40
PARTISAN REVIEW
At about this time Kaufmann
2
and his fiancee came to the
Steintal. At first this visit displeased Lenz; he had, as it were,
feathered a little nest for himself, and this little bit of peace was so
precious to him. And now someone was coming to see him, somebody
who reminded him of so much, with whom he must talk and argue,
somebody who knew his circumstances. Oberlin knew nothing about
his past; he had put him up, looked after him, had regarded his
coming as a piece of providence, for it was God who had sent him
this unhappy man; he loved Lenz with all his heart. Besides, Lenz's
presence was necessary to everyone there; he belonged to them, as
if he had long been with them, and no one asked whence he had
come and where he would go.
During the meal Lenz recaptured his good mood; they were
talking about literature, he was on his own ground. The idealistic
movement was just beginning at that time, Kaufmann was one of
its supporters. Lenz ardently opposed him. He said: "Even the poets
of whom we say that they reproduce reality have no conception of
what reality is, but they're a good deal more bearable than those
who wish to transform reality." He said: "I take it that God has
made the world as it should be and that we can hardly hope to scrawl
or daub anything better; our only aspiration should be to recreate
modestly in His manner. In all things I demand-life, the possibility
of existence, and that's all; nor is it our business to ask whether it's
beautiful, whether it's ugly. The feeling that there's life in the thing
created is much more important than considerations of beauty and
ugliness; it's the sole criterion in matters of art. Besides, it's only rarely
that we find such fullness of life; we find it in Shakespeare; it strikes
us with full impact in popular ballads and songs, only sometimes in
Goethe; everything else should be thrown on the fire. Those poor
wretches aren't capable of drawing as much as a dog's kennel; ideal
personages is what they ask for, but all I've seen is a lot of wooden
puppets. This idealism is the most shameful contempt for human na–
ture.
If
only artists would try to submerge themselves in the life of
the very humblest person and to reproduce it with all its faint agita–
tions, hints of experience, the subtle, hardly perceptible play of his
features...." He himself had tried something of the kind in his
"Private Tutor" and "The Soldiers."3 These are the most prosaic
people in the world, but the emotional vein is identical in almost
