Goethe and Schiller at a gallop

Since seeking out the previous apartments of the 1920s Bauhau artist set was an epic fail the day before. I figure its easier to look for homes of these who were never chased out of Weimar, that is the writers – Goethe and Schiller.

Its threatening more rain but I figure I can make an early morning circuit of the Park an der Ilm to see Goethe’s summer house before stopping into the ‘official’ Goethe Haus on Frauen Platz.

I wander through the sleepy streets and pause at the mounted statue of Duke Carl Alexander, who features large as a benign benefactor for both writers, as I turn into the park.

I follow the park’s chalky trails cantered by joggers, through idyllic green forest and wide plains of tall grass, bisected by a river. I halt in front of a Goethe’s cottage with its manicured gardens as a ticket collector arrives, who whilst the church bells chime 10, the opening time, says the house is not open yet. I give her space to decide when 10 am exists on her time clock and wander the grounds and notice a huge old tree, now fallen on its side its so large, and wonder if Goethe ever sat under it.

I spend so much time in the grounds taking photos from every angle of this small romantic cottage, I decide I don’t need to go inside. I leave the ticket collector alone as clearly thats how she likes it.

Over at Frauen Platz, the Goethe circus is beginning. Swarms of people are gathered. Horse drawn carriages are lined up and the cafes are heaving with coffee and sugary cake consumers. I head up to the counter and ask in my best German for a ticket. I cant quite understand at first why I cant have one. The line behind me grows impatient. I finally get it as the hostility behind me peaks. I needed to have pre-reserved a ticket to get into the Goethe House as it is so busy.

I slink out ticketless, commiserating with myself, that I have at least seen through Goethe’s birthplace house in Frankfurt without incident a couple of years back. Then I head for Schiller’s house hoping for a better reception. And I got it.

Schillers house, by comparison, is an oasis of calm and staffed by patient ticket collectors who indulge my mangled German, in the home city of the most eloquent German literature you will find.

In comparison to Goethe, Schiller had a hard time of it. From his first play, he attracted the wrath of the duke of his home state. He left penniless seeking shelter from friends and eventually settled in Weimar, after the honourary appointment as a City Councillor by the enlightened Duke Carl Alexander. He married a local member of a threadbare aristocractic family, Charlotte, whilst maintaining a strong relationship with her sister Carolina, a soon to be divorcee. Watch the recent German film for a more saucy rendition of their eventual joint household. How he found the energy to write a play each year, whilst of poor health and permanently broke whilst romancing two sisters, is beyond me. He died at 45 years of age.

Schiller’s legacy is vast and includes a poem called ‘Ode to Joy’ which was the inspiration for Beethoven’s work of the same name and later for the play, Wilhelm (William) Tell, which regrettably Hitler’s propagandists seized on for a time before the narrative changed and it was dropped.

I get soaked walking back to the hotel and head inside the Neues Museum partly to escape the downpour and partly because it was the host of many Bauhaus exhibitions in the 1920s.

There is an exhibition of Winckelmann, the father of art history (1717 – 1768) called Moderne Antike. He fostered the love of Greek and Roman antiquities and perfection in the human form in the classical statues he discovered. There are examples of ethnography in the exhibition and some of the displays touch on rasse (race). I am unsettled by the direction of some of his later followers and exit glad its time for my train.

 

 

 

 

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