MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON
Thiiringer forest, the Inselsberg and the distant Hartz, they sat together upon the grass while Goethe's servant Frederick unpacked the hamper which they had brought with them. They had a brace of partridges, some white bread, and an excellent old wine which they drank together from the golden goblet which Goethe extracted from a yellow leather case. "I have often been in this spot," said Goethe, "and of recent years I have felt that this might be the last time that I should look down from here upon the kingdoms of the world and their glories ; but, see, it has happened once again, and I hope that even this is not the last time that we shall both spend a pleasant day here. In future we roust often come up here." They finished their meal, and thereafter Goethe showed Eckermann the little hunting-lodge where he and Schiller and the Grand Duke had spent such happy hours in their careless youth. "Come," he said, "I shall show you the tree on which fifty years ago we cut our names. But how it has altered and how everything has grown! That must be the tree ; you see it is still in fullest vigour: even our names are still to be traced, confused and distorted, scarcely to be recognised." Such was the beech wood on the Etters- berg more than a hundred years ago. The Olympian old man would come there frequently, recalling his youth, welcoming old age with philosophic calm. "At seventy-five," he said, "one must, of course, think sometimes of death. But this thought never causes me un- easiness. For I am convinced that our spirit is indestructible and that its activity continues from eternity to eternity. It is like the sun, which seems to set only to our earthly eyes, but which in reality never sets, but shines unceasingly."
* * * The wood in which Goethe walked that afternoon with Eckermann is known as Buchenwald. A spot which has for long been associated with the radiant youth or sunset splendour of the greatest of German poets is now forever identified with the most shameful of all German deeds. The lesson of Goethe and Schiller has in truth become "confused and distorted, scarcely to be recognised ": the roots of the tree on which nearly two centuries ago they carved their initials have drunk the blood of innocents, and the balanced calm which Goethe preached and practised has been degraded into a frenzy which we cannot understand. I see no special usefulness in_abandoning ourselves to horror and anger and in calling down the curses of vengeance upon the whole German race. It is wise and necessary to force German citizens to see with their own eyes the cruelties which have been perpetrated in their name. But it is not sufficient for us, who live among gentler people and in a saner world, merely to deplore these outrages ; we must seek to understand by what sad processes the soul of a great nation became afflicted with this sickness. We must force ourselves to imagine by what insensible gradations a whole people can lose its liberties, and how, when once these liberties have been surrendered, it becomes impossible for honourable and courageous men to raise a cry of protest when even the slightest remonstrance becomes punishable with torture and death. Only men of deep faith, such as Cardinal Faulhaber and Pastor Niernaller, possess such transcendent courage. More ordinary 'mortals seek to disclaim responsibility, to feign ignorance, to murmur miserably to themselves, "But what could we have done?" For when once the conscience of a nation becomes silent it becomes atrophied, and the sense of personal responsibility is merged in the brutal instincts of the herd. * * * * With the picture oBuchenwald still aching in my heart, I went that Thursday to attend the enthronement of our ninety-seventh Archbishop at Canterbury. No day in all this amazing spring has been more beautiful, and the great cathedral rose serene); above the orchards. Inside the choir the sun streamed through white windows upon white wails, and against this chalk background the
N Wednesday, September 26th, 1827, Goethe and Eckermann violet and the gold, the scarlet and the purple, glimmered- and
flashed. From the west door to the high altar there are a series of ascensions, culminating in the high flight of steps which lead to the altar itself. Upon these steps were grouped sixty-five bishops in their scarlet robes, and as the slow processions passed and re- passed, as the sun flashed and flashed again upon the mace of Canterbury, upon the cross of Canterbury, upon the taperers, the bedesmen, the King's scholars, the choir-boys and the canons and minor canons, these sixty-five bishops upon th altar steps formed a constantly regrouping background, shaping and reshaping them- selves very quietly into varying patterns of red. The trumpets sounded as the Archbishop entered the west door ; the singing of choir-boys could be heard as the procession passed up the nave, and then very slowly they all entered and climbed the altar steps. It was an English ceremony—magnificent, traditional, and yet restrained. The element of compromise was also present. For the illuminated Gospel which, as the tradition goes, was given to St. Augustine by the Pope Gregory the Great had been filched from St. Augustine's at the time that the monasteries were dissolved. It found its way into the possession of Corpus Christi College, Cam- bridge ; and, forgetful of past controversies, it appeared again for the enthronement, carried in the procession by the Master of Corpus, supported by two Fellows of the college.
* * * * How strange it scented, upon so lovely a day, to witness this calm Christian ceremony while the sight of the Buchenwald corpses still lingered in the retina of one's eye. How comforting to reflect that, whereas Hitler has boasted that his daemonic system would last a thousand years, the stones around us, the foundation which we were honouring, had already endured for thirteen hundred-years. And how salutary to observe with what reticence this great ceremony was conducted, that a sense of humility was mingled with much grandeur, and that no note of boastfulness intruded upon a proud tradition. Gently the Archbishop delivered his sermon from the throne in which he had been installed. He spoke of the place which the Church of England should occupy in this country and in the world. There was, Dr. Fisher said, a whole demon-ridden world which it was our duty to restore to health and sanity ; everything of stability and high purpose which man could find would be needed for this gigantic task. Our responsibilities, he reminded us, were tremendous ; our opportunity was great. Even the most cynical critic could have detected in that fine ceremony no element of hypocrisy or cant. And in the mood engendered by the Arch- bishop's solemn words, it seemed quite natural that we should join thereafter in the bidding prayer, and that we should pray together "for our enemies ; that they and we may together come to know the righteousness of God, and be made one in the holy bond of truth and peace, of faith and charity."
* * * *
Coming back that golden afternoon through the Kent orchards, I reflected with gratitude upon the sincerity of the service which I had just witnessed. For how can we cure this sickness unless we ourselves be sane and healthy, how can we cleanse the Germans from their hatreds if we ourselves continue to hate?- I know the Germans well: I am well aware that only by icy sternness can we convince them of the magnitude of their crimes. But Buchenwald is something more than a monument of German cruelty ; it is a warning that human beings, when ill-conditioned, can behave in inhuman ways. When punishment has been exacted, as it will be exacted, we must show them that there exists a better way of life than any that the Nazis conceived. I believe that what their own Goethe conceived and understood they also will understand. For the lesson of Goethe cannot be wholly dimmed: " Untergehend sogar ist's immer dieselbige Sonne " ("although it sets, the sun remains the sun").
Perhaps this line, which Goethe murmured to himself at Buchen- wald, still echoes among its tragic beech-trees.
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