The name Gottfried Keller is little known in the English-speaking world, but Der Grüne Heinrich (or Green Henry) is widely considered one of the greatest German-language novels of all time, It is a largely-autobiographical Bildungsroman telling the story of an aspiring artist who grows up in alpine Switzerland with his mother. After being thrown out of his private school, he takes up an artistic vocation and receives an uneven education in painting, learning in fits and starts from the various tutors he finds for himself. He eventually sets out for Munich and tries to make a go of it as an artist, but with a studiously impractical character, he finds little success. These broad outlines will be immediately recognizable to the reader of any short description of Keller’s life.
Der Grüne Heinrich is almost synonymous with the nineteenth-century genre of realism, which served as a kind of naturalist counterpart to the Romantic movement, with its fabulous tales of mystery and enchantment. More precisely, this work is customarily classified as a work of “poetic realism”, and the contradictory tendencies encapsulated by this term neatly express the core aesthetic conundrum of the book. Keller sought to harness the material of his life and render it into an artful, controlled literary work with a developed aesthetic and moral structure. The literary critic Sandra Kluwe refers to this problem in Keller's work as "the dialectic of mimesis and poeisis."
Since so much of the book is about his artistic vocation, I took the time to study all of the paintings the youthful Keller painted that I could find, and I particularly found that his 1842 painting Gewitterstimmung (easily viewable online) provides an illustration of a clash between Keller’s desire to faithfully reproduce the stuff of life and his wish to shape it into motifs according to certain aesthetic structural principles. The colors, textures, and effects of lighting in the painting show a striking verisimilitude, but the figures are organized in a contrived manner, producing an odd and not-completely-satisfactory effect.
I think this is perfectly analogous to how Grüner Heinrich is written. Keller beautifully evokes the experience of life in so much of this book, and I especially appreciated the luminous way that the sublime beauty of his mountain home animated his youth with a kind of spiritual energy. The first half of the book conveys a wonderful and vivid sense of how it was for a sensitive and philosophical spirit to grow up in nineteenth-century Switzerland, and this is one of the best and most beautiful parts of the book.
But, as with his painting, his formal control of composition seems crude by comparison, and the book suffers from his clumsy attempts to tell a kind of instructive moral story from the material of his life. Whenever the book slips into its symbolic register, it is suddenly as though one is reading a different, worse novel. I would especially call out a long episode after his eventual departure from Munich toward the end of the novel as utterly fantastical. It is storybook stuff of the “and the man in the inn turned out to be his long lost brother!” variety, served up to try to make a message out of life, because, Keller apparently believed, that’s what artful novels do.
But life does not impart such messages to us, for as the saying has it, “If the Tao could be spoken, everyone would have told his brother.” The felicitous representation of life’s myriad complexity can only clash with any attempt at organization into clear motifs, and the book suffers from it.
The worst of this, it must be said, is his feckless handling of female characters, who function more as symbols than as characters. The novel evidences an appalling lack of insight into female psychology, and I can say it did not surprise me at all to learn that Keller himself never managed to find a successful relationship. In dramatic terms, the book is at its worse when Keller tries to interpret his failure to connect with women as reflective of some deeper purpose. This is mere wish fulfillment, and it’s embarrassing to read.
Nietzsche, excited by Keller’s writings, sent him a copy of his Fröhliche Wissenschaft, but Keller found it off-putting and did not respond. And this is, I think, a real shame - if he had pored over it, he might have learned, as Nietzsche learned, to love his mistakes, and to understand that, as much as his successes, they are what defined him. Instead, Keller is obviously mortified by certain personal and professional failures in his life, and his efforts to control or distance his relationship to them reads like he’s throwing a tarp of words over the (to him) unsightly parts of his autobiography. He does not seem to register that all of these problems helped eventually guide him to his literary path, where he would find enormous success and acclaim.
Despite the formal flaws, this novel is, on the whole, compelling and quite worth reading. At times it is positively alive with a rapturous beauty, in passages like this one:
“...wir gingen auf den Weg, welcher zuerst über den Kirchhof führte, der auf einer kleinen Höhe gelegen ist. Dort duftete es gewaltig von tausend Blumen, eine flimmernde, summende Welt von Licht, Käfern und Schmetterlingen, Bienen und namenlosen Glanztierchen webte über den Gräbern hin und her. Es war ein feines Konzert bei beleuchtetem Hause, wogte auf und nieder, erlöschte bis auf das gehaltene Singen eines einzelnen Insektes, belebte sich wieder und schwellte mutwillig und volltönig an; dann zog es sich in die Dunkelheiten zurück, welche die Jasmin- und Holunderbüsche über den Grabzeichen bildeten, bis eine brummende Hummel den Reigen wieder ans Licht führte; die Blumenkelche nickten im Rhythmus vom fortwährenden Absitzen und Auffliegen der Musikanten.”
I’ll try to get across in English for my English-speaking readers:
"We took the path that went first by the cemetery that was laid by a little outcropping. The area was powerfully perfumed by a thousand flowers, a flickering, humming world of light, beetles, and little butterflies, bees and nameless little creatures of light, hovering this way and that over the graves. It was a fine concert in an illuminated hall which vaulted up and down, then dissipated until the singing of one solitary insect remained, then came swelling back to life, boldly and robustly; then it withdrew back into shadows painted by the jasmine and hollander bushes over the gravestones until the humming buzz brought the circling dance into the light once more; the calyxes nodded to the rhythm of the constant soaring and swooping of the musicians."
The German is obviously more wonderful than my meager translation - for example, "little creatures of light" is "Glanztierchen", which is more like "a shining apparition of a little creature," as "Glanz" is both “light” and “fleeting appearance”.
I love this book, flaws and all, and for many very long passages it roars with great beauty like a mountain river. The aesthetic problems he was wrestling with troubled a lot of serious German-speaking novelists in the nineteenth century, and it may perhaps be said that no one found an altogether satisfactory solution bringing harmony to mimesis and poeisis until Thomas Mann.