3618

A CHILDHOOD RECOLLECTION FROM DICHTUNG UND WAHRHEIT

‘If we try to recollect what happened to us in the earliest years of childhood, we often find that we confuse what we have heard from others with what is really a possession of our own derived from what we ourselves have witnessed.’ This remark is found on one of the first pages of Goethe’s account of his life, which he began to write at the age of sixty. It is preceded only by some information about his birth, which ‘took place on August 28, 1749, at midday on the stroke of twelve’. The stars were in a favourable conjunction and may well have been the cause of his survival, for at his entry into the world he was ‘as though dead’, and it was only after great efforts that he was brought to life. There follows on this a short description of the house and of the place in it where the children - he and his younger sister - best liked to play. After this, however, Goethe relates in fact only one single event which can be assigned to the earliest years of childhood’ (the years up to four?) and of which he seems to have preserved a recollection of his own.

The account of it runs as follows: ‘And three brothers (von Ochsenstein by name) who lived over the way became very fond of me; they were orphan sons of the late magistrate, and they took an interest in me and used to tease me in all sorts of ways.

‘My people used to like to tell of all kinds of pranks in which these men, otherwise of a serious and retiring disposition, used to encourage me. I will quote only one of these exploits. The crockery-fair was just over, and not only had the kitchen been fitted up from it with what would be needed for some time to come, but miniature utensils of the same sort had been bought for us children to play with. One fine afternoon, when all was quiet in the house, I was playing with my dishes and pots in the hall’ (a place which had already been described, opening on to the street) ‘and, since this seemed to lead to nothing, I threw a plate into the street, and was overjoyed to see it go to bits so merrily. The von Ochsensteins, who saw how delighted I was and how joyfully I clapped my little hands, called out "Do it again!" I did not hesitate to sling out a pot on to the paving-stones, and then, as they kept crying "Another!", one after another all my little dishes, cooking-pots and pans. My neighbours continued to show their approval and I was highly delighted to be amusing them. But my stock was all used up, and still they cried "Another!" So I ran off straight into the kitchen and fetched the earthenware plates, which made an even finer show as they smashed to bits. And thus I ran backwards and forwards, bringing one plate after another, as I could reach them in turn from the dresser; and, as they were not content with that, I hurled every piece of crockery I could set hold of to the same destruction. Only later did someone come and interfere and put a stop to it all. The damage was done, and to make up for so much broken earthenware there was at least an amusing story, which the rascals who had been its instigators enjoyed to the end of their lives.’