller’s work was preferred over Goethe’s during the nineteenth century; this was certainly the case as far as popular opinion was concerned. Schiller was seen as the poet of the people, while Goethe was the object of interest for a small aristocratic elite.6 Whereas the 100th anniversary of Goethe’s birth in 1849 was celebrated by a small group of dedicated followers, the celebration of Schiller’s anniversary in 1859 turned into a public spectacle in which all of Germany participated.7 However, nineteenth-century discourse on Schiller and Goethe was by no means monolithic, and there certainly were intellectuals who preferred Goethe to Schiller.8 Remarkably, Goethe, and in particular his Faust drama, was quite popular among composers (including Berlioz, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and also Wagner).9
However, in accordance with the general dynamics underlying the reception of Schiller and Goethe, the predominant attitude toward Faust was negative during most of the century, even though Faust I was among Goethe’s better-known texts. As a character, Faust was viewed as altogether too passive, too individual, too apolitical; Goethe’s text was deemed too “precocious” (altklug), too idealistic, and too literary — to name a few characterizations to be found again and again.10 With the achievement of German unity in 1871, attitudes started to change. There were still enough negative voices to be heard, but positive ones began to dominate. It could even be said that Mahler’s Eighth participated in a rehabilitation of Goethe that was set into motion by the unification of Germany, even though the text remained controversial. That Goethe’s Faust was seen as his “national” text may be hard to imagine nowadays, but in the late-nineteenth century the idea was taken seriously. Herman Grimm, art historian and cofounder of Germany’s Goethe society, and Franz Dingelstedt, director of both state theaters in Vienna from 1875 on, proposed staging performances of both parts of Faust annually on Goethe’s birthday as a form of national celebration. Interestingly, the location Dingelstedt had in mind for this was Bayreuth.11 The plan never materialized, but it points out a perceived rivalry as to who was deemed worthy of a national occasion: Wagner or Goethe. But how could a literary character such as Goethe’s Faust — not very masculine and far from heroic, an intellectual with a tendency to question his own decisions — become an identificatory figure and part of a nationalist discourse? Interpretations that emphasize the national aspect of Faust12 tend to highlight the emotional depth in Faust’s character, as well as his speculative mind, his openness to inner beauty, his enthusiasm for true humanism, and his patience — all of which were seen as typically German. And surprisingly, Faust was seen as a man of action. Attempts to read a national agenda into Faust sometimes went quite far, comparing Mephisto, for example, at times to Napoleon who, though unwillingly, eventually was responsible for Germany’s unification.13
Another nineteenth-century debate compared Siegfried and Faust — a debate that could help us understand the literary dynamics between Mahler and Wagner. I already mentioned that Goethe and Wagner vied for the position of privileged national symbol during that time. The suitability of either as focal point of a national celebration was closely linked to the question as to which of their heroes would better represent the German nation: Siegfried, the hero of the anonymous medieval Nibelungen saga and of Wagner’s Ring, or Faust. Both were seen as competing but also complementary figures. In 1853, Ferdinand Brockhoff stated that the Faust figure had the same importance for the Reformation as Siegfried had had for the Middle Ages, both essentially being equally “faithful and keen” expressions of the “spirit specific to the German people” (Der Eine wie der Andere ist ein treuer und scharfer Ausdruck des spezifisch deutschen Volksgeistes).14 But there are also significant differences: Faust is more intellectual, Siegfried more sensual.15
Brockhoff published his ideas in a review of a book on the Faust myth in a scholarly journal most likely read by specialists alone, and yet he set a discussion in motion that would soon be part of the mainstream. Traces of this debate can be found in the editorial commentary accompanying a popular edition of Faust edited by Gustav von Loeper, a lawyer and high governmental official in Prussia, and first published in Berlin in 1870,16 that marks the beginning of a national renaissance of Goethe’s Faust. Von Loeper refers to Brockhoff’s review in his commentary, and like him, sees similarities between the Faust and Siegfried figures.17 Siegfried is described as a titanic figure, light-hearted, almost a northern Achilles. In contrast, Faust, a monk-like figure, is focused on his inner world, someone who overthinks and frets about things (“grübelnd”). Thus von Loeper denies a deeper affinity and instead emphasizes differences that for Brockhoff were only minor. In spite of his lack of “titanic” attributes, Faust nevertheless is a positive figure, according to von Loeper, because he represents man’s autonomy and self-liberation, not only in religious matters, but spiritually and intellectually as well (xxxi).
While Goethe’s Faust, in particular Faust I, became the object of a nationalistic appropriation, aspects of the Faust figure resist such an appropriation. After 1870 a trend critical of a political interpretation of the figure also emerged. Some of this criticism came from a theological perspective, from professional theologians but also from scholars or amateurs with strong religious beliefs, but some intellectuals objected to Faust for other reasons as well. Two argumentative lines dominated this critique: for some, Faust was too individualistic to be an example; for others, he was too focused on humanity in general.18 A significant number of critics opposed what one could call the modern aspect of Faust; others defended this modern side against ideological abuse. An early example combining the view of Faust as the exemplary German national text with a critical perspective on a German national culture can be found in Heinrich Heine’s book on German literary history from 1833, originally written for a French audience.19 Heine read Goethe’s Faust as a text critical of German society and culture. Of particular importance for Heine, a German Jew, was that in the original version of the text Faust broke with the medieval era, and in particular with its dogmatic religiosity. Thus the Faust saga represented one of the first attempts to replace a religious (Catholic) view of the world with a scientific, modern one. For Heine, Faust is a figure of emancipation; it is no coincidence that he is incorrectly credited with the invention of the printing process and closely associated with the Reformation. But most remarkably, according to Heine, Faust’s program has not been fulfilled yet; when that happens, then it will mark a true “revolution.”
A second major figure in German nineteenth-century intellectual history propagated a similar view of Goethe’s work vis-à-vis its nationalistic mobilization. Nietzsche’s posthumously published notes include an intriguing remark about Goethe’s relation to nineteenth-century German music. It is part of a larger fragment that he wrote in spring 1888, entitled “On a Critique of Wagner” (Zur Kritik Wagners), which begins with the following observation:
Wagner’s music is anti-goethean.
Indeed Goethe is missing in German music, the same way he is missing in German politics. In contrast to this: how much Schiller, more specifically how much Thekla is in Beethoven.
A lot of middle-class mediocrity, a lot of consecration.
[Die Musik Wagners ist antigoethisch.
In der Tat fehlt Goethe in der deutschen Musik, wie er in der deutschen Politik fehlt. Dagegen: wie viel Schiller, genauer geredet wie viel Thekla ist in Beethoven!
Viel Biedermännerei, viel Salbung.]20
Nietzsche refers here to both the common juxtaposition of Schiller and Goethe as well as to the nineteenth century’s preference for Schiller. He may also be referring to Wagner’s essay on Beethoven from 1870, in which the composer confessed a clear preference for Schiller, among other reasons because he considered Schiller a better dramatist and therefore as having a greater affinity to music.21 Nietzsche himself is clearly on Goethe’s side. Following Nietzsche’s logic, to use Goethe’s work for music would be an anti-Wagnerian move as well as a critique of a nationalist appropriation of the German literary tradition.
To understand the intellectual-historical constellations in the fragment quoted above, it is productive to look at some of Nietzsche’s published texts of the same year. In Der Fall Wagner (The Case of Wagner), Nietzsche comments on the constellation Goethe — Schiller — Wagner, explaining that Schiller’s popularity rests on his catering to his German audiences’ need for a moral message in literature, an attitude Nietzsche characterizes as “oldmaidish” (altjungfernhaft).22 In contrast, Goethe was seen as overly sexual and morally deprived: “The Germans were always scandalized by him; his only real admirers were Jewish women” (AC, 238; Er war den Deutschen immer anstößig, er hat ehrliche Bewunderer nur unter Jüdinnen gehabt: SW 6:18). Nietzsche repeats here a racial stereotype that associated Jewishness with sexual exuberance; he suggests that Goethe’s female Jewish followers were interested in his obscenity. More specifically, he refers here to the fact that Goethe’s texts played an important role in the Berlin salons of Henriette Herz, Rahel Levin (Varnhagen), and Dorothea Mendelssohn (Veit-Schlegel).23 In Nietzsche’s writings, especially in the fragments published after his death, there are other examples in which he points to a Jewish affinity for Goethe, for instance calling Heine and Goethe the only two poets Germany has produced, or writing that elements of Goethe’s thinking can be found in Moses Mendelssohn, Rahel Varnhagen, and Heinrich Heine.24
Nietzsche was not alone in associating Goethe with German-Jewish culture. The observation has been made that the first generation of Goethe philologists included a remarkable number of Jews; as a result some people started to view Goethe as a “Jewish” author.25 George L. Mosse interpreted Goethe’s popularity among his Jewish readership as indicative of a desire to assimilate within German culture, while simultaneously stressing the progressive side of this culture: “Goethe’s emphasis on individual freedom, his ambivalence toward all forms of nationalism, and finally, his belief in Bildung seemed to foster Jewish assimilation.”26 (The fact that Mosse uses the word “seemed” here may be taken as an encouragement to be skeptical about Goethe’s real intentions toward Jews. Goethe was by no means unambiguous in his attitudes about Jewish culture,27 but the public saw it differently.) Alma Mahler’s remark about Mahler’s friend Lipiner that he “goethelte” and “mauschelte” is to be understood in this context.28 By characterizing Lipiner’s way of speaking German as “mauscheln” — a deficient way of using the German language associated with Jews — Alma Mahler, who hated him, picks up one of the dominating anti-Semitic stereotypes of her time.29 “Goetheln” is, I would argue, the cultural equivalent of “mauscheln,” a purportedly deficient use of the German cultural tradition in an attempt to imitate Goethe. Goethe’s reputation as a favorite of the Jews is in line with another aspect that Nietzsche highlights in his late writings: Goethe’s internationalism. Goethe was a European figure; in Germany he was seen as a recluse (“Einsiedler”), and he could therefore not be identified with German culture. In fact, he defined himself in opposition to Germanness.30 In Nietzsche’s view, Wagner allied himself not with Goethe and his Jewish followers but with their opposite, with Schiller and the nationalistic tradition he stands for. Wagner saved Goethe from his hypersexuality and moral depravity with a “prayer” (AC, 239; Gebet: SW 6:19). Goethe represented for Nietzsche all that is not German in German cultural history.
What must have appealed to Mahler in Goethe’s Faust is the fundamental ambiguity of the Faust figure in nineteenth-century cultural history. Faust was, on the one hand, an icon of nationalism, especially after 1870, and yet on the other hand also associated with his author’s internationalism. Faust stood, above all, as an emancipatory figure for the effort to think German cultural history differently. The fundamental ambiguity of the Faust figure is particularly clear in relation to the nineteenth-century image of Siegfried. Both are national icons, but whereas Siegfried is deeply embedded in the Middle Ages, Faust is closely associated with the advent of modernity. That Faust can be seen as a more modern version of Siegfried means that Mahler’s Eighth Symphony with its use of scenes from Faust competes with, but also moves beyond, Wagner’s Siegfried. The context of nineteenth-century German literary and cultural history permits us to see that by composing a symphony based on Goethe’s Faust, Mahler articulates a certain discontent with the conservative and nationalistic older Wagner, and that he picks up a project of the younger, more progressive Wagner (and also on Liszt’s Faust Symphony). As a student, Wagner had composed seven songs in 1831 based on texts from Faust I and a work from 1840 now known as Wagner’s “Faust Overture” was originally meant to be the first part of an entire Faust Symphony.
Before I focus on a detailed analysis of the Eighth Symphony, I want to consider whether the perceived rivalry between Goethe and Schiller, accompanied by a public preference for Schiller throughout the nineteenth century, still played a role in Vienna around 1900. If so, did the Austrians make fundamentally different choices from the Germans? Vienna’s architectural history provides some clues. The façade of Vienna’s Burgtheater, completed in 1888, features busts of Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller.31 Goethe is clearly in the privileged position: his bust is in the center. That Lessing is part of this group is interesting as well; the author and dramatist consistently represented the progressive and cosmopolitan side of German culture. But the façade suggests that for the Viennese Goethe must have been the leading representative of German culture.32 The history of Viennese monuments dedicated to Schiller and Goethe, however, tells us a different story. Monuments for Schiller and Goethe were planned as part of the projects that followed the construction of the Ringstraße (1858–65). Schiller received his own plaza, close to and clearly visible from the Opernring; the Schiller monument at its center was completed and officially dedicated in 1876 (coincidentally the year after Mahler’s arrival in Vienna).33 In contrast, the Goethe monument at the corner of the Opernring and Goethegasse was not completed and officially dedicated until 1900. While Schiller got “his” plaza, Goethe received a mere “alley” (Gasse; 36).34 Schiller is standing tall on his enormous pedestal; Goethe sits, contemplatively staring in the direction of the Schiller monument. Fundraising material for the Schiller monument shows that it was envisioned as an expression of German-Austrian brotherhood (31). The monument’s dedication in 1876 led to demonstrations of German-nationalist sentiments and a considerable number of police were needed to enforce public order (33). The Goethe monument, in contrast, was described by contemporaries as an expression of the author’s “universal spirit” (universaler Geist) and humanitarian philosophy (36).
The place of Schiller and Goethe in German and Austrian culture — and, more importantly, the political and cultural programs they came to represent — was, in other words, still very much a topic of public discourse in Vienna in the late nineteenth century, with Goethe by no means attracting the kind of attention dedicated to Schiller. There are other indications of this. On 27 August 1899 the liberal Neue Freie Presse dedicated its entire front page to the upcoming 150th anniversary of Goethe’s birth the next day.35 The main article, an editorial, characterizes Goethe as a cosmopolitan author who was tolerant in religious and moral matters and yet also represents the cultural unity of all German-speaking citizens. The article laments the fact that Vienna does not yet have a Goethe monument. Furthermore, it criticizes the fact that there were no plans to celebrate this day,36 blaming the Christian Social party members on the city council and the prominent role of Roman Catholicism in the city’s cultural life in general for this situation.
That reactionary forces preferred Schiller to Goethe is understandable but also surprising, given that Schiller was at the same time an icon in the work of Vienna’s cultural avant-garde. In the spring of 1902 the avant-garde group of visual artists The Secession, which had been quite successful in the brief period since their foundation in 1897, organized an exhibition dedicated to Beethoven. The exhibition, for which Alfred Roller had final responsibility,37 was a homage not just to Beethoven but indirectly also to Schiller. The most spectacular artwork exhibited was a frieze by Gustav Klimt consisting of three painted panels depicting a series of highly allegorical scenes commenting on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and the “Ode an die Freude” (Ode to Joy), the poem by Schiller at the core of its final movement.38 It is doubtful that the Secession had a German-nationalist agenda in mind,39 but the fact remains that Schiller again was the focus of attention. It did not necessarily have to be that way; after all, Beethoven also composed incidental music for Goethe’s drama Egmont. Research has shown that Klimt’s composition of the panels closely followed Wagner’s 1846 essay on Beethoven’s Ninth.40 When the final panel of the Beethoven frieze was exhibited again in 1903 at an exhibition dedicated to Klimt’s work in the Secession house, it had a new title, the biblical “My Kingdom Is Not of This World” (Mein Reich ist nicht von dieser Welt), a quote also found in Wagner’s essay.41 Wagner’s preference for Schiller in his later essays42 may in fact very well have been one of the main reasons why avant-garde artists such as the Secession focused on Schiller and not Goethe.43
Mahler participated in the opening of the Secession’s Beethoven exhibition, conducting a fragment from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in an arrangement for woodwind and brass that unfortunately has not survived. Originally he had planned to perform the entire symphony with the Vienna Philharmonic, but for reasons that are not quite clear this plan fell through. Objections from musicians in the orchestra may have played a role.44 The exhibition, with its emphasis on the public function of art, may very well have been a catalyst for Mahler’s plans to compose a work of his own that was aimed at a mass audience a few years later. However, Mahler’s choice of a Goethe text for his Eighth Symphony may have had many motives. He may have savored the challenge of staging a text that by all standards of the theater counted as unstageable.45 However, the decision to use the final scenes from Faust II was also taking a stand against the nationalist appropriation that had characterized the Schiller reception in Vienna in the last decades of the nineteenth century. It was certainly also a turn against Wagner and the conservative and nationalistic agenda of his later days. The connection with the Secession’s exhibition on Beethoven is more ambiguous; there are signs that the artists of the Secession sought to rehabilitate the freethinking, cosmopolitan Schiller tradition against its nationalistic appropriation: “This kiss is for the whole world” (Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt) is one of lines from Schiller’s poem quoted in the exhibition catalog to explain the intentions behind Klimt’s frieze.46
Adapting the final scenes of Faust II for his Eighth Symphony was something rather radical at the time. It is true, Goethe’s Faust had canonical status in German cultural history, but when it was referred to, it was usually Faust I that was meant. The first part of Faust is an accessible text, with a clear plotline and a substantial number of quotable verses that have become part of everyday vocabulary. Faust II is quite different. It neither offers a straightforward narrative nor deals with a character in the traditional sense, a figure bound to a specific time and place. The second part of Goethe’s drama — the last text he finished before his death in 1832 (it was published posthumously in the same year) — moves freely through time and space and offers a highly uncommon synthesis of texts from literary history, mythology, philosophy, natural science, anthropology, and theology. Furthermore, Faust II is a highly symbolic text, which to a large extent aims to create meaning through images rather than narrative. Its aesthetic form makes it without a doubt the most advanced work Goethe wrote. Its intellectual curiosity and eclecticism resemble that of Jean Paul’s writings. Not only does the text offer a profoundly “modern” form of writing,47 but it also espouses a modern philosophy of life. Mahler’s use of the text for the Eighth Symphony is indicative of continuity within his literary interests.
It was clear from the beginning that setting Faust II to music would present a challenge. One of Mahler’s favorite texts by and about Goethe were the Gespräche mit Goethe (Conversations with Goethe) by Johann Peter Eckermann, who acted as a sort of private secretary to Goethe but was also his friend. The Gespräche, published after Goethe’s death, proved to be one of the more popular works by and on Goethe in the nineteenth century, providing in relatively simple wordings a comprehensive view of Goethe’s often very complex thinking. We know that late in life, the Gespräche were a frequent part of Mahler’s summer-time reading,48 a fact of some significance because Mahler did most of his composing during the summer. In his conversations with Eckermann Goethe mentions the possibility of having music composed for his Faust, but his stance is rather ambiguous. Initially, Goethe declares a Faust composition “totally impossible” (ganz unmöglich), because “the repugnant, offensive, and frightful elements that the music would need to include at certain places are against the spirit of the time” (Das Abstoßende, Widerwärtige, Furchtbare, was sie stellenweise enthalten müßte, ist der Zeit zuwider).49 However, immediately following this statement he lists Mozart’s Don Giovanni as an example of the type of music he imagines for Faust. He then adds that Giacomo Meyerbeer may be able to do the work justice. Goethe had mentioned Meyerbeer in an earlier conversation about a musical adaptation of Faust and had mentioned Mozart’s Zauberflöte (Magic Flute) as a musical drama comparable to Faust.50
Surprisingly, this seems to indicate that Goethe may have imagined a musical adaptation of Faust as a comedy, even though he had conceived the drama as a tragedy. Two of the examples mentioned, Don Giovanni and the work of Meyerbeer, furthermore, combine elements of German and Romance traditions of music making. In Don Giovanni not only had Mozart used the libretto of Lorenzo Da Ponte, but the work is solidly in the tradition of Italian opera. And Meyerbeer (1791–1864), a Prussian Jew, worked very successfully as a composer of operas, first in Italy and later in France. In Wagner’s theoretical writings Meyerbeer became the embodiment of all that is wrong with the development of German culture, not only because of his Jewishness, but also because of his ability to move between different cultural backgrounds.51 Mahler no doubt composed the Eighth Symphony with Goethe’s ideas about a Faust composition in mind. In fact, Goethe’s deliberations in the Gespräche with Eckermann explain one feature of the second movement that has often baffled audiences and critics: the music’s lightheartedness and positive energy.52 Theodor Adorno even speaks of the symphony’s affirmative character. The text, however, barely seems to offer any justification for this. By picking up on Goethe’s challenge not only to compose music for the drama but to compose it the way Goethe imagined, Mahler constructs an alternative cosmopolitan and pluralistic trajectory for German cultural history deeply at odds with Wagner’s program for German culture.
Eckermann’s Gespräche mit Goethe may help us understand a second significant feature of the Eighth Symphony that is often misunderstood, namely its use of religious imagery. From the beginning, when Mahler was still thinking about the Eighth as a four-movement symphony, he intended to use religious themes. An early sketch demonstrates this: after the “Veni Creator,” a second movement with the title “Caritas” was planned, followed by a scherzo entitled “Christmas Games with the Child [Jesus]” (Weihnachtsspiele mit dem Kindlein) and a hymn with the projected title “Creation through Eros” (Schöpfung durch Eros; SSLD, 529–32). Why did Mahler focus on Christian images and concepts? In his conversation with Eckermann on 6 June 1831 Goethe explained that it had been very difficult for him to write the concluding scene of Faust II. He had avoided vagueness and had given “form and stability” (Form und Festigheit) to his “poetical intentions” (poetischen Intentionen) only through the use of “clearly defined Christian ecclesiastical figures and representations” (scharf umrissenen christlich-kirchlichen Figuren und Vorstellungen).53 Goethe was not a religious man in any traditional sense. I would argue that religious, and more specifically Catholic, imagery, has the same function for Goethe as for Mahler. In a letter to Alma that deals with the final scene of Goethe’s Faust Mahler paraphrased the above-mentioned passage from the Gespräche, expressing hope that he has explained himself clearly (GR, 389). Neither Goethe nor Mahler intended to document or call for a religious conversion, but a religious framework must have seemed to both the most effective means to communicate to a broad audience the highly complex message they intended for their works. Both works are characterized by an eclectic approach to traditions; they are skeptical of and resistant to ideological use or abuse, despite their religious imagery and use of concepts such as “redemption.” Goethe and Mahler both use religious imagery to communicate a philosophy of life that is in essence modern and postmetaphysical.
A thematic analysis of the final scene of Faust II uncovers other interesting continuities between Goethe’s text and earlier literary references in Mahler’s works. Mahler’s approach to Faust can be described as intuitive. He was an avid reader and knew much about German literary, cultural, and intellectual history, but little about Goethe scholarship, as he admits in a letter to Alma (GR, 388). To facilitate my analysis, I propose to divide the segment of Goethe’s text that Mahler decided to use into three sections, each of which introduces a new set of characters and a new issue. The first section consists of the introductory “Choir and Echo” and the contributions of Pater ecstaticus and Pater profundus. The second section introduces the Angels, the Choir of Blessed Boys, the Younger Angels, the More Perfect Angels, and, at the very end, Doctor Marianus. The final section begins with Mater gloriosia and ends with the concluding chorus.
Goethe chose a very specific landscape, a mountainous environment — similar to the mountains Mahler loved to climb during the summer when taking a break from composing — for the final scene of his final work. Mahler included Goethe’s heading for the final scene, “Mountain Gorges, Forest, Rock. Solitude. Holy Anachorets on the Mountain Slopes, sheltered between gorges” (Bergschluchten, Wald, Fels. Einöde. Heilige Anachoreten gebirgsauf verteilt, gelagert zwischen Klüften) in his score as title for the second movement. We know that Goethe based the landscape at the end of Faust II on several sources, among them a description by Wilhelm von Humboldt of the mountain Montserrat near Barcelona, which was indeed populated by hermit monks.54 Because of the clouds covering parts of the mountain slopes, it seemed as if these monks lived in a world beyond this world. “Nature” provides the imagery for another, better world, and Goethe’s text demonstrates how this functions. The mechanism to which I refer here is particularly clear in the first words uttered by Pater profundus, which are an elaborate description of nature: rocky gorges, streamlets, the stem of a tree in the air (vs. 11865–72). By having his lines start with “Like” (Wie), Goethe turns the natural imagery he employs into a metaphor for “the omnipotent love / that shapes and cherishes all things” (die allmächtige Liebe / Die alles bildet, alles hegt; vs. 11872–73).55 And yet almost simultaneously Goethe also takes this imagery apart: nature is not always that benevolent. The second strophe spoken by Pater profundus includes very different images: a wild waterfall and lightning (Blitz), breaking through a poisonous and damp atmosphere; they too are “messengers of love” (Liebesboten; vs. 11882). Idyllic nature gives way to the violence of nature. Here too, nature resists idealization.
The text that opens the second movement of Mahler’s Eighth Symphony after an instrumental interlude is generally known as the Hermits’ Scene. The monks Pater ecstaticus and Pater profundus seek loneliness to find the essence of life. “Nature,” “loneliness,” and “love” are closely intertwined in this first section; in nature and in loneliness the real essence of love manifests itself. The monks’ description of spiritual love has a decidedly masochistic bend; love is perpetually intertwined with suffering (as it is for Albano, the protagonist of Jean Paul’s Titan). Love’s ambiguity manifests itself, possibly even more radically than for Pater profundus, for Pater ecstaticus, who speaks of his desire for God as an “Eternal fire of joy” (Ewiger Wonnebrand) and a “Seething pain of the chest” (Siedender Schmerz der Brust; vs. 11854, 11856). Pater ecstaticus does not restrict himself to natural imagery; he calls not only for lightning but also for “arrows, lances, and cudgels” (Pfeile, Lanzen, Keulen; vs. 11858–60) — instruments of self-torture and flagellation — to enlighten him about the true essence of love. Despite this insight into the violent nature of love, both Pater ecstaticus and Pater profundus also articulate a desire for a more profound kind of love at the ends of their respective parts; in the words of Pater ecstaticus: “love’s eternal core” (Ewiger Liebe Kern; vs. 11865) — a love beyond life’s nothingness (das Nichtige; vs. 11862), a love that transcends the limitations of the senses (vs. 11886). It is tempting to interpret these evocations of a more perfect form of love as indicative of an opposition between material love on the one hand and spiritual love on the other, but that is clearly not accurate. The monks’ love in the here and now is already a form of spiritual love while nevertheless clearly bound to the material world. The true nature of “love” remains an enigma, even for these monks who have dedicated their lives to it.
In his adaptation, Mahler made a few changes, the most significant of which can be found in the transition from the first to the second section, where he omitted the third hermit in Goethe’s text. While Mahler kept the figures of Pater ecstaticus, representing the higher region, and Pater profundus, who is associated with the lower region, he left out Pater seraphicus, the figure representing the middle region. This, I would argue, is no coincidence. Mahler was interested in opposites, visible in the profound differences that exist between the higher and lower worlds, between body and soul. Furthermore, at the beginning of the second section, Mahler makes another significant change to Goethe’s text. The passage in which the angels explain why Faust is saved (vs. 11934–41) is moved slightly ahead of, and set partially parallel with, the verses in which the Choir of Blessed Boys rejoices about Faust’s redemption (vs. 11926–33). As a result of Mahler’s change, more emphasis is given to the angels’ verses. The rest of section 2 elaborates on the reasons for Faust’s redemption and the obstacles standing in its way. The key words here are “He who always keeps on striving / Him we can redeem” (Wer immer strebend sich bemüht / Den können wir erlösen; vs. 11936–37). It is important to emphasize, in line with my earlier analysis, that here religious imagery functions as a tool and is not to be confused with the message of the text. What is saved here is modernity’s normative project. Despite Faust’s rejection of tradition as a source of norms and values, despite his skepticism and the profound materiality of his wishes and desires, he is not an amoral human being. Despite his suffering, man keeps striving for something. Goethe’s verses highlight the individual nature of these norms and values. What complicates Faust’s redemption, according to Goethe’s text, is that his eternal striving is a primary condition for his redemption, but not the only one. Only if “love . . . / From above” (Liebe . . . / Von oben) participates in Faust’s earthly sufferings will he receive a heavenly “welcome” (Willkommen; vs. 11937–41). Here the central topic of section 1 returns. The exact link between Faust’s striving and “love,” however, is only implied in this passage (and is not explained until the very last verses of the drama).
The segments that follow, the rest of section 2, seek to connect the theme of redemption with its anthropological foundations, the view of mankind underlying Goethe’s Faust. The “Younger Angels” reiterate love’s crucial role for Faust’s redemption, referring back to an earlier episode in which they defeated Mephisto and his satanic aides by strewing roses (vs. 11942–46). The image of the rose as representative of nature is of course familiar from Mahler’s Second Symphony. Again, nature imagery is used to visualize redemption (see also the image of the dissolving of the clouds, vs. 11970, and the advent of a new Lent, vs. 11976). However, the More Perfect Angels are more pessimistic about Faust’s redemption; Faust’s immortal remains are “not pure” (nicht reinlich; vs. 11957), they point out, and his body and mind are inseparably joined (vs. 11962). Even a superficial reader of the text will notice that this heaven is a place full of hierarchies in which a clear distinction is made among “Blessed Boys,” “Younger Angels,” and “More Perfect Angels.”
Furthermore, Faust’s journey is not over; the text does not support the idea of an endpoint. Faust comes to the Angels “in a chrysalis condition” (im Puppenstand; vs. 11982); that is, like a caterpillar that still has one more transformation to undergo before it turns into a butterfly. (This is a point of some interest: the transformation of caterpillar into butterfly is one of Jean Paul’s favorite metaphors.) Moreover, the text alludes to the beginning of a process of transformation. Faust’s immortal remains are nothing but an “angelic pledge” (Englisches Unterpfand; vs. 11984), and life after death is very much like life before death — also a thought that one can find frequently in Jean Paul’s work. There is no realm of eternal value; our striving alone constitutes value on earth as in heaven. Rather, heaven is a realm of learning and teaching, as a statement by the “Choir of Blessed Boys” — among them, we can assume, Faust’s son — makes clear: “this man has learned [something] / He will teach us” (dieser hat gelernt / Er wird uns lehren; vs. 12082–83). As part of this learning process angels fulfill different functions based on their merits. In Goethe’s Faust, heaven is a realm where a process of purification takes place and to which no one comes unblemished. And above all, it is also a place where all are admitted. In fact, heaven looks a lot like earth. All of this points to a decidedly heretical conceptualization of eternal life.56 Within the existing hierarchies of heaven, Doctor marianus is at the top (“doctor marianus” is a honorary title given to someone who excels in devotion to Maria).57 The words of Doctor marianus, concluding section 2, provide a transition. On the one hand, he is the most devoted disciple of Maria and the living proof of spiritual love; on the other, he testifies to man’s weakness (vs. 12024), and his enslavement to erotic lust (vs. 12026–27). He too is torn by contradictory impulses.
The third section begins with the introduction of Maria, here called Mater gloriosa (vs. 12032), and is dominated by female figures (Mater peccatrix, Mulier samaritana, Maria egyptiaca, Gretchen). This section is primarily a clarification of the role of “love” in Faust’s redemption and refers back to the beginning of section 2 and the angels’ explanation for Faust’s salvation (vs. 11934–41). In those verses the reader or audience member had learned not only that Faust was redeemed through his own striving but also that love was part of Faust’s redemption (vs. 11937). This section further refers back to the words of Pater ecstaticus about “Love’s eternal core” (Ewiger Liebe Kern; vs. 11865). The exact nature of the “love” that saved Faust is now clarified. The introduction of Maria at this crucial part of Goethe’s play might suggest that Faust was saved by a purely spiritual love. It then would be easy to distinguish such spiritual and “good” love from corporal, worldly or “bad” love. This is not, however, how Goethe wanted his readers to see it. This becomes particularly clear in the choice of characters who follow the appearance of Maria. The “blessed flock” (die selige Schar; vs. 11940) receiving Faust consists of some of the worst sinners of the Christian tradition, and their transgressions are sins of the flesh; they are prostitutes who, however, have chosen to live a life of repentance. Goethe included in his text references to the biblical and apocryphal passages on which their words are based: the gospel of Luke (7:36), the gospel of John (4), and the Acta Sanctorum (a Latin collection of biographies of saints and martyrs). Gretchen, the Blessed Boys, Mater gloriosa, and Doctor marianus all join these sinners in asking forgiveness for Faust.
The concluding eight verses of Goethe’s drama, assigned to the Chorus mysticus, are among the most famous, and most debated, in German cultural history. It is clear that Mahler himself also saw these verses as the key to Goethe’s work and his own symphony. While we know little about Mahler’s ideas about the final scene in general, his thoughts about these final verses are well known from a letter he wrote to Alma in June 1909 from Toblach (GR, 388–89). While Goethe’s text can be read on different levels, for Mahler the verses are first and foremost about a mode of being in the world. Goethe’s text for Mahler caters to the metaphysical need of its readers, without giving in to the temptation to claim the existence of a world beyond this one. On a fundamental level, we are asked to accept that what we see around us is not all that is essential. Accordingly, Mahler begins his letter by downplaying the powers of the human mind: “the rational aspect of it . . . is almost always not the essential part” (das Rationale daran . . . ist fast immer das nicht das Wesentliche).58 This certainly refers to the first two lines of the Chorus mysticus, which states: “Everything transitory / Is but a simile” (Alles Vergängliche / Ist nur ein Gleichnis; vs. 12104–5).59 Any rational or empirical approach to knowledge necessarily has to remain superficial and incomplete. Interestingly, Faust, as a text, mirrors this cognitive problem. Any understanding of the text can only be relative; in Mahler’s words: “Truth is different for everybody — and different for everybody at a different time” (Die Wahrheit ist für Jeden — und für Jeden zu verschiedenen Epochen — anders geartet).
In a second reading of the text Mahler attempts to sketch what we can know about what in principle defies knowledge, “what cannot be described” (Das Unbeschreibliche; vs. 12108). He emphasizes that any attempt to conceptualize it will be “imperfect,” using Goethe’s “unzulänglich” (vs. 12106). The meaning of “unzulänglich” in Goethe’s text is ambiguous, and it may very well have been this ambiguity that interested Mahler. In addition to “imperfect,” the concept can also mean “something that can not be grasped” in the literal sense, something that cannot be touched. For Goethe, an alternative description for this enigmatic entity is “the Eternal Feminine” (Das Ewig-Weibliche; vs. 12110). Mahler characterizes this entity in his letter as “what is resting, the end point” (das Ruhende, das Ziel), the goal of man’s striving. These final verses are extraordinarily important for an understanding of Goethe’s Faust. Here the two elements essential for Faust’s eventual redemption are finally brought together: his eternal striving, and love (vs. 11936–41). Because man’s striving is directed toward the “Eternal-Feminine,” man’s will and love are joined together. Within our most material drives, and specifically at the core of our sexual desire, there is a need for something else, something abstract. There is a gendered agenda here that is deeply embedded in the thinking of Goethe’s (as well as Mahler’s) time. It is possible to argue that Goethe (and Mahler with him) makes a heterosexual model of love the core of his program. By doing so, Goethe naturalizes difference, and assumes that culture is determined by biology. Man is the active instance, woman the passive and receiving instance. Man is the subject, woman the object. Mahler seems to be aware of the gendered nature of this dynamic when he says that it only makes sense to speak of the “Eternal Feminine” “in opposition to eternal desire, striving, moving toward this goal — in other words: to what is eternally masculine!” (im Gegensatze zu dem ewigen Sehnen, Streben, sich Hinbewegen zu diesem Ziele — also dem Ewig Männlichen!). This should not, however, detract from Goethe’s radical move, and the emancipatory potential behind it: at the end of the drama, man is in essence reduced to a passive role, very unlike the male heroes of other exemplary “national” artworks. Read within the tradition of the search for a text with the potential to become the symbol of German nationhood, Faust is about accepting alterity, about accepting the limits of our own will. Our actions as human beings should be geared toward one another, and maybe women do a better job at this than men.
In addition to the two readings of Mahler’s letter proposed thus far, my claim is that his letter allows for a third, less obvious, reading of Goethe’s text. It is possible to read Mahler’s deliberations on the final verses of Faust II as the core of an aesthetic program. When he compares Goethe’s Faust to Beethoven’s symphonies as examples of the phenomenon that great works of art are always understood only partially, he establishes a philosophical-aesthetic context for his Eighth Symphony. In alluding to Beethoven, Mahler also refers back to a letter written to Alma a few days earlier, in which he explains his understanding of “entelechy,” an idea that has played an important role in interpretations of the final scene of Faust II. In an earlier version of the text, Goethe had introduced the crucial verses about Faust’s redemption (11934–41) with the remark that the angels bring in “Faust’s entelechy” (Faustens Entelechie).60 Mahler refers to the principle of “entelechy” in both letters to Alma (GR, 385 and 389). In the earlier letter he clarifies it as a self-conscious productive force that is a challenge to man’s ethical essence. The works of a genius — Mahler mentions the Meistersinger, Beethoven’s Ninth, and Faust — are of only secondary importance in comparison to what is at their roots: “this incessant and truly painful striving” (dieses unaufhörliche und wahrhaft schmerzvolle Streben; GR, 385–86). This may at least partially explain why Mahler, in the second letter to Alma, states that any understanding of these works is necessarily limited. By associating art with self-reflection and with a challenge to man’s ethical essence, art is given, on the one hand, a task that in previous times had been reserved for religion, or possibly philosophy. Yet, on the other hand, we can never fully understand what a work of art wants to communicate. In spite of his high ambitions for art, it would be missing the point to assume that Mahler intended to propagate a program that makes art into a form of religion, as some critics have suggested.61 In the end, art is not the center of Mahler’s philosophical program. Rather, art can serve to help our understanding of the realities surrounding us. Goethe’s Faust propagates a view of reality that is aesthetic in nature. If we view reality as a simulation of something else, then this view has an aesthetic dimension inherent in it. Art may be a privileged medium that makes this principle clear, but it should not become the object of a (semi-)religious adoration itself. What Mahler advocates is a dialogue between all manifestations of this aesthetic consciousness. This would explain the remarkable freedom with which he uses philosophy, literature, and the visual arts as resources to illustrate the meaning of his music.
It is generally assumed that Mahler’s understanding of the final scene of Faust II was influenced by Siegfried Lipiner’s 1894 dissertation on Goethe’s Faust and by conversations between the two friends.62 Unfortunately, Lipiner’s thesis, entitled Homunkulus: Eine Studie über Faust und die Philosophie Goethes (Homunculus: A Study on Faust and Goethe’s Philosophy), has been lost.63 However, it is possible to gain some insight into Lipiner’s ideas about Goethe’s text based on another dissertation, Die Gedanken- und Ideenwelt Siegfried Lipiners (Siegfried Lipiner’s World of Thoughts and Ideas), defended in 1936 in Vienna by a student named Ida Schein, who had access to Lipiner’s unpublished writings, including Homunkulus. Schein does not give a comprehensive overview of the central argument of Lipiner’s thesis, but she refers to and quotes from it a number of times. For our interpretation of the final scene of Faust II, the passage in which she discusses Lipiner’s dissertation in the context of Schopenhauer’s critique of metaphysics — and more specifically, Schopenhauer’s view that we have no access to reality directly, only to representations of reality, except for our own “will” — is particularly relevant.64 According to Lipiner, Goethe understood our “will” as being directed toward knowledge that consists not of multiple ideas but of “one idea” (eine Idee; GSL, 83). This central idea is closely connected to our will and represents a form of knowledge. Yet its exact nature cannot be defined in a positive sense and according to Lipiner remains an enigma. Nevertheless, it would be wrong to assume that our will has no direction at all. By giving in to our will to gain knowledge of this central idea, we distance ourselves from our individual will and from our material needs and surrender instead to a more general “will.”65 Interestingly, in order to clarify this concept of the will, Lipiner referred to the Dutch-Jewish philosopher Spinoza and his theory of substance (GSL, 83).
On the basis of Schein’s thesis, one can conclude that Spinoza’s work provided Lipiner with one of his dissertation’s key arguments. For Lipiner, Goethe’s Faust was about the philosophical conflict between a materialistic and an idealistic view of the world. The title of Lipiner’s thesis, Homunkulus, refers to the attempt of Faust’s assistant Wagner to create a life form, a homunculus, from inorganic matter alone (GSL, 106; see Faust vs. 6835–60) — an attempt that of course fails miserably. According to Lipiner, the recognition that our soul is a continuous element, while our body changes all the time, leads us to reject the “myth” of Homunculus (GSL, 106). That does not mean, however, that Lipiner was an idealist and believed in the supremacy of the mind over the body. After Schopenhauer and Nietzsche’s rigorous debunking of such idealism, that would have been naive. And, much earlier, Spinoza had already offered a way out of this dilemma by presenting a theory of substance, which had acknowledged humans’ dependence on the body and on matter while simultaneously claiming that body and mind function as an indivisible unity (for a concise explanation of Spinoza’s theory of substance in the context of early-modern Western philosophy, see SM, 25–27). In contrast to Schein, who saw Lipiner as an unabashed idealist and who is herself quite critical of the Spinoza analogy — without a doubt because it is in conflict with her image of Lipiner as a deeply religious person in the traditional Protestant sense — I believe that it was Spinoza’s monistic theory of mind and body, as an alternative to materialism or idealism, that attracted Lipiner. The second set of references to Spinoza in Schein’s dissertation (GSL, 104–5) follows a rather vague paragraph in which she discusses Lipiner’s view of the principle of “entelechy” in Goethe’s Faust. The concept of “entelechy” is usually associated with Aristotle or Leibniz, but it also makes sense in a discussion of Spinoza’s theory of substance, since he too assumed the existence of a basic drive or tendency in all living beings (“conatus”; see SM, 30–31). Our affects are the most substantial manifestation of this basic drive, which is constitutive for human nature (SM, 48–49).
Even though the final scene of Faust is not mentioned directly in any of the passages of Lipiner’s thesis discussed by Schein, and even though his mention of the concept of “entelechy” is only an indirect reference to the final scene of Faust II, this scene is clearly on Lipiner’s mind in the statements analyzed above. How do Lipiner’s references to Spinoza help us understand Mahler’s interpretation of this scene? Spinoza’s philosophy enables us to synthesize a number of key thoughts articulated in the final scene of Faust II. It allows us to make a connection between otherwise heterogeneous elements in Goethe’s text. One of Spinoza’s major contributions to the history of Western philosophy is the idea that man’s dependence on body and matter is, in the end, not a negative thing (SM, 51–52).66 Spinoza does not see a real opposition between what the body and what the mind wants (SM, 49, 75, and 80). This is an insight of crucial importance also in Goethe’s Faust. The idea that man’s behavior is driven by a “will” underlying his actions, and that his emotions — or “affect,” meaning in this context the general direction behind human emotions — are indicative of this basic drive, is another key element of Spinoza’s thinking to be found in Goethe’s work. The end of Faust II is a powerful articulation of the connection between humankind’s emotional life and purpose in the world. However, in spite of the fact that our emotions (according to Spinoza) are indicative of the road we need to take, we do not know our “goal” in life (SM, 30)67 — a thought reflected in Goethe’s admission that any knowledge of our driving force can only be incomplete and imperfect.
Both Lipiner and Mahler speak of the principle of “entelechy” that leads our actions and also guarantees some form of further existence of our essence after death (GSL, 104; GR, 384 and 389). The term refers to a philosophical tradition going back to Aristotle and is associated with the idea that organisms develop in a specific direction, toward a specific goal (SM, 30). Interpreting the notion of “entelechy” in the framework of Spinoza’s philosophy makes Faust a much more radical text than would an Aristotelian or a Leibnizian interpretation of the same notion. An interpretation of the term according to Spinoza’s principles emphasizes the openness of man’s development, the fact that humans never really know their goal or purpose in life. In this context it is important that for both Mahler and Lipiner the role of art is closely connected to man’s dynamic nature, the “will” underlying his actions. For Lipiner, a work of art is an expression of man’s will to gain knowledge of the idea (GSL, 83–84n1). Mahler states something very similar in his letters to Alma, as I have shown.
There are some other structural reasons why Spinoza is of importance for an understanding of Goethe’s Faust. Spinoza, like the literary figure Faust, is an icon for the transition from a medieval to a modern view of the world. In fact, some recent research sees Spinoza as a very early and exemplary representative of modernity, the instigator of a radical form of Enlightenment.68 Spinoza’s desire to reconcile man’s metaphysical needs with a profoundly modern view of man and of the world that is at the root of the ideas discussed above, must have been appealing to Lipiner and Mahler. While Spinoza acknowledged the impact of tradition and man’s need to be part of a community, his philosophy demonstrates the relativity of traditions by pointing to their historical nature (SM, 55, and 62–63)69 while maintaining a certain universalism. Lipiner’s deliberations on the basis of Spinoza’s insights about the individual versus the collective help us understand a key insight in Goethe’s text. In spite of the fact that humans individually need to make sense of their lives, they are part of a larger collective. The idea that humans need to overcome their own will in order to participate in a more general will is to be understood as an attempt to think of alterity and identity as related. Humans from different parts of the world may be different and represent different values, but in the end they all participate in one project. In Spinoza’s terminology our “striving” is simultaneously individual and “ontologically universal” (SM, 30).
It is interesting to read Lipiner’s idea that Spinoza is crucial for the understanding of Goethe’s Faust drama in the context of the nineteenth-century Jewish affinity for Goethe discussed above. The thought that a Jewish philosopher stood at the beginning of modernity must have been intriguing to men such as Mahler and Lipiner. The insight into the Spinoza-Goethe nexus therefore constitutes a powerful defense of German-Jewish culture, a component of German culture that had come increasingly under attack in Vienna around 1900. Spinoza also showed that awareness of one’s Jewish cultural background could be reconciled with underwriting the basic assumptions of modernity. At a time in which the discourse on the identity of German culture became increasingly nationalistic and xenophobic — a trend that also involved Goethe’s legacy in German cultural history — Lipiner and Mahler argued for a very different image of Goethe and German cultural history in general.