[In the following essay, Kacandes analyzes the complex temporal and narrative organization of Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, viewing anachrony—dissonance between the order of narration and the actual sequence of events in the storyline—as the structuring principle of the novel.]

Having just completed the leonine task of reading the whole of Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre in two days, Schiller recorded his immediate impressions in a letter to Goethe (2 July 1796):

Billig sollte ich … heute noch nichts schreiben; denn die erstaunliche und unerhörte Mannigfaltigkeit, die darin im eigentlichsten Sinne versteckt ist, überwältigt mich. Ich gestehe, daβ ich bis jetzt zwar die Stetigkeit, aber noch nicht die Einheit recht gefaβt habe, obwohl ich keinen Augenblick zweifle, daβ ich auch über diese noch völlige Klarheit erhalten werde, wenn bei Produkten dieser Art die Stetigkeit nicht schon mehr als die halbe Einheit ist … Wie ist es Ihnen gelungen, den groβen, so weit auseinandergeworfenen Kreis und Schauplatz von Personen und Begebenheiten wieder so eng zusammenzurücken.¹

Schiller's amazement at the variety and fullness of the novel as well as his feeling of being overwhelmed—if not stunned—by it are sentiments echoed by the readers who have followed him. The underlying unity which Schiller sensed was there but could not locate has been the topic of much critical debate, from Schiller's and Goethe's own discussions of this novel's poetic qualities to the praises and polemics of Friedrich Schlegel, Novalis, and other Frühromantiker, and to contemporary discussions of the novel's “poeticity.”²

In the search for unity, several scholars point to the presentation of time. Herman Meyer, for example, comments: “Es gibt wohl kaum ein episches Werk, das den Zeitstrom so leibhaftig fühlbar macht …” (15; also qtd. in Schumann 154).³ Consider also Gerhard Storz's description of time in the novel: “Vergangenheit, Zukunft, Gegenwart stehen nicht hintereinander wie in einer linearen Reihe, sie laufen nicht auf getrennten Bahnen nebeneinander, sondern sie greifen ineinander, hängen auf seltsame, ja oft paradoxe Weise zusammen” (“Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre” 72). Critics' efforts to back up these generalizations, however, tend to follow one of two strategies. Either they cite characters and leitmotifs which appear and reappear at various points in the novel, creating unity through self-reflexivity, or they try to chart or at least follow the “flow” of time, the “Stetigkeit” Schiller sensed and commented on in the quotation above.

One of the first critics to attempt the latter was Günther Müller in 1948. His influential study, Gestaltung-Umgestaltung in ‘Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahren’ pinpoints several series of consecutive days in the novel and tries to establish the total amount of elapsed time [Gesamtdauer]. It was in the course of this work that he outlined the distinction between Erzählzeit and erzählte Zeit⁴—a point to which I will return. One assiduous attempt by Detlev Schumann to “correct” Müller's calculations for establishing the Gesamtdauer of Wilhelm Meister concludes: “Immerhin: Widersprüche sind da; sie stammen von Goethe selbst” (154). I do not disagree with Schumann's calculations and “corrections,” but rather with his interpretation of them. For the critical obsessions with Goethe's “Additionsfehler”⁵ and with the chronological plotting of the events of the novel seem to preclude consideration of how Goethe succeeds in creating a unifying time structure. Although the story's events may seem to be told mainly chronologically, upon closer examination one will realize that the time structure is highly contrived, anachronous, and carefully manipulated by the narrator for formal and thematic purposes. My goal, then, is to identify the undermining of chronology, of erzählte Zeit, not to prove that Goethe made “mistakes,” but rather with the hope of gaining greater insight into his overall aesthetic design and purpose. I will do this by focusing on the narrator and his strategies of pre- and re-presentation, aspects of the text which have been largely overlooked.⁶

I would like to begin by considering briefly the difficulties critics have had in establishing the text's overall story time. Their efforts have been frustrated by what are accepted generally as inconsistencies in the novel itself. Such studies presuppose that story time should be determinable and add up correctly. After all, one could argue, Wilhelm Meister is considered the progenitor of the Bildungsroman-genre, Bildung implies a teleological process, and therefore the Bildungsroman presents a chronological series of events in the protagonist's life.⁷ Jumps into the past, especially into a different individual's past, such as that related in Book Six of Wilhelm Meister, the story of the schöne Seele or “beautiful soul,” are ignored. However, when entire sections of the novel are left unaccounted for, the subject of such studies cannot be “time,” as, for example, Schumann's title “Die Zeit in Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre” announces, but rather is just the forward motion of the story time. Before proceeding to my own investigation of neglected aspects of the presentation of time, let me linger over two sample “errors” Schumann uncovers.

Utilizing all references to explicit amounts of elapsed time (e.g., the Polterer's statement to Wilhelm about how long ago the acting troupe left Wilhelm's hometown, ii/7, 114), series of consecutive days, biological markers (e.g., the pregnancies of Mariane, Frau Melina, and Philine; aging; etc.), and behaviour (e.g., how Jarno and Wilhelm greet one another after a separation, vii/2, 428), Schumann reasons that slightly less than five years pass (149).⁸ But among the myriad time indices he considers are many which contradict one another. An obvious example is Werner's description of his two sons as “gescheite Jungen” whom he sees “schon sitzen und schreiben, und rechnen, laufen, handeln und trödeln” (viii/1, 501). This mature characterization of them conflicts not only with the small amount of objectively calculable time since their parents' wedding, but also relatively with the characterization of Felix, who must be older than they—he was conceived at the beginning of the story time more than three years before Werner's marriage—and yet is described by Werner only moments later as “ein Wurm.” Schumann, as did Schiller before him, concludes that this is a mistake (153).⁹ Yet even if it is a mistake in “objective” terms, would it not be more useful to ask what purpose such a discrepancy might serve? Might Goethe be trying to indicate something about Werner's personality—i.e., that he projects precocious business acumen onto his own infant offspring while perceiving others' children as less developed than they in fact are? Schumann's preoccupation with chronology prevents him from considering the possibility that this is not an artistic flaw, but rather a contradiction which serves an artistic purpose.

Similarly, after calculating that seventeen days pass in Book One, Schumann comments that Wilhelm's query to Mariane, “ob er sich denn nicht Vater glauben dürfe” (i/11, 43), is singularly early (136). Mariane and Wilhelm consummate their love in the ellipsis between the first and second chapters, and only ten days can have passed since then (Schumann 132-37). Mariane could not yet know with certainty that she is pregnant. (Wilhelm assumes an affirmative answer from Mariane's gesture, and Mariane makes a comment on the subject to Barbara the next day [i/12, 45].) It is with regard to this example that Schumann quotes Goethe's statement about “Additionsfehler” mentioned above. Schumann concludes: “Es solle sich nun nicht darum handeln, für alle einzelnen Handlungsphasen des Romans, Kapitel um Kapitel, eine präzise Zeitberechnung durchzuführen” (137). And I would agree with him. But what he then fails to investigate is how Goethe could include precisely such a premature question and not have the reader object—at least not on a first reading or without performing the analytical gymnastics which Schumann does to discover that only ten days can have passed since Wilhelm and Mariane first had intercourse (132-33).¹⁰ Schumann seems oblivious to one of the most interesting aspects of Goethe's art: the purposeful undermining of chronology. There is not merely a “discrepancy” between the amount of calculably elapsed time and “inner probability” (Schumann 136), but rather a real tension between the two—a tension which the reader may feel less strongly on a first reading of Book One,¹¹ but one which cannot be missed as (s)he reads on or rereads the beginning. This tension, I suggest, can only be resolved when one collapses chronology and lets all moments of story time reflect on one another. Thus Müller's choice to demonstrate the distinction between Erzählzeit and erzählte Zeit with Wilhelm Meister seems a particularly curious one.¹² The development of such a distinction may have been rooted in Müller's reading of similar seemingly contradictory passages as those discussed above. As readers of Wilhelm Meister ourselves, we can empathize with Schiller's and Müller's (hypothesized) frustrated desire that it should all “add up.” And yet, while Müller's distinction has proved to be a powerful analytic tool, I hope to show why undue emphasis on reconstructing a chronological story is tempting, but problematic. Let us approach this larger issue by returning to the specific example at hand: Goethe's creation of a sense that the relationship between Mariane and Wilhelm is sufficiently long standing for conception to have taken place and been confirmed.

The quality of the young lovers' relationship is communicated to the reader, I suggest, through a narrative anomaly which has yet to be categorized by narratologists as far as I know, and which I label “masquerading iterative.” I develop my term from Gérard Genette's definition of an iterative as “a single narrative utterance tak[ing] upon itself several occurrences together of the same event (in other words … several events considered only in terms of their analogy)” (116). Such narratives are easily identified by their verb tense in French (“imparfait”) and English (“iterative,” “frequentative,” or “progressive”). Although there is no separate tense for the iterative in German, it is distinguishable nonetheless by context and attendant adverbs.¹³ Iterative passages are “completely traditional” and serve as “a sort of informative frame or background” for singulative narrative (Genette 116-17). The following excerpt from Wilhelm Meister appears to be a classic example of the iterative: “Er [Wilhelm] verrichtete des Tags seine Geschäfte pünktlich, entsagte gewöhnlich dem Schauspiel, war abends bei Tische unterhaltend und schlich, wenn alles zu Bette war, in seinen Mantel gehüllt, sachte zu dem Garten hinaus und eilte, alle Lindors und Leanders im Busen, unaufhaltsam zu seiner Geliebten” (i/3, 15; emphasis added). Although the verbs in the simple past tense could theoretically refer to unique events, the adverbs (“gewöhnlich,” “abends”) mark them as iteratives. One assumes Wilhelm's actions are repeated; this is a pattern of behaviour he has adopted. The context supports this since after the general pattern is established the narrator reports what happened on a particular night (“eines Abends,” line 20). Alternation between iterative and singulative is common. This (ostensible) “iterative narrative” communicates the message to the reader that Wilhelm has been spending his nights with Mariane for some time. And yet, this passage is only masquerading as an iterative; there are no multiple “similar events” to be narrated once; there is only one event being narrated as if it had happened many times. As of the discourse time of this passage, Wilhelm is following this course of action for the first time. By all indications, the “eines Abends” of the next paragraph refers to only the second night of erzählte Zeit.

As we recall, the novel opens with an evening rendezvous between Mariane and Wilhelm during which they consummate their love. The next morning Wilhelm is confronted by his mother who communicates to him his father's displeasure at his frequent visits to the theatre (i/2, 11). Toward the conclusion of this conversation Wilhelm asks her where his old puppets are (i/2, 13). The sentences which precede the “iterative” quoted above explain that Wilhelm came up with an arrangement that allowed him to appease his father's wrath (he stops going to Mariane's performances) and yet still enjoy her love (he sneaks out once everyone is asleep). And in the passage following the one quoted above, Wilhelm presents Mariane with the puppets, whose location he (presumably) learned from his mother. It seems unlikely that Wilhelm would have missed a night with Mariane or that he would have retrieved the puppets and not brought them to her at the first opportunity. Thus, as proposed above, the “eines Abends” when he brings the puppets must be the second night which Wilhelm spends with Mariane, the only night to which the iterative series can apply.¹⁴

Since our passage describes a single night, it cannot be an iterative. And yet neither is it an example of what Genette calls the “pseudo-iterative,” for in a pseudo-iterative even though the verb tense is iterative, “the richness and precision of detail ensure that no reader can seriously believe the event occurs and reoccurs in that manner, several times, without any variation” (121).¹⁵ Our passage has no such detail, and its diction is undeniably iterative. Yet it succeeds in functioning as an iterative; when one reads it, one assumes that Wilhelm has made love to Mariane repeatedly. Nothing betrays its deception except careful correlation of other time indices as demonstrated above. Furthermore, one connects this with other iterative passages which also give the impression that the intimate relationship of Wilhelm and Mariane is of extensive duration.

Consider, for example, a passage several chapters later (placed after the conclusion of the narration of the couple's second night together): “So brachte Wilhelm seine Nächte im Genusse vertraulicher Liebe, seine Tage in Erwartung neuer seliger Stunden zu. Schon zu jener Zeit, als ihn Verlangen und Hoffnung zu Marianen hinzog, fühlte er sich wie neu belebt, er fühlte, daβ er ein anderer Mensch zu werden beginne; nun war er mit ihr vereinigt, die Befriedigung seiner Wünsche ward eine reizende Gewohnheit” (i/9, 33; emphasis added). The first sentence functions similarly to the passage analyzed above.¹⁶ In the next sentence, even though time is divided into “before” and “now” and is not portrayed in an iterative fashion, Wilhelm's feeling of sempiternal bliss is clearly communicated, contributing indirectly to our understanding that theirs is a long-standing relationship.¹⁷ Thus when Wilhelm asks Mariane a short while later (in both story time and discourse time) if she is pregnant, the reader is not jarred, as Schumann insists, but rather accepts it; the masquerading iterative passages have shaped his/her sense of how long this couple has been together. Far from being “functionally subordinate to singulative scenes” (Genette 116-17), Goethe's “masquerading iteratives” dominate the singulatives here—not in quantity, but in moulding the reader's sense of time.

Nevertheless, there is another time frame in Book One which the iteratives by no means obliterate. The placement of the announcement of Norberg's impending arrival at the beginning of the novel impresses upon the reader the sense of a curtailed period of time.¹⁸ Also, the narrator occasionally does mention the passing of specific days and nights. And finally, the iteratives are, as I have shown, frauds. Rather than conclude that Goethe erred, however, let us ask what purpose these conflicting cues might serve.

The importance of Mariane's pregnancy is clear: in the immediate context of its announcement Wilhelm interprets it as a sign of the couple's great love, and his desire to concretize their relationship through marriage intensifies. Of course, Felix's role in the subsequent unfolding of the plot is also crucial. Hence there is no doubt that Goethe needed to have the question (and the answer) seem plausible. Why then did he just not makes the elapsed time sufficiently great? Another set of considerations makes a sense of imminence desirable. Norberg's impending arrival causes tension and conflict between Barbara and Mariane: Mariane will have to choose. The iteratives, on the other hand, reveal the nature of Wilhelm's love, the nature of Wilhelm as reader of the situation. He loses sight of everything and everyone beyond himself and his own feelings. He senses stability, eternity. But the very existence of the other time scheme highlights Wilhelm's naïveté, egotism, even preposterousness. Not only is Wilhelm ignorant of Norberg's arrival (for that we pardon him), but he, who considers Mariane to be “die Hälfte, mehr als die Hälfte seiner selbst” (i/9, 33), is totally unaware of her precarious emotional state, discussed explicitly by the narrator—ironically enough—immediately after that assertion by Wilhelm (i/9, 34).¹⁹

On another level, the contradiction between the two time schemes, the external, objective one and the internal, subjective one, reflects the larger contradiction generated by the events of the book between the way things appear to Wilhelm (i.e., Mariane is unfaithful to Wilhelm) and the way things turn out to be (Mariane is true to him). Significantly, the iteratives influence the reader's understanding of time most strongly in the first book, continue to occur in the early books (e.g., in structuring time spent with the actors),²⁰ but are absent in the last two books. The disappearance of the masquerading iteratives as the novel progresses, then, is linked to Wilhelm's growing ability to place the needs and concerns of others before his own desires; in other words, to become a member of society rather than remain an independent, egotistical sphere of thought and action. The fact that the iteratives prove to be illusive upon closer examination and in relation to the work as a whole is a formal manifestation of the novel's theme: the ultimate falsity of individual perception and the ascendancy of a corporate view. These few observations demonstrate that seeming incongruities in the time scheme must not be labelled “mistakes” and then dismissed, but rather precisely the opposite, that one should focus on them to discover their thematic and formal effects. For masquerading iteratives are only one limited manifestation of a larger strategy in which the narrator sets up chronology as an authority only to wilfully ignore it.

Disagreement among critics about the nature of Wilhelm Meister's narrator suggests that his true modus operandi has yet to be identified. While Franz Stanzel groups him with such other typical “teller-characters” as the narrators of Tom Jones, Vanity Fair, and Doktor Faustus (194), other critics have commented that he does not interpret the story he tells.²¹ I myself have not found a satisfactory label for him, for the briefest look at his relation to the story he narrates shows both how rarely and briefly he speaks and yet also how extensively he controls the elements of his narrative. When he does speak, however, he often claims the opposite. At the end of Book Five, for example, he places one of Mignon's poems, “das wir früher mitzuteilen durch den Drang so mancher sonderbaren Ereignisse verhindert wurden” (v/16, 356; emphasis added). And towards the end of Book Eight he withholds “ein sehr bedeutendes Gespräch, das wir gern, wenn uns die Begebenheiten nicht zu sehr drängten, unsern Lesern hier mitteilen würden” (viii/10, 603; emphasis added). The narrator posits—indeed, almost personifies—the story's events as an external force which controls him and his narrative. They have their own flow which he must not disturb (v/6, 305). Such protestations of servitude should be considered in light of other explicit statements about his activities. The narrator adopts a more aggressive posture, for example, at the beginning of the second book, after Wilhelm's devastating affair with Mariane:

Jeder, der mit lebhaften Kräften vor unsern Augen eine Absicht zu erreichen strebt, kann, wir mögen seinen Zweck loben oder tadeln, sich unsre Teilnahme versprechen; sobald aber die Sache entschieden ist, wenden wir unser Auge sogleich von ihm weg …

Deswegen sollen unsre Leser nicht umständlich mit dem Jammer und der Not unsers verunglückten Freundes, in die er geriet …, unterhalten werden. Wir überspringen vielmehr einige Jahre und suchen ihn erst da wieder auf, wo wir ihn in einer Art von Tätigkeit und Genuβ zu finden hoffen, wenn wir vorher nur kürzlich so viel, als zum Zusammenhang der Geschichte nötig ist, vorgetragen haben. (ii/1, 76; emphasis added).

Here the narrator establishes the principles that not everything need be told and that selection lies with the judgment of the observer, not the actor. The narrator controls what we, the readers, will or will not hear about in detail, a familiar “flexing” of the 18th-century narrator's traditional power. He also, however, reveals a duplicitous attitude toward his occupation. While telling us that he will relate “enough” to create a continuity (another bow to an external “reality”), his disdain for the need or obligation to do so is obvious. In fact, I will go so far as to suggest that the narrator tries repeatedly to wean the reader away from interest in a coherent, independent “story” and steer him/her towards the narrator's own construction, i.e., the discourse.²² The ways in which he does so are subtle and yet so numerous that I will be able to consider only three: how he manipulates the story by appropriation, excision, and transposition.

Although dramatic scenes—usually considered to play the central role in pre-Modernist narrative—do exist in Wilhelm Meister,²³ scrutiny of some of these reveals anomalies. Some episodes which initially appear to be dramatic scenes prove to belong to an a temporal part of the narrator's discourse. The content of letters, songs and poems, manuscripts, and even conversations is often disassociated from the actions and performances which produce and/or receive them and are reproduced as narratorial “digression” (see Genette 94, note 12). Consider the contrast between the narration of the Harfner's performance of a song and Mignon's; first the Harfner's:

Der Alte schwieg, lieβ erst seine Finger über die Saiten schleichen, dann griff er sie stärker an und sang:

          “Was hör’ ich drauβen
vor dem Tor,
          Was auf der Brücke schallen?”
           …
          “Ergeht's euch wohl, so denkt
an mich,
          Und danket Gott so warm, als ich
          Für diesen Trunk euch danke.”

Da der Sänger nach geendigtem Liede ein Glas Wein … ergriff, und es mit freundlicher Miene … austrank, entstand eine allgemeine Freude in der Versammlung.

(ii/11, 129-30)

Not only the text of the song but a musical score as well were reproduced in the first edition of the novel.²⁴ Discourse time approximates story time; the reader is given a “recreation” of the Harfner's performance analogous to the way “scene” approximates “real” dialogue.²⁵ Several songs are “reperformed” in the discourse in this manner (cf. ii/13, 137; iv/11, 240-41; etc.).

Categorically different, however, is Book Three. Below the chapter heading a poem is printed:

Drittes Buch
Erstes Kapitel
Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn,
…
                                                                                                    Dahin! Dahin!
Geht unser Weg: o Vater, laβ uns ziehn! (145)

Again, written music was printed for this song in the original edition. But the first sentence of prose relates a (seemingly) irrelevant action of Wilhelm: “Als Wilhelm des Morgens sich nach Mignon im Hause umsah, fand er sie nicht …” It is not until the second paragraph that any connection between the prose and the poem is hinted:

Nach Verlauf einiger Stunden hörte Wilhelm Musik vor seiner Türe. Er glaubte anfänglich, der Harfenspieler sei schon wieder zugegen; allein er unterschied bald die Töne einer Zither, und die Stimme, welche zu singen anfing, war Mignons Stimme. Wilhelm öffnete die Türe, das Kind trat herein und sang das Lied, das wir soeben aufgezeichnet haben. (iii/1, 145; emphasis added)

The explicit mention of the passing of several hours at the beginning of the paragraph parallels in time what is communicated in space: the dissociation of the song from the act which produced it. But even when this event is summarized the diction emphasizes the connection of the song to the discourse rather than to the story. The adverb “soeben,” of course, refers to discourse time,²⁶ and the relative clause (“das wir soeben aufgezeichnet haben”) makes it seem as if the song Mignon sang in the story originated in the discourse rather than vice versa. Even though the concept of “story” is most traditional and comforting, the narrator seems to want to deny its existence to the reader.²⁷ Although “aufzeichnen” could refer to “recording” what someone else produces (in which case Mignon remains the creative source of the poem), it could also mean the “taking down” of one's own creation (in which case she does not).²⁸ This example is further complicated by the fact that Wilhelm is said to have translated Mignon's song into German, without being able to recover its full charm (ii/1, 146). Is the brilliant poem we in fact read Wilhelm's “imperfect” translation or the narrator's more perfect one? Use of the pronoun “wir” seems to favour the latter supposition, thus again pointing to the hand of the narrator.²⁹

Although it is commonplace to assume that authors use “scene” rather than “summary” for special emphasis,³⁰ in Wilhelm Meister the most important information is appropriated frequently by the narrator. By incorporating it into his discourse, he formally dissociates its temporal connection to the story, even though a “scenic-like” quality is often retained.³¹ The narrator even may leave a marker pointing to what he has annexed. The artistic purpose, I again suggest, is to draw the reader's attention to the disruption of the story and to the authority who can do so. An additional goal seems to be maximal (narratorial) control over the diction, form, and content of important thematic material. The treatment of the “Roman/Drama” conversation illustrates this.

The narrator summarizes the group's activity: “Sie sprachen viel herüber und hinüber” (v/7, 307). But rather than quote the discussion and identify it as such—this would be “scene”—the narrator edits it: “und endlich war folgendes ungefähr das Resultat ihrer Unterhaltung” (emphasis added). The reader recognizes in the passage which follows (307, line 19, through 308, line 5) the tone of classical “authorial digression.” The statements are aesthetic pronouncements which escape the temporality of the story, written in the gnomic present, rather than the subjunctive of indirect discourse. Without any explicit metanarrative comment, however, the narrator then continues with detailed “summary,” close to “scene.” For example: “So vereinigte man sich auch darüber, daβ …”; “Diese Betrachtungen führten wieder auf den wunderlichen Hamlet …” (308), etc. In this way the narrator masks to a certain extent his earlier personal formulation of the “Resultat ihrer Unterhaltung.” Reviewing the entire chapter, one finds: summary, scene (quoted dialogue), summary, atemporal authorial digression, and summary.

The narrator's overt control over what, when, and how the story gets communicated to the reader is also evident in variations of narratorial appropriations in which promised scenes or extended summaries of them are excised, and then deleted altogether (the creation of an ellipsis)³² or transposed to a later point in the discourse and sometimes then reported as “scene” or, as in the case above, as atemporal discourse. We find an interesting example of excision in Book Two.

A brief summary reports that Friedrich told a “Märchen” when asked by the Stallmeister about his past.³³ The reader is also informed that Friedrich had repeated this story frequently.³⁴ The narrator announces, “Wir [gedenken] ein andermal unsre Leser [mit dem Märchen] bekannt zu machen” (ii/14, 141). This “andermal” never comes in Wilhelm Meister. Regardless, the very mention of the event combined with the narrator's promise to tell support the notion of a cadre of external events about which the narrator must report. Yet, as with the appropriations, the excision itself counters the idea. It points rather to the narrator's creative and controlling hand. Pausing to consider why he does not detail Friedrich's Märchen at once, but promises its narration at a future point, I conjecture that arousing more curiosity in our minds about Friedrich is useful because he will play the critical role in the end. Thus, excision helps create expectation and desire for another story, another text. Doing so with regard to Friedrich is particularly appropriate since he provides a resolution by similarly pointing to another story (that of Saul, cf. viii/10, 610). What seems ultimately of greater importance, however, is the effect of narratorial appropriation on the representation of time. In the case of Friedrich's Märchen, for example, any subsequent appearance of Friedrich causes the reader to remember this past scene (and others in which he is involved) and its promise of a future revelation about his personal past. In this way the reader brings “Vergangenheit,” “Zukunft,” and “Gegenwart” together (Storz, “Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre” 72), as (s)he reads and concomitantly remembers and anticipates, constantly “rewriting” the story being read. When the reader eventually discovers Friedrich's real identity, (s)he realizes there was no need to know the actual content of the Märchen; it was clearly a fabrication to disguise his true identity. Thus the ultimate importance of this excision seems to lie in the act of creating a blank.

Far from being directed or restricted by the flow of events, as the narrator sometimes claims, or by adherence to Wilhelm's perspective,³⁵ or even by desire to create suspense, excisions also serve the narrator's control over the moral and aesthetic influences to which the reader is exposed. Justifying his decision to withhold a song of Philine's on the grounds that “[unsere Leser] es vielleicht abgeschmackt oder wohl gar unanständig finden könnten” (ii/11, 130) reveals something about Philine's character, e.g., that she would sing something that might be offensive to somebody. But it also provides us with information about our narrator and his narrative. It is he who would find the song “abgeschmackt” and “wohl gar unanständig”; he is willing and eager to withhold anything that does not serve his didactic or aesthetic goals, or does not interest him or appeal to his taste. Furthermore, the narrator excludes “digressions” while remarking that the reader would find them interesting (e.g., v/6, 305). He skips over conversations he calls “wunderbar” and even “sehr bedeutend” (v/15, 335; viii/10, 603). Yet, as we have seen, he exposes his own expurgatorial method. The narrator maintains his duplicitous stance of pointing to some outside reality which presumably structures the narrative, while simultaneously pointing to his own ability to manipulate—indeed to create—the only reality which gets communicated to the reader, i.e., the discourse. And, I suggest, his comments when appropriating and then excising story material goad the reader into a parallel activity. Precisely by creating ellipses and calling them “interesting” or “absurd,” he piques the reader's desire to know, to fill in the gaps by using his/her imagination. We note the narrator's actions and imagine what might have been sung or said. We realize that we create and recreate a text as does this judgmental, autocratic tease of a narrator, eventually realizing that only the text oneself creates exists.

Surely the most significant narratorial manipulation for thematic and formal goals is the transposition of the “Bekenntnisse einer schönen Seele.” Towards the conclusion of Book Five, the narrator reports:

Kurz darauf kam das vom Arzt versprochene Manuskript an. Sie [Aurelie] ersuchte Wilhelmen, ihr daraus vorzulesen, und die Wirkung die es tat, wird der Leser am besten beurteilen können, wenn er sich mit dem folgenden Buche bekannt gemacht hat. Das heftige und trotzige Wesen unserer armen Freundin ward auf einmal gelindert. (v/16, 355)

The order of the events is clear, if incomplete: the manuscript arrives; Aurelie begs Wilhelm to read it to her; [lacuna]; it has an effect on her. The ellipsis of the moment Wilhelm consents and of the reading time and content of the story itself is consequential even though it is obscured by the reference to what lies ahead in the discourse. That future section of the discourse [i.e., Book Six] is the substitute, the equivalent in a restricted sense, of what has been skipped: the perusal and the listening. Even though these actions can be logically deduced from the events that are narrated—the narrator even reports later that Aurelie requests rereadings (lines 18-20)—their excision and transposition represent a removal of the Bekenntnisse from their story context and a transference to a temporally and spatially independent existence in the discourse. (This is a shift in narrative “levels” from the intradiegetic to the extradiegetic [Genette 228-29].) Located in a separate book, nothing connects the Bekenntnisse with the fictive present formally, and structurally there is only the faint anticipation mentioned above. The facts that this section is narrated in the first person singular and that it has no chapter divisions as the other books do also distinguish it.³⁶ Yet the reader has been given an assignment by the narrator: (s)he is to reconstruct the effect the manuscript has had on Aurelie once (s)he too has been exposed to it. Nonetheless, these instructions are separated from the start of the Bekenntnisse by the narration of other events. It is to the last of these “events” that I turn next.

At the conclusion of Book Five the narrator places one of Mignon's poems (another example of a narratorial appropriation). He accounts for his action with the excuse that other more unusual events prevented him from relating it to us sooner. We have already seen that similar manipulations of the narrator are often motivated by structural and/or thematic considerations. For this reason an examination of the poem's content may help explain its placement between Aurelie's reading of the Bekenntnisse and their reproduction:

Heiβ mich nicht reden, heiβ mich schweigen,
Denn mein Geheimnis ist mir Pflicht;
Ich möchte dir mein ganzes Innre zeigen,
Allein das Schicksal will es nicht.
Zur rechten Zeit vertreibt der Sonne Lauf
Die finstre Nacht, und sie muβ sich erhellen;
Der harte Fels schlieβt seinen Busen auf,
Miβgönnt der Erde nicht die tiefverborgnen Quellen.
Ein jeder sucht im Arm des Freundes Ruh’,
Dort kann die Brust in Klagen sich ergieβen;
Allein ein Schwur drückt mir die Lippen zu.
Und nur ein Gott vermag sie aufzuschlieβen.

(v/16, 356-57)³⁷

For one who has already read the conclusion of the novel, the “meaning” of this poem seems obvious. Mignon is referring to the promise she made to the Virgin Mary that she would not talk about her past in exchange for protection (viii/3, 522). But let us pause to consider the poem as it might reveal itself on a first reading. The poem thematizes its form. As an “appropriation” it was “kept silent” until “ein Gott,” i.e., the narrator, allowed it expression. Needless to say, its message enhances the mystery which already attends Mignon. It repeats the interdiction against revelation, and yet it also expresses the desire to tell. Most importantly, it promises that disclosure will occur.³⁸ The narrator's report that Mignon had recited this poem several times causes the reader to recall the past story and consider on what occasions she might have done so. In this way it serves as a link to the narrated past in addition to arousing our curiosity further about Mignon's personal past which is not yet part of the story. It also points to the future when the revelation will occur. But the poem connects with more than an individual's destiny, to more than its own position as a narratorial appropriation. The poem summarizes the anachronous time structure of the novel: pasts suppressed and then revealed, the future foreshadowed. At the proper time, the poem asserts, the sun will drive away the darkness. And that “proper time” has arrived for the novel; the poem heralds solutions to the Geheimnisse of the previous books. It does so by pointing to a transposition, to another text.³⁹ And although Book Six first appears to be the most unrelated anachrony in the novel,⁴⁰ it functions as a bridge which connects the past to the future on several levels. As Goethe himself commented: “Das Buch der Bekenntnisse weist vor- und rückwärts, und indem es begrenzt, leitet und führt es zugleich” (as qtd. in Borcherdt 296).

Of the several temporal aspects I have focused on in this essay, it is the nonchronological presentation of events in Wilhelm Meister which has received the most critical attention. But most scholars limit their investigation of the novel's anachronous structure to the opening in medias res and the subsequent flashback to Wilhelm's childhood (cf. Borcherdt 296; Pascal 14; Lämmert 105ff; Blackall 77, 111; and Reiss, Goethe's Novels 86). This, too, is predictable, not only because it is exploited by Goethe in a masterly way, but also because its artistic effect is easily contrasted with Wilhelm Meisters theatralische Sendung, which is told chronologically. Thus, Eberhard Lämmert, for example, chooses the opening of Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre as his prime example of “aufbauende Rückwendung” in his narratological study, Bauformen des Erzählens (105ff). Yet anachronies, both flashbacks and anticipations, abound in every book of the novel; there is no reason to restrict oneself to the opening. Anachrony is not a freak masterstroke, but rather the structuring principle of the novel.⁴¹

To elucidate the way anachrony can function in the novel, I will briefly explore one example, that of the Bekenntnisse, with which we are already somewhat familiar. When a reader approaches Book Six (s)he connects it with Aurelie and to a lesser degree with the doctor who sent her the manuscript. The narrator programs us to consider the Beautiful Soul's story with regard to the effect in had on Aurelie, who in turn was programmed by the doctor to read it as a lesson or parable for herself (v/16, 349-50). We recall that the story not only changed Aurelie's current state of mind, but also caused her to re-evaluate a crucial event of her past. And, indeed, she reverses her attitude toward a former lover. In reading Book Six ourselves, one of the questions on our minds is: What is it in the Bekenntnisse that could effect such a radical change of attitude in Aurelie? Thus even though the book is “independent” structurally, it connects to the recent story past (Aurelie) and to the future, since Wilhelm also has been exposed to the Bekenntnisse and is on a mission inspired by them. We wonder what will happen when he meets the man from Aurelie's past.

Although the link is not as prominent in the reader's consciousness, the content of Book Six also connects to the main story as told up to this point. For its author was a friend of the doctor. Though this personal connection is slight and less deeply impressed on the reader than the structural connection to Aurelie, this fact is important; as we read this life story it initially appears to be unrelated to the main narrative, but we know it is not. Of course, as we read Books Seven and Eight, it is the connection of the Bekenntnisse to Aurelie that fades in our consciousness; their more obvious, vital relevance to the new characters and current events dominates. We even relate the Beautiful Soul to aspects of Books One to Five (besides Aurelie's “conversion”); there is no longer any hesitation about identifying it as a flashback to the main story. Through the Beautiful Soul's uncle we relate her to such diverse characters as Wilhelm's grandfather and the Marchese (and through him to the Harfner and Mignon), etc., etc. And, of course, she turns out to be connected to the main characters in Books Seven and Eight, or rather, they turn out to be her nieces and nephews. Even Philine becomes a relative, albeit late in story time and through marriage. The presence of the Beautiful Soul herself is felt not only through the manuscript and her portrait, but more vividly through her living portrait, Natalie (who, as Friedrich insists, supersedes the original [viii/10, 608]). Through her, the Beautiful Soul and her story are ultimately connected to the novel's centre, Wilhelm. The importance of Natalie lies also in the fact that Wilhelm invests her with all the disparate elements of his past and his hopes for the future: “Alle seine Jugendträume knüpften sich an dieses Bild” (iv/9, 235). Furthermore, Natalie provides the model for reading the hidden texts of people's lives. It is she who deciphers Mignon's story, thus enabling Wilhelm to integrate another piece of his own confused past (viii/3, 522). In sum, the Beautiful Soul anachrony not only brings the various characters of the novel into relation, literally and figuratively, but also the various time levels.

Although I have merely begun to reveal the multidirectional links of this single anachrony, we recognize that in this example, as in the novel as a whole, the narrator establishes two conflicting structuralizations of time. On the one hand he posits the existence of a chronological, unified story which can and should be told, and on the other, he twists time out of shape. He undermines diachrony by manipulating events so that they engage with one another synchronically rather than sequentially. We may well ask along with Gerhard Storz: “Was wunders, daβ Wilhelm den Offizier im roten Rock (v/15) für Marianne [sic] halten möchte?” (“Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre” 68).

But perhaps the clearest description of the structure of the novel can be found in a passage describing Wilhelm reading the story of his life, his “Roll of Apprenticeship”:

Er fand die umständliche Geschichte seines Lebens in groβen, scharfen Zügen geschildert; weder einzelne Begebenheiten, noch beschränkte Empfindungen verwirrten seinen Blick, allgemeine liebevolle Betrachtungen gaben ihm Fingerzeige, ohne ihn zu beschämen, und er sah zum erstenmal sein Bild auβer sich, zwar nicht, wie im Spiegel, ein zweites Selbst, sondern wie im Porträt ein anderes Selbst: man bekennt sich zwar nicht zu allen Zügen, aber man freut sich, daβ ein denkender Geist uns so hat fassen, ein groβes Talent uns so hat darstellen wollen, daβ ein Bild von dem, was wir waren, noch besteht, und daβ es länger als wir selbst dauern kann. (viii/1, 505).

This passage draws our attention once more to the rejection of a chronologically told story and to the rejection of mimesis (“nicht, wie im Spiegel ein zweites Selbst …”). It emphasizes, rather, production and re-presentation, the creation of a portrait: an object created in time, but appreciated in its simultaneity. Unity and truth are achieved not by including all details, but by clearing away, by creating some blank spaces. The Einheit Schiller sought can be located only in the reader, whose activity parallels that of the narrator. The reader becomes a “groβes Talent” who deconstructs the traditional concept of story and constructs a new “Bild’ by conflating past, present, and future in “Produkten dieser Art.”

It is immediately upon reading this manuscript that Wilhelm writes his own life story. It is significant and appropriate that we, the readers, never see either version.⁴²

Notes

1. As quoted in the “Hamburger Ausgabe” of Goethe's Werke, 7: 628-29. All references to Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre refer to this edition and volume and will henceforth be cited in the text by book, chapter, and page number, e.g., v/7, 307.

2. Some of the relevant exchanges between Schiller and Goethe are reprinted in HA 620-48. See also reprinted in this volume: Schlegel's comments on the novel (657-75) as well as Novalis's (675-80). For a brief summary of the Romantics' reactions to Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre see Behler 110-27. Continuing interest in the poetical qualities of the novel is demonstrated by such recent discussions as those of Reiss (“Das ‘Poetische’ in Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahren”) and Kühl (“Das Poetische in Goethes Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre”).

3. Consider also one of the most recent formulations of the unifying element; Behler identifies “Goethe's innovative manner of narration which—through its unique way of foreshadowing, correspondences, symbolization and irony within the work—created a form of unity shaped by the imagination” (114) as the feature which most attracted the Frühromantiker.

4. For initial mention of the distinction Erzählzeit/erzählte Zeit, see Müller 33. For an attempt to establish the overall elapsed time 65-68, and for discussion of series of subsequent days 68-75. Note that this study was published in the same year as his landmark essay “Erzählzeit und erzählte Zeit,” in which Wilhelm Meister is the first of three main examples illustrating his narratological distinction (Mrs. Dalloway and The Forsyte Saga are the others).

5. Goethe's word; as quoted by Schumann 154-55. From letter to Schiller (9 July 1796, rpt. in HA 7: 641) in which Goethe admits that he feels like a man, “der nachdem er viele und groβe Zahlen übereinandergestellt endlich mutwillig selbst Additionsfehler machte.” But Schumann misconstrues Goethe's statement. Its original context indicates that he was referring to the overall aesthetic effect of Wilhelm Meister, not to specific temporal (mis)calculations. Still, critics continue to insist that Goethe was not really in control of the chronology. Consider Meyer's indictment: “dennoch hatte der Dichter selbst von der Gesamtdauer des Geschehens eine unbekümmert-undeutliche Vorstellung” (15).

6. I do not imply that the narrator of Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre has never been examined by critics before; he has—in both older and more recent studies. Of particular note is the doctoral dissertation of Liisa Saariluoma (1985); but I do not think that anyone has yet adequately described his strategies or their importance.

7. Consider Müller's formulation that the Bildungsroman “verläuft zeitlich im Sinn des Uhrzeigers vorwärts durch Jahre, wohl auch Jahrzehnte, und sie bringt dabei die Umwelten zusammen mit dem Vorwärtsschreiten des werdenden Ich hervor” (as quoted in Köhn 12). The very idea of Bildung as change in status, forward progress, etc., can be deduced from Dilthey's original comments on the genre even though he never refers to the structuring of time specifically (see Saariluoma 2).

8. This is in contrast to Müller who had argued that eight years pass. See Gestaltung-Umgestaltung 65-68; also “Erzählzeit und erzählte Zeit” 196.

9. Goethe rewrote this passage at least once in response to a comment from Schiller that Werner's boys could not be as old as they were (originally) portrayed (HA 634). The facts that Goethe's attention had already been drawn to the passage and that having made some changes he left the passage the way we read it are further evidence that he wanted Werner's characterization of his sons' maturity to seem hyperbolic.

10. The number of days cannot be ascertained only from the information in Book One. On the contrary, one must first learn that the mysterious figure whom Wilhelm saw leaving Mariane's apartment was Norberg, a fact which Goethe delays imparting to the reader until Book Seven (vii/8, 479), and one must assume that Norberg did in fact return within a fortnight as he announced in the letter to Barbara and Mariane at the beginning of the story. Only then could a reader be sure that this pregnancy is confirmed unbelievably early.

11. The first-time reader's acceptance that the elapsed time is sufficient is also aided by the strong focalization on Wilhelm. In other words, the reader is primarily watching the unfolding of events from Wilhelm's perspective. On the concept of focalization see Genette, esp. 189-94; and Bal's insightful revision of the concept. For the specific feelings of Wilhelm that cause him to believe that Mariane could be pregnant, see my discussion below.

12. Storz also comments on Müller's choice in “Zur Komposition von Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahren” 159.

13. On German's lack of progressive verb forms, see Lockwood 105, 161 and Sparks and Vail 260. Note also that when Eberhard Lämmert discusses the rendering of time in the iterative mode, he lists adverbial phrases as its tell-tale sign (84).

14. I am not precluding the possibility that Wilhelm's actions on subsequent nights follow this pattern.

15. Note that neither is this Genette's “repeating narrative” in which an event which occurs once is narrated multiple times (114), for this is narrated only once, but in an iterative mode.

16. This, too, would have to be considered a “masquerading” iterative, even though in this instance there are two nights to which it could apply rather than just one. Perhaps one could say this masquerade is less thick.

17. Another way to consider the effect of this passage would be in terms of its focalization. We are tied to Wilhelm's perspective. Other critics have noticed this too. Cf. Pascal 26; and Saariluoma, 234. Still, the reader is not totally engulfed by Wilhelm's feelings. Even during a first reading, a word such as “Gewohnheit” can trigger suspicion about the quality of their relationship.

18. Sternberg points out the disproportionate importance of beginnings since first impressions are almost indelible due to what psychologists call the “primacy” effect (93ff).

19. Another sign of Wilhelm's selfish love is his total unawareness of Mariane's lack of interest in his childhood stories. As so many critics remind us, he puts her to sleep with his reminiscences. The quality of his love for her at any point in Book One is suspect when we learn that he assumes she is unfaithful to him on inconclusive evidence, and does not confirm it or confront her with his suspicions even though he believes she is carrying his child.

20. Another section of the novel in which the “masquerading iterative” plays an important role in influencing the reader's sense of elapsed time is at the Schloβ (Book Three). Confirming the deception is more difficult, however, since there are fewer “objective” time markers. The purpose, I conjecture, is similar to that in Book One, i.e., that we are caught up in Wilhelm's egotistical perception of himself as centre of the world, as great artist and irresistible lover.

21. Saariluoma 223. Pascal comments that the narrator is not felt as “something ‘separate’ from the story related” (36), while Blackall seems closer to Stanzel in emphasizing the narrator's ironic distance (111).

22. My point here is similar to one made by Saariluoma, esp. in her chapter “Das Aufgeben der ‘Guckkastenillusion’: der Leser als Beobachter und Deuter des Geschehens.” But while we both stress the reader's need to “construct” the story, Saariluoma emphasizes the issue of visualization via the lack of descriptive passages; she does not discuss the issue of time itself.

23. Scenes in the form of dialogue abound throughout the novel, but particularly in Books Seven and Eight—a point at which, I suggest, the narrator has ideal spokesmen for the ideas he would like to have heard. It is interesting to note that in earlier books only certain characters' own speech is heard frequently, e.g., that of Wilhelm, disguised members of the Turmgesellschaft, Jarno, but not Mariane, Philine, Friedrich, etc.

24. See Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, ed., Erich Schmidt (Frankfurt am Main: Insel Verlag, 1980), one of the very few subsequent editions in which some of the music of the first edition is reproduced. Jack Stein, in his article “Musical Settings of the Songs from Wilhelm Meister,” laments this lack in the vast majority of editions. I agree with his sentiment, since the actual presence of the musical score has a narratological function, reinforcing the sense of discourse as scene.

25. In commenting on the conventional equality between a narrative and story time in a scene, Genette warns that it “cannot serve us as reference point for a rigorous comparison of real durations” (87). The case of a song would be even more obvious than that of dialogue since singing a given text almost always takes longer than speaking it.

26. Genette comments that fictive narrating “is considered to have no duration” (222), but it seems to me that there are hints in Wilhelm Meister to the contrary; this “soeben” is an example of one.

27. The story, of course, does not have an existence independent of the discourse which relates it. Sternberg, for example, reminds us that the fabula (story) is “essentially both an abstraction and a reconstitution” (10).

28. The same ambiguity exists with regard to another of the works with which Mignon is associated. Cf v/16, 356, lines 31ff, where the same verb, “aufzeichnen,” is used by the narrator.

29. The narrator seems to be a polyglot and skillful translator. In addition to translating Italian, he also translates French! See viii/8, 577.

30. See Genette 109-10. See also Stanzel (191), who cites Otto Ludwig as the first modern critic to build on Plato's distinction between “diegesis” and “mimesis.” More familiar to the Anglo-American narratological tradition is the work of Percy Lubbock, following Henry James's compositional principles. Lubbock emphasizes the distinction and superiority of scene over summary: in his terms, of “scenic presentation” over “simple narration” (267 and passim). This assumption also underlies Sternberg's interesting discussion of scenes and “scenic norms” (cf. 19ff). (My thanks to W. J. Lillyman for reminding me of Ludwig's contribution.)

31. These appropriated passages cannot be “scenes”—they clearly are not quoted dialogue, for example, and yet they are very often protracted, detailed “summaries.” Although Genette implies that “scene” could be something other than dialogue (94), he never specifies another species. It seems to me that the line between this other type of scene and a rich summary is obscure. Therefore although I would label such narratorial appropriations “summary” because the narrator clearly “processes” the material, in general scene and summary can and should be regarded as relative, rather than absolute categories.

32. I borrow the term “ellipsis” from Genette to designate “a nonexistent section of narrative [which] corresponds to some duration of story” (93), and use my own term “excision” to designate specifically the narrator's creation of an ellipsis.

33. It may seem strange that we accept a “fairy tale” as the story of a character's past, but in this novel fictional forms are often used to relate biography. Cf. the songs of Mignon and the Harfner. On a re-reading, one realizes that Friedrich's response is referred to as a “Märchen” because he tells a lie to cover up his true identity. Of course, the lie may have been in the form of a fairy tale as well.

34. This is an example of an aberration in order called “paralipsis” by Genette; a given element is passed over, left unnarrated, even though the time in which it occurred is narrated. Friedrich had told this story on other occasions, probably including some which our narrative covered, but his Märchen was “side-stepped” (Genette's term 52). Another example of paralipsis occurs in iii/2, 153. Wilhelm had apparently saved some manuscripts from the purge (ii/2, 81) which we were not told about at the time.

35. See v/14, 334-35, where the narrator only includes the last stanza of a song presumably because that is all Wilhelm remembered. See also ii/13, 136, a version of a poem which Wilhelm supposedly overhears. Such logic, however, does not consistently structure the text. In the example of Philine's song below, surely Wilhelm does hear and enjoy it—and probably remembers it as well!

36. Reiss (“Das ‘Poetische’” 122) and others have noted the structural differences between Book Six and the other books; but I do not agree with the many critics who consider it a “foreign body” or “interruption” in the novel (cf. Saariluoma 297; Lienhard 74; Waidson 8; even Storz, “Zur Komposition” 161; he, however, does go on to emphasize its importance in creating unity). Although its narrative structure marks it as different (a first-person text with no subdivisions), as I have already demonstrated and will demonstrate below, this section is connected to the main text on a number of important levels.

37. Music for this poem, too, was printed in the first edition. One wonders if a contradiction was intended between the inclusion of the music and the narrator's comment that it is a poem which Mignon had recited (“… das Mignon mit groβem Ausdruck einigemal rezitiert hatte”).

38. The novel contains numerous “promises to tell.” I have already mentioned several of the narrator's promises. See also Wilhelm's promise to Lothario (viii/10, 607).

39. This poem, it seems to me, has baffled and eluded critics at least as much as Mignon herself eludes her would-be friends. Whereas I believe that it points unflinchingly to what immediately follows it, i.e., Book Six (as well as Books Seven and Eight)—note that the poem eases the transition formally in that the first person singular of the poem is followed by the first person singular of Books Six—others have argued that it points around Book Six to Books Seven and Eight. Likewise I disagree with the argument that its placement highlights its function as an autonomous artwork (Lienhard 73). Furthermore, it is of interest that an article entitled “The Structural Significance of Mignon in Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre” (Gilby, 1980), does not mention this poem.

40. I use “anachrony” to refer to any event which is narrated in the discourse in a different order from its (hypothesized) place in the sequence of the story. See also Genette 35-36.

41. Storz (“Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre”) describes the anachronic nature of the whole particularly well: “Die Erzählung von Wilhelms Wanderschaft wird nicht nur lang, wie es im Abenteuer-Roman die Linearität der einen, weiter und vorwärts gehenden Bewegung zur Folge hat. Sie wird zugleich rund wie die Welt, und dies geschieht, weil neben der Bewegung nach vorne immer eine solche nach hinten, rückwärts geht. Das Ziel liegt nicht drauβen, am Ende der Erzählung, sondern immer schon in ihr selbst eben als das entstehende Ganze einer Welt” (64). As I mentioned in my introduction, however, he supports this general description with textual evidence such as leitmotif and character, rather than with analysis of the rendering of time.

42. I would like to thank my colleagues in the Departments of German and Comparative Literature who listened to or read versions of this paper. Their comments aided and inspired me.

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