240. I HEARD, once again for the first time, Richard Wagner's overture to the Mastersinger: it is a piece of magnificent, gorgeous, heavy, latter-day art, which has the pride to presuppose two centuries of music as still living, in order that it may be understood:—it is an honour to Germans that such a pride did not miscalculate! What flavours and forces, what seasons and climes do we not find mingled in it! It impresses us at one time as ancient, at another time as foreign, bitter, and too modern, it is as arbitrary as it is pompously traditional, it is not infrequently roguish, still oftener rough and coarse—it has fire and courage, and at the same time the loose, dun-coloured skin of fruits which ripen too late. It flows broad and full: and suddenly there is a moment of inexplicable hesitation, like a gap that opens between cause and effect, an oppression that makes us dream, almost a nightmare; but already it broadens and widens anew, the old stream of delight—the most manifold delight,—of old and new happiness; including ESPECIALLY the joy of the artist in himself, which he refuses to conceal, his astonished, happy cognizance of his mastery of the expedients here employed, the new, newly acquired, imperfectly tested expedients of art which he apparently betrays to us. All in all, however, no beauty, no South, nothing of the delicate southern clearness of the sky, nothing of grace, no dance, hardly a will to logic; a certain clumsiness even, which is also emphasized, as though the artist wished to say to us: "It is part of my intention"; a cumbersome drapery, something arbitrarily barbaric and ceremonious, a flirring of learned and venerable conceits and witticisms; something German in the best and worst sense of the word, something in the German style, manifold, formless, and inexhaustible; a certain German potency and super-plenitude of soul, which is not afraid to hide itself under the RAFFINEMENTS of decadence—which, perhaps, feels itself most at ease there; a real, genuine token of the German soul, which is at the same time young and aged, too ripe and yet still too rich in futurity. This kind of music expresses best what I think of the Germans: they belong to the day before yesterday and the day after tomorrow—THEY HAVE AS YET NO TODAY.
240. Once again, I HEARD Richard Wagner's overture to the Mastersinger as if for the first time. It is magnificent, sumptuous, heavy art from a late age. It proudly assumes that two centuries of music are still alive, so that listeners can understand it. It does Germans credit that such pride was not misplaced! What flavors and forces, what seasons and climates mingle in this music! At times it strikes us as ancient, at others as foreign, bitter, and too modern. It is as willful as it is grandly traditional. It is often mischievous, and still more often rough and coarse. It has fire and courage. Yet it also has the loose, dull-brown skin of fruit that ripens too late. The music flows broad and full. Suddenly, there is a moment of inexplicable hesitation, like a gap opening between cause and effect. An oppressive feeling makes us dream, almost giving us a nightmare. But already the old stream of delight grows broad and wide again, delight in all its variety. It carries happiness both old and new. This includes ESPECIALLY the artist's delight in himself, which he refuses to hide. He recognizes his own mastery with astonishment and happiness. He seems to reveal to us his mastery of the artistic techniques used here, new, newly acquired, barely tested techniques. Yet, taken as a whole, the music has no beauty, no South, none of the delicate clarity of southern skies. There is no grace, no dance, hardly any drive toward logic. There is even a certain clumsiness, deliberately emphasized, as though the artist wanted to tell us: "That is part of my intention." There are cumbersome layers of drapery, something willfully barbaric and ceremonial, a flutter of learned, venerable ideas and witticisms. There is something German in the best and worst senses of the word. Something in the German style, varied, shapeless, and inexhaustible. There is a certain German power and overflowing abundance of soul. This soul is not afraid to hide beneath the REFINEMENTS of decadence. Perhaps it feels most at home there. The music is a real, genuine sign of the German soul, at once young and old. That soul is overripe, yet still holds too much promise for the future. This kind of music best expresses what I think of the Germans. They belong to the day before yesterday and the day after tomorrow. THEY HAVE AS YET NO TODAY.
241. We "good Europeans," we also have hours when we allow ourselves a warm-hearted patriotism, a plunge and relapse into old loves and narrow views—I have just given an example of it—hours of national excitement, of patriotic anguish, and all other sorts of old-fashioned floods of sentiment. Duller spirits may perhaps only get done with what confines its operations in us to hours and plays itself out in hours—in a considerable time: some in half a year, others in half a lifetime, according to the speed and strength with which they digest and "change their material." Indeed, I could think of sluggish, hesitating races, which even in our rapidly moving Europe, would require half a century ere they could surmount such atavistic attacks of patriotism and soil-attachment, and return once more to reason, that is to say, to "good Europeanism." And while digressing on this possibility, I happen to become an ear-witness of a conversation between two old patriots—they were evidently both hard of hearing and consequently spoke all the louder. "HE has as much, and knows as much, philosophy as a peasant or a corps-student," said the one—"he is still innocent. But what does that matter nowadays! It is the age of the masses: they lie on their belly before everything that is massive. And so also in politicis. A statesman who rears up for them a new Tower of Babel, some monstrosity of empire and power, they call 'great'—what does it matter that we more prudent and conservative ones do not meanwhile give up the old belief that it is only the great thought that gives greatness to an action or affair. Supposing a statesman were to bring his people into the position of being obliged henceforth to practise 'high politics,' for which they were by nature badly endowed and prepared, so that they would have to sacrifice their old and reliable virtues, out of love to a new and doubtful mediocrity;—supposing a statesman were to condemn his people generally to 'practise politics,' when they have hitherto had something better to do and think about, and when in the depths of their souls they have been unable to free themselves from a prudent loathing of the restlessness, emptiness, and noisy wranglings of the essentially politics-practising nations;—supposing such a statesman were to stimulate the slumbering passions and avidities of his people, were to make a stigma out of their former diffidence and delight in aloofness, an offence out of their exoticism and hidden permanency, were to depreciate their most radical proclivities, subvert their consciences, make their minds narrow, and their tastes 'national'—what! a statesman who should do all this, which his people would have to do penance for throughout their whole future, if they had a future, such a statesman would be GREAT, would he?"—"Undoubtedly!" replied the other old patriot vehemently, "otherwise he COULD NOT have done it! It was mad perhaps to wish such a thing! But perhaps everything great has been just as mad at its commencement!"—"Misuse of words!" cried his interlocutor, contradictorily—"strong! strong! Strong and mad! NOT great!"—The old men had obviously become heated as they thus shouted their "truths" in each other's faces, but I, in my happiness and apartness, considered how soon a stronger one may become master of the strong, and also that there is a compensation for the intellectual superficialising of a nation—namely, in the deepening of another.
241. We "good Europeans" also have hours when we indulge in warm-hearted patriotism. We plunge back into old loves and narrow views. I have just given an example. We have hours of national excitement, patriotic anguish, and all the other old-fashioned surges of feeling. Duller minds may perhaps need much longer to get through feelings that come and go within hours for us. Some need half a year, others half a lifetime. It depends on how quickly and powerfully they digest experiences and "transform their material." Indeed, I can imagine sluggish, hesitant races needing half a century, even in our fast-moving Europe, to overcome such relapses. Only then could they rise above these ancestral attacks of patriotism and attachment to the soil, and return to reason. That is, return to "good Europeanism." While reflecting on this possibility, I happen to overhear a conversation between two old patriots. Both were clearly hard of hearing, and so they spoke all the louder. "HE has as much philosophy, and knows as much about it, as a peasant or a corps-student," said one. "He is still innocent. But what does that matter nowadays! This is the age of the masses. They crawl on their bellies before anything massive. The same goes for politics. Let a statesman build them a new Tower of Babel, some monstrous empire and concentration of power. They call him 'great.' What does it matter that we more cautious, conservative people still hold to the old belief? Only a great thought can make an action or undertaking great. "Suppose a statesman put his people in a position where they must, from then on, practise 'high politics.' Suppose they were, by nature, poorly equipped and prepared for it. They would then have to sacrifice their old, dependable virtues for the love of a new and doubtful mediocrity. Suppose a statesman condemned his people to 'practise politics' in general, when they had previously had better things to do and think about. Deep in their souls, they had never overcome a sensible disgust for nations whose main business was politics. They loathed those nations' restlessness, emptiness, and noisy quarrels. "Suppose such a statesman stirred up his people's sleeping passions and appetites. Suppose he branded their former reserve and pleasure in keeping apart as shameful. Suppose he made their unusual character and quiet endurance into faults. Suppose he belittled their deepest tendencies, overturned their consciences, narrowed their minds, and made their tastes 'national.' What! Would a statesman who did all this be GREAT? His people would have to pay for it throughout their entire future, if they had a future!" "Undoubtedly!" the other old patriot replied fiercely. "Otherwise he COULD NOT have done it! Perhaps wanting such a thing was madness! But perhaps everything great has been just as mad at the start!" "You're misusing words!" the first man cried in protest. "Strong! Strong! Strong and mad! NOT great!" The old men had clearly grown heated as they shouted their "truths" in each other's faces. But I, happy and apart, reflected on how soon someone stronger might become master of the strong. I also reflected that a nation's growing intellectual shallowness has its compensation: another nation grows deeper.
242. Whether we call it "civilization," or "humanising," or "progress," which now distinguishes the European, whether we call it simply, without praise or blame, by the political formula the DEMOCRATIC movement in Europe—behind all the moral and political foregrounds pointed to by such formulas, an immense PHYSIOLOGICAL PROCESS goes on, which is ever extending the process of the assimilation of Europeans, their increasing detachment from the conditions under which, climatically and hereditarily, united races originate, their increasing independence of every definite milieu, that for centuries would fain inscribe itself with equal demands on soul and body,—that is to say, the slow emergence of an essentially SUPER-NATIONAL and nomadic species of man, who possesses, physiologically speaking, a maximum of the art and power of adaptation as his typical distinction. This process of the EVOLVING EUROPEAN, which can be retarded in its TEMPO by great relapses, but will perhaps just gain and grow thereby in vehemence and depth—the still-raging storm and stress of "national sentiment" pertains to it, and also the anarchism which is appearing at present—this process will probably arrive at results on which its naive propagators and panegyrists, the apostles of "modern ideas," would least care to reckon. The same new conditions under which on an average a levelling and mediocrising of man will take place—a useful, industrious, variously serviceable, and clever gregarious man—are in the highest degree suitable to give rise to exceptional men of the most dangerous and attractive qualities. For, while the capacity for adaptation, which is every day trying changing conditions, and begins a new work with every generation, almost with every decade, makes the POWERFULNESS of the type impossible; while the collective impression of such future Europeans will probably be that of numerous, talkative, weak-willed, and very handy workmen who REQUIRE a master, a commander, as they require their daily bread; while, therefore, the democratising of Europe will tend to the production of a type prepared for SLAVERY in the most subtle sense of the term: the STRONG man will necessarily in individual and exceptional cases, become stronger and richer than he has perhaps ever been before—owing to the unprejudicedness of his schooling, owing to the immense variety of practice, art, and disguise. I meant to say that the democratising of Europe is at the same time an involuntary arrangement for the rearing of TYRANTS—taking the word in all its meanings, even in its most spiritual sense.
242. We may call what now distinguishes Europeans "civilization," "humanising," or "progress." Or we may use a political label, without praise or blame: the DEMOCRATIC movement in Europe. Behind the moral and political appearances these labels describe, an immense PHYSIOLOGICAL PROCESS is unfolding. Europeans are becoming increasingly alike. They are increasingly detached from the climatic and hereditary conditions that produce unified races. They are becoming increasingly independent of any particular environment. For centuries, such an environment has sought to impose the same demands on both soul and body. In other words, an essentially SUPER-NATIONAL and nomadic type of human being is slowly emerging. Physiologically speaking, this type stands out through a supreme skill and capacity for adaptation. Great setbacks can slow the TEMPO of this process of the EVOLVING EUROPEAN. But perhaps those very setbacks will make the process more forceful and profound. The still-raging turmoil of "national sentiment" belongs to this process, as does the anarchism now appearing. The process will probably produce results its naive promoters and admirers would least like to consider. These promoters are the apostles of "modern ideas." On average, the new conditions will level people down toward mediocrity. They will produce useful, hardworking, versatile, clever people suited to life in a herd. Yet these same conditions are exceptionally well suited to producing extraordinary individuals with the most dangerous and attractive qualities. The capacity for adaptation faces changing conditions every day. With every generation, almost every decade, the work of adaptation begins again. This prevents the type as a whole from developing POWERFULNESS. The overall impression of these future Europeans will probably be of numerous, talkative, weak-willed, highly capable workers. They will REQUIRE a master, a commander, as they require their daily bread. Thus, Europe's democratization will tend to produce a type prepared for SLAVERY in the most subtle sense of the word. Yet in individual, exceptional cases, the STRONG man will necessarily become stronger and richer than perhaps ever before. This will come from an education free of prejudice, and from an immense variety of practice, skill, and disguise. What I meant to say is this: Europe's democratization is also an unintended arrangement for breeding TYRANTS. I mean the word in all its meanings, even its most spiritual sense.
243. I hear with pleasure that our sun is moving rapidly towards the constellation Hercules: and I hope that the men on this earth will do like the sun. And we foremost, we good Europeans!
243. I’m glad to hear that our sun is moving rapidly toward the constellation Hercules. And I hope that the people on this earth will follow the sun’s example. And we good Europeans will lead the way!
244. There was a time when it was customary to call Germans "deep" by way of distinction; but now that the most successful type of new Germanism is covetous of quite other honours, and perhaps misses "smartness" in all that has depth, it is almost opportune and patriotic to doubt whether we did not formerly deceive ourselves with that commendation: in short, whether German depth is not at bottom something different and worse—and something from which, thank God, we are on the point of successfully ridding ourselves. Let us try, then, to relearn with regard to German depth; the only thing necessary for the purpose is a little vivisection of the German soul.—The German soul is above all manifold, varied in its source, aggregated and super-imposed, rather than actually built: this is owing to its origin. A German who would embolden himself to assert: "Two souls, alas, dwell in my breast," would make a bad guess at the truth, or, more correctly, he would come far short of the truth about the number of souls. As a people made up of the most extraordinary mixing and mingling of races, perhaps even with a preponderance of the pre-Aryan element as the "people of the centre" in every sense of the term, the Germans are more intangible, more ample, more contradictory, more unknown, more incalculable, more surprising, and even more terrifying than other peoples are to themselves:—they escape DEFINITION, and are thereby alone the despair of the French. It IS characteristic of the Germans that the question: "What is German?" never dies out among them. Kotzebue certainly knew his Germans well enough: "We are known," they cried jubilantly to him—but Sand also thought he knew them. Jean Paul knew what he was doing when he declared himself incensed at Fichte's lying but patriotic flatteries and exaggerations,—but it is probable that Goethe thought differently about Germans from Jean Paul, even though he acknowledged him to be right with regard to Fichte. It is a question what Goethe really thought about the Germans?—But about many things around him he never spoke explicitly, and all his life he knew how to keep an astute silence—probably he had good reason for it. It is certain that it was not the "Wars of Independence" that made him look up more joyfully, any more than it was the French Revolution,—the event on account of which he RECONSTRUCTED his "Faust," and indeed the whole problem of "man," was the appearance of Napoleon. There are words of Goethe in which he condemns with impatient severity, as from a foreign land, that which Germans take a pride in, he once defined the famous German turn of mind as "Indulgence towards its own and others' weaknesses." Was he wrong? it is characteristic of Germans that one is seldom entirely wrong about them. The German soul has passages and galleries in it, there are caves, hiding-places, and dungeons therein, its disorder has much of the charm of the mysterious, the German is well acquainted with the bypaths to chaos. And as everything loves its symbol, so the German loves the clouds and all that is obscure, evolving, crepuscular, damp, and shrouded, it seems to him that everything uncertain, undeveloped, self-displacing, and growing is "deep". The German himself does not EXIST, he is BECOMING, he is "developing himself". "Development" is therefore the essentially German discovery and hit in the great domain of philosophical formulas,—a ruling idea, which, together with German beer and German music, is labouring to Germanise all Europe. Foreigners are astonished and attracted by the riddles which the conflicting nature at the basis of the German soul propounds to them (riddles which Hegel systematised and Richard Wagner has in the end set to music). "Good-natured and spiteful"—such a juxtaposition, preposterous in the case of every other people, is unfortunately only too often justified in Germany one has only to live for a while among Swabians to know this! The clumsiness of the German scholar and his social distastefulness agree alarmingly well with his physical rope-dancing and nimble boldness, of which all the Gods have learnt to be afraid. If any one wishes to see the "German soul" demonstrated ad oculos, let him only look at German taste, at German arts and manners what boorish indifference to "taste"! How the noblest and the commonest stand there in juxtaposition! How disorderly and how rich is the whole constitution of this soul! The German DRAGS at his soul, he drags at everything he experiences. He digests his events badly; he never gets "done" with them; and German depth is often only a difficult, hesitating "digestion." And just as all chronic invalids, all dyspeptics like what is convenient, so the German loves "frankness" and "honesty"; it is so CONVENIENT to be frank and honest!—This confidingness, this complaisance, this showing-the-cards of German HONESTY, is probably the most dangerous and most successful disguise which the German is up to nowadays: it is his proper Mephistophelean art; with this he can "still achieve much"! The German lets himself go, and thereby gazes with faithful, blue, empty German eyes—and other countries immediately confound him with his dressing-gown!—I meant to say that, let "German depth" be what it will—among ourselves alone we perhaps take the liberty to laugh at it—we shall do well to continue henceforth to honour its appearance and good name, and not barter away too cheaply our old reputation as a people of depth for Prussian "smartness," and Berlin wit and sand. It is wise for a people to pose, and LET itself be regarded, as profound, clumsy, good-natured, honest, and foolish: it might even be—profound to do so! Finally, we should do honour to our name—we are not called the "TIUSCHE VOLK" (deceptive people) for nothing....
244. Germans were once commonly called "deep" as a mark of distinction. But the most successful form of new Germanism now craves quite different honors. Perhaps it finds everything deep lacking in "smartness". So doubting that old compliment is almost timely and patriotic. In short, did we deceive ourselves? Is German depth really something different and worse? And, thank God, are we on the verge of successfully getting rid of it? Let us try, then, to rethink German depth. All we need is a little vivisection of the German soul. Above all, the German soul is many-sided and comes from varied sources. Its parts are piled and layered together rather than truly built into a whole. Its origins explain this. A German might dare to declare: "Two souls, alas, dwell in my breast." But he would be badly mistaken. More precisely, he would fall far short of the true number of souls. The Germans are a people formed from an extraordinary mixing and mingling of races. Perhaps the pre-Aryan element even predominates among them, as the "people of the centre" in every sense. To themselves, Germans are more elusive, more expansive, more contradictory, more unknown, more unpredictable, more surprising, and even more terrifying than other peoples are to themselves. They escape DEFINITION, and that alone drives the French to despair. It IS characteristic of Germans that the question "What is German?" never dies out among them. Kotzebue certainly knew his Germans well enough. "We are known," they cried joyfully to him. But Sand also thought he knew them. Jean Paul knew what he was doing when he expressed outrage at Fichte's dishonest but patriotic flattery and exaggeration. Yet Goethe probably thought differently about Germans than Jean Paul did, although he acknowledged Jean Paul was right about Fichte. What did Goethe really think about the Germans? He never spoke plainly about many things around him. Throughout his life, he knew how to maintain a shrewd silence, probably for good reason. Certainly, the "Wars of Independence" did not make him look up with greater joy. Nor did the French Revolution. The event that led him to RECONSTRUCT his "Faust", and indeed the whole problem of "man", was Napoleon's appearance. In some remarks, Goethe condemns with impatient severity the very things Germans take pride in, as though speaking from abroad. He once defined the famous German cast of mind as "Indulgence towards its own and others' weaknesses." Was he wrong? One characteristic of Germans is that people are seldom entirely wrong about them. The German soul contains passages and galleries, caves, hiding places, and dungeons. Its disorder has much of mystery's charm. Germans know the side paths to chaos well. And since everything loves its own symbol, Germans love clouds. They love everything obscure, developing, dim, damp, and veiled. Everything uncertain, unfinished, shifting, and growing seems "deep" to a German. The German himself does not EXIST. He is BECOMING, he is "developing himself". "Development" is therefore the distinctively German discovery and success in the great realm of philosophical formulas. This ruling idea, together with German beer and German music, is working to Germanize all Europe. Foreigners are astonished and attracted by the riddles posed by the German soul's fundamentally contradictory nature. Hegel organized these riddles into a system, and Richard Wagner finally set them to music. "Good-natured and spiteful": this combination would be absurd for any other people. In Germany, unfortunately, it is all too often justified. You need only live among Swabians for a while to know this! The German scholar's clumsiness and social unpleasantness fit alarmingly well with his physical tightrope-walking and agile daring. All the Gods have learned to fear that daring. Anyone wanting to see the "German soul" displayed before their eyes need only examine German taste, arts, and manners. What boorish indifference to "taste"! How the noblest and the most commonplace stand side by side! How disorderly and rich the whole structure of this soul is! The German DRAGS his soul around with him. He drags around everything he experiences. He digests events badly and never gets "done" with them. German depth is often nothing more than a difficult, hesitant "digestion." And just as all chronically ill people and all sufferers from indigestion like convenience, Germans love "frankness" and "honesty". Being frank and honest is so CONVENIENT! This trusting openness, this obligingness, this laying one's cards on the table: German HONESTY is probably his most dangerous and successful disguise today. It is his own Mephistophelean art. With it, he can "still achieve much"! The German lets himself go, looking out with trusting, blue, empty German eyes. And other countries immediately mistake him for his dressing gown! What I meant was this: whatever "German depth" may be, perhaps we allow ourselves to laugh at it in private. Still, we would do well to keep honoring its appearance and good name. We should not sell our old reputation as a deep people too cheaply for Prussian "smartness", Berlin wit, and sand. A people is wise to pose as profound, clumsy, good-natured, honest, and foolish, and LET itself be seen that way. Doing so might even be profound! Finally, we should live up to our name. We are not called the "TIUSCHE VOLK" (deceptive people) for nothing....
245. The "good old" time is past, it sang itself out in Mozart—how happy are WE that his ROCOCO still speaks to us, that his "good company," his tender enthusiasm, his childish delight in the Chinese and its flourishes, his courtesy of heart, his longing for the elegant, the amorous, the tripping, the tearful, and his belief in the South, can still appeal to SOMETHING LEFT in us! Ah, some time or other it will be over with it!—but who can doubt that it will be over still sooner with the intelligence and taste for Beethoven! For he was only the last echo of a break and transition in style, and NOT, like Mozart, the last echo of a great European taste which had existed for centuries. Beethoven is the intermediate event between an old mellow soul that is constantly breaking down, and a future over-young soul that is always COMING; there is spread over his music the twilight of eternal loss and eternal extravagant hope,—the same light in which Europe was bathed when it dreamed with Rousseau, when it danced round the Tree of Liberty of the Revolution, and finally almost fell down in adoration before Napoleon. But how rapidly does THIS very sentiment now pale, how difficult nowadays is even the APPREHENSION of this sentiment, how strangely does the language of Rousseau, Schiller, Shelley, and Byron sound to our ear, in whom COLLECTIVELY the same fate of Europe was able to SPEAK, which knew how to SING in Beethoven!—Whatever German music came afterwards, belongs to Romanticism, that is to say, to a movement which, historically considered, was still shorter, more fleeting, and more superficial than that great interlude, the transition of Europe from Rousseau to Napoleon, and to the rise of democracy. Weber—but what do WE care nowadays for "Freischutz" and "Oberon"! Or Marschner's "Hans Heiling" and "Vampyre"! Or even Wagner's "Tannhauser"! That is extinct, although not yet forgotten music. This whole music of Romanticism, besides, was not noble enough, was not musical enough, to maintain its position anywhere but in the theatre and before the masses; from the beginning it was second-rate music, which was little thought of by genuine musicians. It was different with Felix Mendelssohn, that halcyon master, who, on account of his lighter, purer, happier soul, quickly acquired admiration, and was equally quickly forgotten: as the beautiful EPISODE of German music. But with regard to Robert Schumann, who took things seriously, and has been taken seriously from the first—he was the last that founded a school,—do we not now regard it as a satisfaction, a relief, a deliverance, that this very Romanticism of Schumann's has been surmounted? Schumann, fleeing into the "Saxon Switzerland" of his soul, with a half Werther-like, half Jean-Paul-like nature (assuredly not like Beethoven! assuredly not like Byron!)—his MANFRED music is a mistake and a misunderstanding to the extent of injustice; Schumann, with his taste, which was fundamentally a PETTY taste (that is to say, a dangerous propensity—doubly dangerous among Germans—for quiet lyricism and intoxication of the feelings), going constantly apart, timidly withdrawing and retiring, a noble weakling who revelled in nothing but anonymous joy and sorrow, from the beginning a sort of girl and NOLI ME TANGERE—this Schumann was already merely a GERMAN event in music, and no longer a European event, as Beethoven had been, as in a still greater degree Mozart had been; with Schumann German music was threatened with its greatest danger, that of LOSING THE VOICE FOR THE SOUL OF EUROPE and sinking into a merely national affair.
245. The "good old" days are gone. They sang their last song in Mozart. How fortunate WE are that his ROCOCO still speaks to us! His "good company," his tender enthusiasm, his childlike delight in Chinese styles and flourishes still reach us. So do his heartfelt courtesy and his longing for elegance, romance, light dancing, and tears. His faith in the South can still appeal to SOMETHING LEFT in us! Ah, someday even that appeal will end! But who can doubt that our understanding and appreciation of Beethoven will disappear even sooner? For Beethoven was only the last echo of a break and a transition in style. He was NOT, like Mozart, the last echo of a great European taste that had lasted for centuries. Beethoven stands between an old, mellow soul that keeps breaking down and a future, all-too-young soul always COMING into being. His music is steeped in the twilight of endless loss and endlessly extravagant hope. Europe was bathed in that same light when it dreamed with Rousseau. Europe danced in that light around the Revolution's Tree of Liberty, then finally almost fell down in worship before Napoleon. But how quickly that very feeling is fading now! How difficult even UNDERSTANDING that feeling has become! How strange the language of Rousseau, Schiller, Shelley, and Byron sounds to our ears! Through them COLLECTIVELY, the same European destiny found its VOICE that found its SONG in Beethoven! All the German music that followed belongs to Romanticism. Historically, that movement was even shorter, more fleeting, and more superficial than Europe's great interlude. That interlude took Europe from Rousseau to Napoleon and the rise of democracy. Weber, but what do WE care nowadays about "Freischutz" and "Oberon"! Or Marschner's "Hans Heiling" and "Vampyre"! Or even Wagner's "Tannhauser"! That music is dead, although not yet forgotten. Besides, all this Romantic music lacked the nobility and musical quality to survive anywhere except the theatre and among the masses. From the start, it was second-rate music, held in little esteem by genuine musicians. Felix Mendelssohn was different. That serene master quickly won admiration through his lighter, purer, happier soul. And he was just as quickly forgotten, as the beautiful EPISODE in German music. But what about Robert Schumann, who took things seriously and was taken seriously from the start? He was the last to found a school. Do we not now feel satisfaction, relief, and liberation at having moved beyond Schumann's particular Romanticism? Schumann fled into the "Saxon Switzerland" of his own soul. His nature was half like Werther's, half like Jean-Paul's. Certainly not like Beethoven's! Certainly not like Byron's! His MANFRED music is a mistake and a misunderstanding so great that it does an injustice to its subject. Schumann's taste was fundamentally PETTY. He had a dangerous tendency, doubly dangerous among Germans, toward quiet lyricism and emotional intoxication. He constantly kept apart, timidly withdrawing and retreating. He was a noble weakling who delighted only in nameless joys and sorrows. From the beginning, he was something of a girl, someone whose attitude was NOLI ME TANGERE, "do not touch me." This Schumann was already merely a GERMAN event in music, no longer a European one. Beethoven had been a European event, and Mozart had been one to an even greater degree. With Schumann, German music faced its greatest danger: LOSING ITS VOICE FOR THE SOUL OF EUROPE and becoming merely national.
246. What a torture are books written in German to a reader who has a THIRD ear! How indignantly he stands beside the slowly turning swamp of sounds without tune and rhythms without dance, which Germans call a "book"! And even the German who READS books! How lazily, how reluctantly, how badly he reads! How many Germans know, and consider it obligatory to know, that there is ART in every good sentence—art which must be divined, if the sentence is to be understood! If there is a misunderstanding about its TEMPO, for instance, the sentence itself is misunderstood! That one must not be doubtful about the rhythm-determining syllables, that one should feel the breaking of the too-rigid symmetry as intentional and as a charm, that one should lend a fine and patient ear to every STACCATO and every RUBATO, that one should divine the sense in the sequence of the vowels and diphthongs, and how delicately and richly they can be tinted and retinted in the order of their arrangement—who among book-reading Germans is complaisant enough to recognize such duties and requirements, and to listen to so much art and intention in language? After all, one just "has no ear for it"; and so the most marked contrasts of style are not heard, and the most delicate artistry is as it were SQUANDERED on the deaf.—These were my thoughts when I noticed how clumsily and unintuitively two masters in the art of prose-writing have been confounded: one, whose words drop down hesitatingly and coldly, as from the roof of a damp cave—he counts on their dull sound and echo; and another who manipulates his language like a flexible sword, and from his arm down into his toes feels the dangerous bliss of the quivering, over-sharp blade, which wishes to bite, hiss, and cut.
246. What torture books written in German are for a reader with a THIRD ear! How indignantly he stands beside that slowly churning swamp Germans call a "book"! Sounds without melody, rhythms without dance! And even the German who READS books! How lazily, how reluctantly, how badly he reads! How many Germans know that every good sentence contains ART, and feel obliged to know it? That art must be sensed if the sentence is to be understood! Misunderstand its TEMPO, for instance, and you misunderstand the sentence itself! You must know which syllables determine the rhythm. You must feel that a break in overly rigid symmetry is intentional, and part of its charm. You must listen closely and patiently to every STACCATO and every RUBATO. You must sense meaning in the sequence of vowels and diphthongs. You must hear how delicately and richly their arrangement can shade and reshape their sounds. Who among Germans who read books is willing to accept such duties and demands? Who is willing to listen for so much art and intention in language? After all, people simply "have no ear for it". So even the sharpest contrasts in style go unheard, and the most delicate artistry is, in effect, SQUANDERED on the deaf. These thoughts came to me when I noticed how clumsily, and with so little instinct, two masters of prose were confused. One lets his words fall hesitantly and coldly, like drops from the roof of a damp cave. He counts on their dull sound and echo. The other handles his language like a flexible sword. From his arm down to his toes, he feels the dangerous bliss of the trembling, all-too-sharp blade. The blade longs to bite, hiss, and cut.
247. How little the German style has to do with harmony and with the ear, is shown by the fact that precisely our good musicians themselves write badly. The German does not read aloud, he does not read for the ear, but only with his eyes; he has put his ears away in the drawer for the time. In antiquity when a man read—which was seldom enough—he read something to himself, and in a loud voice; they were surprised when any one read silently, and sought secretly the reason of it. In a loud voice: that is to say, with all the swellings, inflections, and variations of key and changes of TEMPO, in which the ancient PUBLIC world took delight. The laws of the written style were then the same as those of the spoken style; and these laws depended partly on the surprising development and refined requirements of the ear and larynx; partly on the strength, endurance, and power of the ancient lungs. In the ancient sense, a period is above all a physiological whole, inasmuch as it is comprised in one breath. Such periods as occur in Demosthenes and Cicero, swelling twice and sinking twice, and all in one breath, were pleasures to the men of ANTIQUITY, who knew by their own schooling how to appreciate the virtue therein, the rareness and the difficulty in the deliverance of such a period;—WE have really no right to the BIG period, we modern men, who are short of breath in every sense! Those ancients, indeed, were all of them dilettanti in speaking, consequently connoisseurs, consequently critics—they thus brought their orators to the highest pitch; in the same manner as in the last century, when all Italian ladies and gentlemen knew how to sing, the virtuosoship of song (and with it also the art of melody) reached its elevation. In Germany, however (until quite recently when a kind of platform eloquence began shyly and awkwardly enough to flutter its young wings), there was properly speaking only one kind of public and APPROXIMATELY artistical discourse—that delivered from the pulpit. The preacher was the only one in Germany who knew the weight of a syllable or a word, in what manner a sentence strikes, springs, rushes, flows, and comes to a close; he alone had a conscience in his ears, often enough a bad conscience: for reasons are not lacking why proficiency in oratory should be especially seldom attained by a German, or almost always too late. The masterpiece of German prose is therefore with good reason the masterpiece of its greatest preacher: the BIBLE has hitherto been the best German book. Compared with Luther's Bible, almost everything else is merely "literature"—something which has not grown in Germany, and therefore has not taken and does not take root in German hearts, as the Bible has done.
247. German prose has little to do with harmony or the ear. Even our good musicians write badly, which proves the point. The German does not read aloud or for the ear, but only with his eyes. For the moment, he has put his ears away in a drawer. In antiquity, when a man read, which was seldom enough, he read to himself in a loud voice. People were surprised when anyone read silently and secretly searched for the reason. Reading aloud meant using every swell, inflection, change of pitch, and shift in TEMPO that delighted the ancient PUBLIC world. The rules of written style were then the same as those of spoken style. These rules depended partly on highly developed ears and throats, with their refined demands. They also depended on the strength, endurance, and power of ancient lungs. In the ancient sense, a period, or extended sentence, is above all a physiological whole. It fits into a single breath. Demosthenes and Cicero wrote such sentences, swelling twice and falling twice, all in one breath. These sentences delighted the people of ANTIQUITY. Their own training taught them to appreciate the skill involved, and how rare and difficult such delivery was. WE modern people have really no right to the BIG sentence. We are short of breath in every sense! Those ancient people were all amateur speakers, and therefore knowledgeable judges, and therefore critics. They thus drove their orators to the highest level. The same happened in the last century, when all Italian ladies and gentlemen knew how to sing. Virtuoso singing then reached its peak, and with it the art of melody. In Germany, however, there was, strictly speaking, only one kind of public speech that was even APPROXIMATELY artistic: the sermon. Only quite recently has a kind of platform eloquence begun to flutter its young wings, timidly and awkwardly enough. The preacher alone in Germany knew the weight of a syllable or a word. He knew how a sentence strikes, leaps, rushes, flows, and comes to a close. He alone had a conscience in his ears, often enough a guilty conscience. For there are plenty of reasons why a German should so rarely master public speaking, or almost always too late. With good reason, then, the masterpiece of German prose is the masterpiece of Germany's greatest preacher. The BIBLE has so far been the best German book. Compared with Luther's Bible, almost everything else is merely "literature". Such writing has not grown in Germany. It therefore has not taken root, and does not take root, in German hearts as the Bible has.
248. There are two kinds of geniuses: one which above all engenders and seeks to engender, and another which willingly lets itself be fructified and brings forth. And similarly, among the gifted nations, there are those on whom the woman's problem of pregnancy has devolved, and the secret task of forming, maturing, and perfecting—the Greeks, for instance, were a nation of this kind, and so are the French; and others which have to fructify and become the cause of new modes of life—like the Jews, the Romans, and, in all modesty be it asked: like the Germans?—nations tortured and enraptured by unknown fevers and irresistibly forced out of themselves, amorous and longing for foreign races (for such as "let themselves be fructified"), and withal imperious, like everything conscious of being full of generative force, and consequently empowered "by the grace of God." These two kinds of geniuses seek each other like man and woman; but they also misunderstand each other—like man and woman.
248. There are two kinds of genius. One kind, above all, fathers new life and seeks to do so. The other willingly lets itself be fertilized and gives birth. Similarly, among gifted nations, some have been assigned the woman's problem of pregnancy. Their secret task is to give form, bring to maturity, and perfect. The Greeks, for instance, were such a nation, and so are the French. Other nations must fertilize and bring about new ways of life. These include the Jews, the Romans, and, if we may ask in all modesty, the Germans? Such nations are tormented and delighted by unknown fevers and driven irresistibly beyond themselves. They are full of love and longing for foreign races (for those that "let themselves be fertilized"). Yet these nations are also domineering, like everything conscious of being full of reproductive power. They therefore see themselves as entitled to rule "by the grace of God." These two kinds of genius seek each other like man and woman. But they also misunderstand each other, like man and woman.
249. Every nation has its own "Tartuffery," and calls that its virtue.—One does not know—cannot know, the best that is in one.
249. Every nation has its own "Tartuffery," and calls it virtue. You do not know, and cannot know, what is best in you.
250. What Europe owes to the Jews?—Many things, good and bad, and above all one thing of the nature both of the best and the worst: the grand style in morality, the fearfulness and majesty of infinite demands, of infinite significations, the whole Romanticism and sublimity of moral questionableness—and consequently just the most attractive, ensnaring, and exquisite element in those iridescences and allurements to life, in the aftersheen of which the sky of our European culture, its evening sky, now glows—perhaps glows out. For this, we artists among the spectators and philosophers, are—grateful to the Jews.
250. What does Europe owe to the Jews? Many things, good and bad. Above all, one thing that shares the nature of both the best and the worst: morality's grand style. The terror and majesty of infinite demands, of infinite meanings. All the Romanticism and grandeur of moral uncertainty. And consequently, the most attractive, captivating, and exquisite element in life's shimmering colors and temptations. Their afterglow now lights up the sky of our European culture, its evening sky. Perhaps that glow is dying out. For this, those of us who are artists among spectators and philosophers are grateful to the Jews.
251. It must be taken into the bargain, if various clouds and disturbances—in short, slight attacks of stupidity—pass over the spirit of a people that suffers and WANTS to suffer from national nervous fever and political ambition: for instance, among present-day Germans there is alternately the anti-French folly, the anti-Semitic folly, the anti-Polish folly, the Christian-romantic folly, the Wagnerian folly, the Teutonic folly, the Prussian folly (just look at those poor historians, the Sybels and Treitschkes, and their closely bandaged heads), and whatever else these little obscurations of the German spirit and conscience may be called. May it be forgiven me that I, too, when on a short daring sojourn on very infected ground, did not remain wholly exempt from the disease, but like every one else, began to entertain thoughts about matters which did not concern me—the first symptom of political infection. About the Jews, for instance, listen to the following:—I have never yet met a German who was favourably inclined to the Jews; and however decided the repudiation of actual anti-Semitism may be on the part of all prudent and political men, this prudence and policy is not perhaps directed against the nature of the sentiment itself, but only against its dangerous excess, and especially against the distasteful and infamous expression of this excess of sentiment;—on this point we must not deceive ourselves. That Germany has amply SUFFICIENT Jews, that the German stomach, the German blood, has difficulty (and will long have difficulty) in disposing only of this quantity of "Jew"—as the Italian, the Frenchman, and the Englishman have done by means of a stronger digestion:—that is the unmistakable declaration and language of a general instinct, to which one must listen and according to which one must act. "Let no more Jews come in! And shut the doors, especially towards the East (also towards Austria)!"—thus commands the instinct of a people whose nature is still feeble and uncertain, so that it could be easily wiped out, easily extinguished, by a stronger race. The Jews, however, are beyond all doubt the strongest, toughest, and purest race at present living in Europe, they know how to succeed even under the worst conditions (in fact better than under favourable ones), by means of virtues of some sort, which one would like nowadays to label as vices—owing above all to a resolute faith which does not need to be ashamed before "modern ideas", they alter only, WHEN they do alter, in the same way that the Russian Empire makes its conquest—as an empire that has plenty of time and is not of yesterday—namely, according to the principle, "as slowly as possible"! A thinker who has the future of Europe at heart, will, in all his perspectives concerning the future, calculate upon the Jews, as he will calculate upon the Russians, as above all the surest and likeliest factors in the great play and battle of forces. That which is at present called a "nation" in Europe, and is really rather a RES FACTA than NATA (indeed, sometimes confusingly similar to a RES FICTA ET PICTA), is in every case something evolving, young, easily displaced, and not yet a race, much less such a race AERE PERENNUS, as the Jews are such "nations" should most carefully avoid all hot-headed rivalry and hostility! It is certain that the Jews, if they desired—or if they were driven to it, as the anti-Semites seem to wish—COULD now have the ascendancy, nay, literally the supremacy, over Europe, that they are NOT working and planning for that end is equally certain. Meanwhile, they rather wish and desire, even somewhat importunely, to be insorbed and absorbed by Europe, they long to be finally settled, authorized, and respected somewhere, and wish to put an end to the nomadic life, to the "wandering Jew",—and one should certainly take account of this impulse and tendency, and MAKE ADVANCES to it (it possibly betokens a mitigation of the Jewish instincts) for which purpose it would perhaps be useful and fair to banish the anti-Semitic bawlers out of the country. One should make advances with all prudence, and with selection, pretty much as the English nobility do It stands to reason that the more powerful and strongly marked types of new Germanism could enter into relation with the Jews with the least hesitation, for instance, the nobleman officer from the Prussian border it would be interesting in many ways to see whether the genius for money and patience (and especially some intellect and intellectuality—sadly lacking in the place referred to) could not in addition be annexed and trained to the hereditary art of commanding and obeying—for both of which the country in question has now a classic reputation But here it is expedient to break off my festal discourse and my sprightly Teutonomania for I have already reached my SERIOUS TOPIC, the "European problem," as I understand it, the rearing of a new ruling caste for Europe.
251. We must accept occasional clouds and disturbances in a people’s mind if that people suffers and WANTS to suffer from national nervous fever and political ambition. In short, we must accept brief attacks of stupidity. Among present-day Germans, for instance, one folly follows another: anti-French folly, anti-Semitic folly, anti-Polish folly, Christian-romantic folly, Wagnerian folly, Teutonic folly, Prussian folly. Just look at those poor historians, the Sybels and Treitschkes, with their tightly bandaged heads. Whatever their names, these follies briefly darken the German mind and conscience. Forgive me if I, too, caught some of the disease during a brief, daring stay on heavily infected ground. Like everyone else, I began thinking about matters that were none of my business. That is the first symptom of political infection. Take the Jews, for instance. Listen to this: I have never yet met a German who was favorably disposed toward the Jews. All prudent, politically minded men may firmly reject outright anti-Semitism. Yet perhaps their prudence and policy oppose only the sentiment’s dangerous excesses, not the sentiment itself. They may object especially to the offensive and disgraceful expression of those excesses. We must not deceive ourselves about this. Germany already has quite SUFFICIENT Jews. The German stomach, the German blood, has trouble digesting even this quantity of "Jew" and will struggle for a long time. Italians, Frenchmen, and Englishmen have managed it through stronger digestion. That is the unmistakable statement and language of a general instinct. One must listen to that instinct and act accordingly. "Let no more Jews come in! And shut the doors, especially toward the East (also toward Austria)!" Such is the command of a people whose nature remains weak and uncertain. A stronger race could easily wipe out or extinguish that nature. The Jews, however, are beyond doubt the strongest, toughest, and purest race now living in Europe. They know how to succeed even under the worst conditions, indeed better than under favorable ones. They succeed through virtues of a kind that people today would like to label vices. Above all, they succeed through a firm faith that need not feel ashamed before "modern ideas". They change only, WHEN they change, as the Russian Empire makes its conquests. They change like an empire with plenty of time, one that did not come into being yesterday. Their principle is "as slowly as possible"! A thinker concerned about Europe’s future will count on the Jews in every view he takes of that future. He will count on them as on the Russians. Above all, he will regard both as the surest and most likely factors in the great interplay and struggle of forces. What Europe now calls a "nation" is really something made rather than born, a RES FACTA rather than NATA. Indeed, it sometimes looks confusingly like a RES FICTA ET PICTA, something invented and painted. Every such nation is still developing, young, easily displaced, and not yet a race. Still less is it a race AERE PERENNUS, more lasting than bronze, as the Jews are. Such "nations" should take the greatest care to avoid all hotheaded rivalry and hostility! The Jews COULD now dominate Europe, indeed literally rule it, if they wanted to. The same would be true if they were driven to it, as the anti-Semites seem to wish. That is certain. It is equally certain that they are NOT working or planning toward that goal. Instead, the Jews now wish and desire to be taken in and absorbed by Europe, sometimes even insistently. They long to settle somewhere at last, with legal recognition and respect. They want an end to their nomadic life, to the "wandering Jew". We should certainly recognize this impulse and tendency, and MAKE ADVANCES toward it. This desire possibly signals a softening of Jewish instincts. To encourage it, perhaps it would be useful and fair to banish the anti-Semitic loudmouths from the country. Such advances should be made cautiously and selectively, much as the English nobility make them. Clearly, the more powerful and distinctive types of the new German character could form ties with Jews with the least hesitation. Take, for instance, the nobleman serving as an officer on the Prussian border. His inherited skills are commanding and obeying, both arts for which that region now enjoys a classic reputation. It would be interesting in many ways to see whether a gift for money and patience could supplement those skills. Could that gift be cultivated alongside them? Especially interesting would be the addition of some intelligence and intellectual culture, both sadly lacking in that region. But I had better end my festive speech and my lively Teutonomania here. For I have already reached my SERIOUS TOPIC, the "European problem," as I understand it: breeding a new ruling caste for Europe.
252. They are not a philosophical race—the English: Bacon represents an ATTACK on the philosophical spirit generally, Hobbes, Hume, and Locke, an abasement, and a depreciation of the idea of a "philosopher" for more than a century. It was AGAINST Hume that Kant uprose and raised himself; it was Locke of whom Schelling RIGHTLY said, "JE MEPRISE LOCKE"; in the struggle against the English mechanical stultification of the world, Hegel and Schopenhauer (along with Goethe) were of one accord; the two hostile brother-geniuses in philosophy, who pushed in different directions towards the opposite poles of German thought, and thereby wronged each other as only brothers will do.—What is lacking in England, and has always been lacking, that half-actor and rhetorician knew well enough, the absurd muddle-head, Carlyle, who sought to conceal under passionate grimaces what he knew about himself: namely, what was LACKING in Carlyle—real POWER of intellect, real DEPTH of intellectual perception, in short, philosophy. It is characteristic of such an unphilosophical race to hold on firmly to Christianity—they NEED its discipline for "moralizing" and humanizing. The Englishman, more gloomy, sensual, headstrong, and brutal than the German—is for that very reason, as the baser of the two, also the most pious: he has all the MORE NEED of Christianity. To finer nostrils, this English Christianity itself has still a characteristic English taint of spleen and alcoholic excess, for which, owing to good reasons, it is used as an antidote—the finer poison to neutralize the coarser: a finer form of poisoning is in fact a step in advance with coarse-mannered people, a step towards spiritualization. The English coarseness and rustic demureness is still most satisfactorily disguised by Christian pantomime, and by praying and psalm-singing (or, more correctly, it is thereby explained and differently expressed); and for the herd of drunkards and rakes who formerly learned moral grunting under the influence of Methodism (and more recently as the "Salvation Army"), a penitential fit may really be the relatively highest manifestation of "humanity" to which they can be elevated: so much may reasonably be admitted. That, however, which offends even in the humanest Englishman is his lack of music, to speak figuratively (and also literally): he has neither rhythm nor dance in the movements of his soul and body; indeed, not even the desire for rhythm and dance, for "music." Listen to him speaking; look at the most beautiful Englishwoman WALKING—in no country on earth are there more beautiful doves and swans; finally, listen to them singing! But I ask too much...
252. The English are not a philosophical people. Bacon represents an ATTACK on the philosophical spirit in general. Hobbes, Hume, and Locke lowered and cheapened the idea of a "philosopher" for more than a century. It was AGAINST Hume that Kant rose and achieved his stature. It was Locke whom Schelling RIGHTLY dismissed with the words, "I despise Locke". Hegel and Schopenhauer, along with Goethe, agreed in opposing the English reduction of the world to mindless machinery. Hegel and Schopenhauer were two hostile brother-geniuses in philosophy. They pushed in different directions toward opposite poles of German thought. In doing so, they wronged each other as only brothers can. Carlyle knew well enough what England lacks and has always lacked. That absurd muddlehead was half actor, half rhetorician. With passionate grimaces, he tried to hide what he knew about himself. He knew what Carlyle LACKED: real intellectual POWER, real DEPTH of insight, in short, philosophy. It is typical of such an unphilosophical people to cling firmly to Christianity. They NEED its discipline to make them "moral" and humanize them. The Englishman is gloomier, more sensual, more headstrong, and more brutal than the German. For that very reason, being the baser of the two, he is also the more devout. He has all the MORE NEED of Christianity. To more sensitive noses, English Christianity itself still carries a distinctively English smell of sullen bitterness and excessive drinking. With good reason, Christianity serves as an antidote to these things: the finer poison neutralizes the coarser one. Among people with coarse manners, a finer form of poisoning is indeed progress, a step toward spiritual refinement. Christian playacting, praying, and psalm-singing still provide the most effective disguise for English coarseness and rustic primness. (More precisely, these practices explain those traits and express them differently.) Consider the herd of drunkards and rakes who once learned to grunt morally under Methodism's influence. More recently, they have done so as the "Salvation Army". A fit of repentance may really be the relatively highest expression of "humanity" to which they can be raised. That much can reasonably be admitted. Yet even the most humane Englishman offends through his lack of music, figuratively speaking (and literally too). Neither his soul nor his body moves with rhythm or dance. He does not even desire rhythm and dance, or "music." Listen to him speak. Watch the most beautiful Englishwoman WALKING. No country on earth has more beautiful doves and swans. Finally, listen to them sing! But I ask too much...
253. There are truths which are best recognized by mediocre minds, because they are best adapted for them, there are truths which only possess charms and seductive power for mediocre spirits:—one is pushed to this probably unpleasant conclusion, now that the influence of respectable but mediocre Englishmen—I may mention Darwin, John Stuart Mill, and Herbert Spencer—begins to gain the ascendancy in the middle-class region of European taste. Indeed, who could doubt that it is a useful thing for SUCH minds to have the ascendancy for a time? It would be an error to consider the highly developed and independently soaring minds as specially qualified for determining and collecting many little common facts, and deducing conclusions from them; as exceptions, they are rather from the first in no very favourable position towards those who are "the rules." After all, they have more to do than merely to perceive:—in effect, they have to BE something new, they have to SIGNIFY something new, they have to REPRESENT new values! The gulf between knowledge and capacity is perhaps greater, and also more mysterious, than one thinks: the capable man in the grand style, the creator, will possibly have to be an ignorant person;—while on the other hand, for scientific discoveries like those of Darwin, a certain narrowness, aridity, and industrious carefulness (in short, something English) may not be unfavourable for arriving at them.—Finally, let it not be forgotten that the English, with their profound mediocrity, brought about once before a general depression of European intelligence.
253. Some truths are best recognized by mediocre minds because those truths suit mediocre minds best. Some truths appeal only to mediocre spirits and have seductive power only over them. We are pushed toward this probably unpleasant conclusion as respectable but mediocre Englishmen gain influence. I may mention Darwin, John Stuart Mill, and Herbert Spencer. Their influence is beginning to dominate middle-class European taste. Indeed, who could doubt that it is useful for SUCH minds to dominate for a time? It would be a mistake to think highly developed, independently soaring minds are especially suited to a certain task. That task is identifying and collecting many small, ordinary facts and drawing conclusions from them. As exceptions, such minds are at a disadvantage from the start compared with those who are "the rules." After all, exceptional minds have more to do than merely observe. In fact, they have to BE something new, SIGNIFY something new, and REPRESENT new values! The gap between knowledge and ability is perhaps greater, and also more mysterious, than we think. A person capable of great things, a creator, may possibly have to be ignorant. On the other hand, a certain narrowness, dryness, and diligent care may help produce scientific discoveries like Darwin's. In short, something English may help. Finally, let us not forget something about the English and their profound mediocrity. They have already once brought about a general decline in European intelligence.
What is called "modern ideas," or "the ideas of the eighteenth century," or "French ideas"—that, consequently, against which the GERMAN mind rose up with profound disgust—is of English origin, there is no doubt about it. The French were only the apes and actors of these ideas, their best soldiers, and likewise, alas! their first and profoundest VICTIMS; for owing to the diabolical Anglomania of "modern ideas," the AME FRANCAIS has in the end become so thin and emaciated, that at present one recalls its sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, its profound, passionate strength, its inventive excellency, almost with disbelief. One must, however, maintain this verdict of historical justice in a determined manner, and defend it against present prejudices and appearances: the European NOBLESSE—of sentiment, taste, and manners, taking the word in every high sense—is the work and invention of FRANCE; the European ignobleness, the plebeianism of modern ideas—is ENGLAND'S work and invention.
What people call "modern ideas," "the ideas of the eighteenth century," or "French ideas" undoubtedly originated in England. These, then, were the ideas the GERMAN mind rose against with profound disgust. The French merely mimicked and performed these ideas, served as their best soldiers, and, alas, became their first and deepest VICTIMS. For the devilish obsession with England behind "modern ideas" has finally left the AME FRANCAIS so thin and wasted. Today, we can hardly believe in the French soul’s deep, passionate strength and creative brilliance during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Yet we must firmly uphold this verdict of historical justice and defend it against today’s prejudices and appearances. European NOBLESSE, in feeling, taste, and manners, is the work and invention of FRANCE. Here, nobility carries every elevated meaning of the word. Europe’s lack of nobility, the common vulgarity of modern ideas, is ENGLAND'S work and invention.
254. Even at present France is still the seat of the most intellectual and refined culture of Europe, it is still the high school of taste; but one must know how to find this "France of taste." He who belongs to it keeps himself well concealed:—they may be a small number in whom it lives and is embodied, besides perhaps being men who do not stand upon the strongest legs, in part fatalists, hypochondriacs, invalids, in part persons over-indulged, over-refined, such as have the AMBITION to conceal themselves.
254. Even today, France remains the home of Europe's most intellectual and refined culture. It is still the leading school of taste. But one must know how to find this "France of taste." Anyone who belongs to it stays well hidden. The people who embody this culture and keep it alive may be few. Perhaps they are also people whose health is not especially robust. Some are fatalists, hypochondriacs, or invalids. Others are overindulged and overly refined, the sort of people who have the AMBITION to hide themselves.
They have all something in common: they keep their ears closed in presence of the delirious folly and noisy spouting of the democratic BOURGEOIS. In fact, a besotted and brutalized France at present sprawls in the foreground—it recently celebrated a veritable orgy of bad taste, and at the same time of self-admiration, at the funeral of Victor Hugo. There is also something else common to them: a predilection to resist intellectual Germanizing—and a still greater inability to do so! In this France of intellect, which is also a France of pessimism, Schopenhauer has perhaps become more at home, and more indigenous than he has ever been in Germany; not to speak of Heinrich Heine, who has long ago been re-incarnated in the more refined and fastidious lyrists of Paris; or of Hegel, who at present, in the form of Taine—the FIRST of living historians—exercises an almost tyrannical influence. As regards Richard Wagner, however, the more French music learns to adapt itself to the actual needs of the AME MODERNE, the more will it "Wagnerite"; one can safely predict that beforehand,—it is already taking place sufficiently! There are, however, three things which the French can still boast of with pride as their heritage and possession, and as indelible tokens of their ancient intellectual superiority in Europe, in spite of all voluntary or involuntary Germanizing and vulgarizing of taste. FIRSTLY, the capacity for artistic emotion, for devotion to "form," for which the expression, L'ART POUR L'ART, along with numerous others, has been invented:—such capacity has not been lacking in France for three centuries; and owing to its reverence for the "small number," it has again and again made a sort of chamber music of literature possible, which is sought for in vain elsewhere in Europe.—The SECOND thing whereby the French can lay claim to a superiority over Europe is their ancient, many-sided, MORALISTIC culture, owing to which one finds on an average, even in the petty ROMANCIERS of the newspapers and chance BOULEVARDIERS DE PARIS, a psychological sensitiveness and curiosity, of which, for example, one has no conception (to say nothing of the thing itself!) in Germany. The Germans lack a couple of centuries of the moralistic work requisite thereto, which, as we have said, France has not grudged: those who call the Germans "naive" on that account give them commendation for a defect. (As the opposite of the German inexperience and innocence IN VOLUPTATE PSYCHOLOGICA, which is not too remotely associated with the tediousness of German intercourse,—and as the most successful expression of genuine French curiosity and inventive talent in this domain of delicate thrills, Henri Beyle may be noted; that remarkable anticipatory and forerunning man, who, with a Napoleonic TEMPO, traversed HIS Europe, in fact, several centuries of the European soul, as a surveyor and discoverer thereof:—it has required two generations to OVERTAKE him one way or other, to divine long afterwards some of the riddles that perplexed and enraptured him—this strange Epicurean and man of interrogation, the last great psychologist of France).—There is yet a THIRD claim to superiority: in the French character there is a successful half-way synthesis of the North and South, which makes them comprehend many things, and enjoins upon them other things, which an Englishman can never comprehend. Their temperament, turned alternately to and from the South, in which from time to time the Provencal and Ligurian blood froths over, preserves them from the dreadful, northern grey-in-grey, from sunless conceptual-spectrism and from poverty of blood—our GERMAN infirmity of taste, for the excessive prevalence of which at the present moment, blood and iron, that is to say "high politics," has with great resolution been prescribed (according to a dangerous healing art, which bids me wait and wait, but not yet hope).—There is also still in France a pre-understanding and ready welcome for those rarer and rarely gratified men, who are too comprehensive to find satisfaction in any kind of fatherlandism, and know how to love the South when in the North and the North when in the South—the born Midlanders, the "good Europeans." For them BIZET has made music, this latest genius, who has seen a new beauty and seduction,—who has discovered a piece of the SOUTH IN MUSIC.
They all have something in common: they shut their ears to the delirious folly and noisy ranting of the democratic BOURGEOIS. In fact, a drunken, brutalized France now sprawls in the foreground. At Victor Hugo’s funeral, France recently celebrated a genuine orgy of bad taste and self-admiration. They share something else too: a desire to resist German intellectual influence, and an even greater inability to resist it! In this intellectual France, also a France of pessimism, Schopenhauer has perhaps become more at home than ever in Germany. Perhaps he has even become more native to France. Not to mention Heinrich Heine, long since reincarnated in the more refined and discerning lyric poets of Paris. Or Hegel, who now exercises an almost tyrannical influence through Taine, the FIRST among living historians. As for Richard Wagner, the more French music adapts to the actual needs of the AME MODERNE, the more it will "Wagnerite." We can safely predict this. Indeed, it is already happening quite enough! Yet the French can still proudly claim three things as their inheritance and possession. These remain indelible signs of France’s old intellectual superiority in Europe, despite all willing or unwilling Germanization and vulgarization of taste. FIRSTLY, the capacity for artistic feeling and devotion to "form." The expression L'ART POUR L'ART, among many others, was invented for this capacity. France has possessed this capacity for three centuries. Its respect for the "small number" has repeatedly made a kind of literary chamber music possible. Elsewhere in Europe, we look in vain for anything like it. The SECOND basis for French claims to superiority over Europe is their old, many-sided culture of studying human character. Because of this culture, psychological sensitivity and curiosity are generally found even among minor newspaper ROMANCIERS and casual BOULEVARDIERS DE PARIS. In Germany, for example, people have no conception of such qualities, let alone the qualities themselves! The Germans lack a couple of centuries of the study of human character needed to develop them. France, as we have said, has freely devoted those centuries to this work. Those who therefore call the Germans "naive" praise them for a defect. (Consider Henri Beyle as the opposite of German inexperience and innocence IN VOLUPTATE PSYCHOLOGICA, in the pleasure of psychological exploration. That German innocence is not so distantly connected with the dullness of German social life. Beyle most successfully expresses genuine French curiosity and inventiveness in this realm of subtle thrills. This remarkable man anticipated others and ran ahead of his time. At a Napoleonic TEMPO, he traveled through HIS Europe as a surveyor and discoverer. In doing so, he actually traveled through several centuries of the European soul. Two generations have been needed to OVERTAKE him in one way or another. Only long afterward have they guessed some of the riddles that puzzled and delighted him. Such was this strange Epicurean and questioning man, France’s last great psychologist.) There is still a THIRD claim to superiority. The French character successfully blends North and South, meeting halfway between them. This blend enables the French to understand many things and requires other things of them that an Englishman can never understand. Their temperament turns alternately toward and away from the South. From time to time, their Provencal and Ligurian blood bubbles over. This temperament protects them from the dreadful northern grey-on-grey, from sunless ghosts of abstractions, and from thinness of blood. Such is our GERMAN sickness of taste. To combat its excessive spread today, blood and iron, in other words "high politics," has been prescribed with great determination. This dangerous method of treatment tells me to wait and wait, but not yet to hope. France also still offers instinctive understanding and a ready welcome to those rarer men who rarely find satisfaction. These men are too broad in outlook to find satisfaction in any kind of devotion to a fatherland. They know how to love the South while in the North, and the North while in the South. They are the born Midlanders, the "good Europeans." For them BIZET has made music, this latest genius, who has seen a new beauty and allure. He has discovered a piece of the SOUTH IN MUSIC.
255. I hold that many precautions should be taken against German music. Suppose a person loves the South as I love it—as a great school of recovery for the most spiritual and the most sensuous ills, as a boundless solar profusion and effulgence which o'erspreads a sovereign existence believing in itself—well, such a person will learn to be somewhat on his guard against German music, because, in injuring his taste anew, it will also injure his health anew. Such a Southerner, a Southerner not by origin but by BELIEF, if he should dream of the future of music, must also dream of it being freed from the influence of the North; and must have in his ears the prelude to a deeper, mightier, and perhaps more perverse and mysterious music, a super-German music, which does not fade, pale, and die away, as all German music does, at the sight of the blue, wanton sea and the Mediterranean clearness of sky—a super-European music, which holds its own even in presence of the brown sunsets of the desert, whose soul is akin to the palm-tree, and can be at home and can roam with big, beautiful, lonely beasts of prey... I could imagine a music of which the rarest charm would be that it knew nothing more of good and evil; only that here and there perhaps some sailor's home-sickness, some golden shadows and tender weaknesses might sweep lightly over it; an art which, from the far distance, would see the colours of a sinking and almost incomprehensible MORAL world fleeing towards it, and would be hospitable enough and profound enough to receive such belated fugitives.
255. I believe we should take many precautions against German music. Suppose someone loves the South as I do, as a great school of recovery from spiritual and sensual ills. They love its boundless abundance and radiance of sunlight, spread over an independent life that believes in itself. Such a person will learn to be somewhat wary of German music. For by damaging their taste again, German music will also damage their health again. Such a Southerner belongs to the South not by birth but by BELIEF. If this Southerner dreams of music’s future, they must also dream of music freed from the North’s influence. They must already hear the prelude to a deeper, mightier, and perhaps more perverse and mysterious music. This would be a super-German music. It would not fade, turn pale, and die away at the sight of the blue, playful sea and clear Mediterranean sky. All German music does so. It would be a super-European music, holding its own even before the desert’s brown sunsets. Its soul would be kin to the palm-tree. It could feel at home and roam among great, beautiful, solitary beasts of prey... I could imagine a music whose rarest charm would be that it no longer knew anything of good and evil. Only, here and there, perhaps a sailor’s homesickness, some golden shadows and tender weaknesses might drift lightly over this music. From far away, such an art would see the colours of a sinking, almost incomprehensible MORAL world fleeing toward it. And this art would be welcoming and deep enough to receive such late-arriving fugitives.
256. Owing to the morbid estrangement which the nationality-craze has induced and still induces among the nations of Europe, owing also to the short-sighted and hasty-handed politicians, who with the help of this craze, are at present in power, and do not suspect to what extent the disintegrating policy they pursue must necessarily be only an interlude policy—owing to all this and much else that is altogether unmentionable at present, the most unmistakable signs that EUROPE WISHES TO BE ONE, are now overlooked, or arbitrarily and falsely misinterpreted. With all the more profound and large-minded men of this century, the real general tendency of the mysterious labour of their souls was to prepare the way for that new SYNTHESIS, and tentatively to anticipate the European of the future; only in their simulations, or in their weaker moments, in old age perhaps, did they belong to the "fatherlands"—they only rested from themselves when they became "patriots." I think of such men as Napoleon, Goethe, Beethoven, Stendhal, Heinrich Heine, Schopenhauer: it must not be taken amiss if I also count Richard Wagner among them, about whom one must not let oneself be deceived by his own misunderstandings (geniuses like him have seldom the right to understand themselves), still less, of course, by the unseemly noise with which he is now resisted and opposed in France: the fact remains, nevertheless, that Richard Wagner and the LATER FRENCH ROMANTICISM of the forties, are most closely and intimately related to one another. They are akin, fundamentally akin, in all the heights and depths of their requirements; it is Europe, the ONE Europe, whose soul presses urgently and longingly, outwards and upwards, in their multifarious and boisterous art—whither? into a new light? towards a new sun? But who would attempt to express accurately what all these masters of new modes of speech could not express distinctly? It is certain that the same storm and stress tormented them, that they SOUGHT in the same manner, these last great seekers! All of them steeped in literature to their eyes and ears—the first artists of universal literary culture—for the most part even themselves writers, poets, intermediaries and blenders of the arts and the senses (Wagner, as musician is reckoned among painters, as poet among musicians, as artist generally among actors); all of them fanatics for EXPRESSION "at any cost"—I specially mention Delacroix, the nearest related to Wagner; all of them great discoverers in the realm of the sublime, also of the loathsome and dreadful, still greater discoverers in effect, in display, in the art of the show-shop; all of them talented far beyond their genius, out and out VIRTUOSI, with mysterious accesses to all that seduces, allures, constrains, and upsets; born enemies of logic and of the straight line, hankering after the strange, the exotic, the monstrous, the crooked, and the self-contradictory; as men, Tantaluses of the will, plebeian parvenus, who knew themselves to be incapable of a noble TEMPO or of a LENTO in life and action—think of Balzac, for instance,—unrestrained workers, almost destroying themselves by work; antinomians and rebels in manners, ambitious and insatiable, without equilibrium and enjoyment; all of them finally shattering and sinking down at the Christian cross (and with right and reason, for who of them would have been sufficiently profound and sufficiently original for an ANTI-CHRISTIAN philosophy?);—on the whole, a boldly daring, splendidly overbearing, high-flying, and aloft-up-dragging class of higher men, who had first to teach their century—and it is the century of the MASSES—the conception "higher man."... Let the German friends of Richard Wagner advise together as to whether there is anything purely German in the Wagnerian art, or whether its distinction does not consist precisely in coming from SUPER-GERMAN sources and impulses: in which connection it may not be underrated how indispensable Paris was to the development of his type, which the strength of his instincts made him long to visit at the most decisive time—and how the whole style of his proceedings, of his self-apostolate, could only perfect itself in sight of the French socialistic original. On a more subtle comparison it will perhaps be found, to the honour of Richard Wagner's German nature, that he has acted in everything with more strength, daring, severity, and elevation than a nineteenth-century Frenchman could have done—owing to the circumstance that we Germans are as yet nearer to barbarism than the French;—perhaps even the most remarkable creation of Richard Wagner is not only at present, but for ever inaccessible, incomprehensible, and inimitable to the whole latter-day Latin race: the figure of Siegfried, that VERY FREE man, who is probably far too free, too hard, too cheerful, too healthy, too ANTI-CATHOLIC for the taste of old and mellow civilized nations. He may even have been a sin against Romanticism, this anti-Latin Siegfried: well, Wagner atoned amply for this sin in his old sad days, when—anticipating a taste which has meanwhile passed into politics—he began, with the religious vehemence peculiar to him, to preach, at least, THE WAY TO ROME, if not to walk therein.—That these last words may not be misunderstood, I will call to my aid a few powerful rhymes, which will even betray to less delicate ears what I mean—what I mean COUNTER TO the "last Wagner" and his Parsifal music:—
256. The craze for nationality has created, and still creates, an unhealthy estrangement among Europe’s nations. Short-sighted politicians, quick to act, now hold power with the help of this craze. They do not suspect how inevitably temporary their divisive policies must be. Because of all this, and much else that cannot be mentioned now, the clearest signs are being overlooked. These signs show that EUROPE WISHES TO BE ONE. Or else they are being deliberately and falsely interpreted. For all the deeper, broader-minded men of this century, their souls’ mysterious work had one general direction. They were preparing the way for that new SYNTHESIS and tentatively anticipating the European of the future. Only when pretending, or in weaker moments, perhaps in old age, did they belong to their "fatherlands". Becoming "patriots" was merely a way of taking a break from themselves. I am thinking of men like Napoleon, Goethe, Beethoven, Stendhal, Heinrich Heine, and Schopenhauer. I hope no one objects if I also include Richard Wagner. We must not let Wagner’s misunderstandings of himself mislead us. Geniuses like him seldom have the right to understand themselves. Still less should we be misled by the disgraceful uproar now raised against him in France. The fact remains that Richard Wagner and the LATER FRENCH ROMANTICISM of the forties are intimately connected. They are fundamentally alike in all the heights and depths of their demands. In their varied, tumultuous art, the soul of Europe, of ONE Europe, presses urgently and longingly outward and upward. But where? Into a new light? Toward a new sun? Yet who would try to state precisely what these masters of new ways of speaking could not express clearly? Certainly, the same storm and turmoil tormented them all. These last great seekers all SOUGHT in the same way! All were immersed in literature up to their eyes and ears, the first artists with a universal literary culture. Most were themselves writers and poets, mediators between the arts, blending arts and senses. (As a musician, Wagner belongs among painters. As a poet, he belongs among musicians. As an artist generally, he belongs among actors.) All were fanatics for EXPRESSION "at any cost". Here I especially mention Delacroix, Wagner’s closest relative in spirit. All were great discoverers in the realm of the sublime, and also of the disgusting and horrifying. They were still greater discoverers of effects, spectacle, and the art of flashy display. All had talent far beyond their genius. They were VIRTUOSI through and through, with mysterious access to everything that seduces, entices, compels, and unsettles. All were born enemies of logic and the straight line. They craved the strange, the exotic, the monstrous, the crooked, and the self-contradictory. As men, they were Tantaluses of the will, frustrated in their desires, upstarts from the common people. They knew themselves incapable of a noble TEMPO or a LENTO, a slow pace, in life and action. Think of Balzac, for instance. They worked without restraint, almost destroying themselves through work. They rejected rules of conduct and rebelled against convention. They were ambitious and insatiable, without balance or enjoyment. All finally broke down and sank before the Christian cross. And rightly so, with good reason. For which of them would have been deep and original enough for an ANTI-CHRISTIAN philosophy? Overall, they were a boldly daring, splendidly domineering class of higher men, soaring high and pulling others upward. They first had to teach their century, the century of the MASSES, the very idea of the "higher man".... Let Richard Wagner’s German friends discuss whether anything in Wagner’s art is purely German. Or does its distinction lie precisely in sources and impulses that are SUPER-GERMAN, reaching beyond Germany? In considering this, we must not underestimate how indispensable Paris was to the development of his type. At the most decisive moment, the strength of Wagner’s instincts made him long to visit Paris. His whole manner of operating, of preaching his own mission, could reach perfection only with the French socialist model before him. A closer comparison may reveal something that does credit to Richard Wagner’s German nature. In everything, he acted with greater strength, daring, severity, and elevation than a nineteenth-century Frenchman could have done. The reason is that we Germans are still closer to barbarism than the French. Perhaps Wagner’s most remarkable creation remains forever inaccessible, incomprehensible, and impossible to imitate for all the present-day Latin peoples. That creation is Siegfried, that VERY FREE man. He is probably far too free, too hard, too cheerful, too healthy, too ANTI-CATHOLIC for old, mellow civilizations to enjoy. This anti-Latin Siegfried may even have been a sin against Romanticism. Well, Wagner paid amply for that sin in his sad final years. He began to anticipate a taste that has since found its way into politics. With his characteristic religious fervor, he began at least to preach THE WAY TO ROME, if not to follow it. To prevent any misunderstanding of these last words, I will call on a few forceful rhymes. Even less sensitive ears will hear what I mean. They will hear what I mean AGAINST the "late Wagner" and his Parsifal music:
—Is this our mode?—From German heart came this vexed ululating? From German body, this self-lacerating? Is ours this priestly hand-dilation, This incense-fuming exaltation? Is ours this faltering, falling, shambling, This quite uncertain ding-dong-dangling? This sly nun-ogling, Ave-hour-bell ringing, This wholly false enraptured heaven-o'erspringing?—Is this our mode?—Think well!—ye still wait for admission—For what ye hear is ROME—ROME'S FAITH BY INTUITION!
Is this our style? Did this tormented howling come from a German heart? This self-torture, from a German body? Is this priestly spreading of hands ours? This incense-filled ecstasy? Is this stumbling, falling, shuffling ours? This utterly uncertain ding-dong-dangling? This sly ogling of nuns, this ringing of bells for the Ave Maria? This utterly false rapture, leaping beyond heaven? Is this our style? Think carefully! You still wait to be admitted. For what you hear is ROME, ROME'S FAITH BY INTUITION!