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Let us now imagine the one great Cyclopean eye of Socrates fixed on tragedy, that eye in which the fine frenzy of artistic enthusiasm had never glowed—let us think how it was denied to this eye to gaze with pleasure into the Dionysian abysses—what could it not but see in the "sublime and greatly lauded" tragic art, as Plato called it? Something very absurd, with causes that seemed to be without effects, and effects apparently without causes; the whole, moreover, so motley and diversified that it could not but be repugnant to a thoughtful mind, a dangerous incentive, however, to sensitive and irritable souls. We know what was the sole kind of poetry which he comprehended: the Æsopian fable: and he did this no doubt with that smiling complaisance with which the good honest Gellert sings the praise of poetry in the fable of the bee and the hen:—

Let us imagine Socrates fixing his one great Cyclopean eye on tragedy. The inspired frenzy of artistic enthusiasm had never glowed in that eye. It could not gaze with pleasure into the Dionysian abysses. What, then, could Socrates see in the "sublime and greatly lauded" art of tragedy, as Plato called it? He could only see something utterly absurd. Its causes seemed to have no effects, and its effects seemed to have no causes. The whole was so mixed and varied that it was bound to repel a thoughtful mind. Yet it was a dangerous stimulus to sensitive and excitable souls. We know the only kind of poetry Socrates understood: the Æsopian fable. No doubt he understood it with the same smiling approval that the good, honest Gellert shows when praising poetry in his fable of the bee and the hen:

But then it seemed to Socrates that tragic art did not even "tell the truth": not to mention the fact that it addresses itself to him who "hath but little wit"; consequently not to the philosopher: a twofold reason why it should be avoided. Like Plato, he reckoned it among the seductive arts which only represent the agreeable, not the useful, and hence he required of his disciples abstinence and strict separation from such unphilosophical allurements; with such success that the youthful tragic poet Plato first of all burned his poems to be able to become a scholar of Socrates. But where unconquerable native capacities bore up against the Socratic maxims, their power, together with the momentum of his mighty character, still sufficed to force poetry itself into new and hitherto unknown channels.

But Socrates also thought that tragic art did not even "tell the truth." Moreover, it speaks to someone who "has little wit" and therefore not to the philosopher. So he had two reasons to avoid it. Like Plato, he counted tragedy among the seductive arts that represent only what is pleasant, not what is useful. He therefore required his disciples to abstain from such unphilosophical temptations and keep strictly away from them. He was so successful that Plato, a young tragic poet, first burned his poems so he could become Socrates' student. But some people had innate talents that could not be overcome by Socrates' principles. Even in those cases, the force of those principles, together with the strength of his powerful character, was enough to push poetry itself into new and previously unknown directions.

An instance of this is the aforesaid Plato: he, who in the condemnation of tragedy and of art in general certainly did not fall short of the naïve cynicism of his master, was nevertheless constrained by sheer artistic necessity to create a form of art which is inwardly related even to the then existing forms of art which he repudiated. Plato's main objection to the old art—that it is the imitation of a phantom,¹⁹ and hence belongs to a sphere still lower than the empiric world—could not at all apply to the new art: and so we find Plato endeavouring to go beyond reality and attempting to represent the idea which underlies this pseudo-reality. But Plato, the thinker, thereby arrived by a roundabout road just at the point where he had always been at home as poet, and from which Sophocles and all the old artists had solemnly protested against that objection. If tragedy absorbed into itself all the earlier varieties of art, the same could again be said in an unusual sense of Platonic dialogue, which, engendered by a mixture of all the then existing forms and styles, hovers midway between narrative, lyric and drama, between prose and poetry, and has also thereby broken loose from the older strict law of unity of linguistic form; a movement which was carried still farther by the cynic writers, who in the most promiscuous style, oscillating to and fro betwixt prose and metrical forms, realised also the literary picture of the "raving Socrates" whom they were wont to represent in life. Platonic dialogue was as it were the boat in which the shipwrecked ancient poetry saved herself together with all her children: crowded into a narrow space and timidly obsequious to the one steersman, Socrates, they now launched into a new world, which never tired of looking at the fantastic spectacle of this procession. In very truth, Plato has given to all posterity the prototype of a new form of art, the prototype of the novel which must be designated as the infinitely evolved Æsopian fable, in which poetry holds the same rank with reference to dialectic philosophy as this same philosophy held for many centuries with reference to theology: namely, the rank of ancilla. This was the new position of poetry into which Plato forced it under the pressure of the demon-inspired Socrates.

Plato, mentioned above, is an example. In condemning tragedy and art in general, he certainly matched the naïve cynicism of his master. Yet sheer artistic necessity forced him to create an art form inwardly related to the existing forms he rejected. Plato's main objection to the old art could not apply to the new one. He objected that the old art imitated a phantom,¹⁹ and therefore belonged to a realm even lower than the empirical world. So we find Plato trying to go beyond reality and represent the idea underlying this false reality. But Plato the thinker took a roundabout path to the very place where he had always been at home as a poet. From that place, Sophocles and all the old artists had solemnly protested against Plato's objection. Tragedy absorbed all earlier varieties of art into itself. In an unusual sense, the same could be said of Platonic dialogue. Born from a mixture of all the forms and styles then in existence, it hovers between narrative, lyric and drama, and between prose and poetry. It has also broken free from the older, strict law requiring a unified linguistic form. The cynic writers carried this movement still further. Their style freely mixed prose and verse, creating a literary picture of the "raving Socrates" they were accustomed to portray in life. Platonic dialogue was like a boat in which shipwrecked ancient poetry saved herself and all her children. Crowded into a narrow space and timidly obedient to their one steersman, Socrates, they set out for a new world. That world never tired of watching the fantastic spectacle of their procession. In truth, Plato gave all later generations the prototype of a new art form: the novel. The novel must be called the infinitely developed Æsopian fable. In it, poetry holds the same rank in relation to dialectical philosophy that philosophy held for many centuries in relation to theology: the rank of ancilla. This was the new position into which Plato forced poetry under the pressure of the demon-inspired Socrates.

Here philosophic thought overgrows art and compels it to cling close to the trunk of dialectics. The Apollonian tendency has chrysalised in the logical schematism; just as something analogous in the case of Euripides (and moreover a translation of the Dionysian into the naturalistic emotion) was forced upon our attention. Socrates, the dialectical hero in Platonic drama, reminds us of the kindred nature of the Euripidean hero, who has to defend his actions by arguments and counter-arguments, and thereby so often runs the risk of forfeiting our tragic pity; for who could mistake the optimistic element in the essence of dialectics, which celebrates a jubilee in every conclusion, and can breathe only in cool clearness and consciousness: the optimistic element, which, having once forced its way into tragedy, must gradually overgrow its Dionysian regions, and necessarily impel it to self-destruction—even to the death-leap into the bourgeois drama. Let us but realise the consequences of the Socratic maxims: "Virtue is knowledge; man only sins from ignorance; he who is virtuous is happy": these three fundamental forms of optimism involve the death of tragedy. For the virtuous hero must now be a dialectician; there must now be a necessary, visible connection between virtue and knowledge, between belief and morality; the transcendental justice of the plot in Æschylus is now degraded to the superficial and audacious principle of poetic justice with its usual deus ex machina.

Here philosophical thought grows over art and forces it to cling closely to the trunk of dialectics. The Apollonian tendency has become encased in the rigid forms of logic. We have already seen something similar in Euripides, along with the translation of the Dionysian into naturalistic emotion. Socrates, the dialectical hero in Platonic drama, reminds us of the similar nature of the Euripidean hero. This hero must defend his actions with arguments and counterarguments, often risking the loss of our tragic pity. For who could miss the optimistic element at the heart of dialectics? It celebrates every conclusion and can breathe only in cool clarity and consciousness. Once this optimistic element enters tragedy, it must gradually overgrow its Dionysian regions. It must drive tragedy to destroy itself, to take the fatal leap into bourgeois drama. Consider the consequences of the Socratic maxims: "Virtue is knowledge; man only sins from ignorance; he who is virtuous is happy". These three fundamental forms of optimism bring about the death of tragedy. The virtuous hero must now be a dialectician. There must now be a necessary, visible connection between virtue and knowledge, between belief and morality. The transcendental justice of the plot in Æschylus is now reduced to the shallow and audacious principle of poetic justice, with its usual deus ex machina.

How does the chorus, and, in general, the entire Dionyso-musical substratum of tragedy, now appear in the light of this new Socrato-optimistic stage-world? As something accidental, as a readily dispensable reminiscence of the origin of tragedy; while we have in fact seen that the chorus can be understood only as the cause of tragedy, and of the tragic generally. This perplexity with respect to the chorus first manifests itself in Sophocles—an important sign that the Dionysian basis of tragedy already begins to disintegrate with him. He no longer ventures to entrust to the chorus the main share of the effect, but limits its sphere to such an extent that it now appears almost co-ordinate with the actors, just as if it were elevated from the orchestra into the scene: whereby of course its character is completely destroyed, notwithstanding that Aristotle countenances this very theory of the chorus. This alteration of the position of the chorus, which Sophocles at any rate recommended by his practice, and, according to tradition, even by a treatise, is the first step towards the annihilation of the chorus, the phases of which follow one another with alarming rapidity in Euripides, Agathon, and the New Comedy. Optimistic dialectics drives, music out of tragedy with the scourge of its syllogisms: that is, it destroys the essence of tragedy, which can be explained only as a manifestation and illustration of Dionysian states, as the visible symbolisation of music, as the dream-world of Dionysian ecstasy.

How do the chorus and, more generally, tragedy’s entire Dionyso-musical foundation appear in this new Socratic, optimistic stage-world? They seem incidental, reminders of tragedy’s origins that can easily be discarded. Yet we have seen that the chorus can be understood only as the cause of tragedy and of the tragic in general. This uncertainty about the chorus first appears in Sophocles. It is an important sign that tragedy’s Dionysian foundation is already beginning to break down in his work. He no longer dares to entrust the chorus with the main share of the dramatic effect. Instead, he limits its role so much that it now seems almost equal to the actors. It is as if the chorus had been raised from the orchestra onto the stage. This, of course, completely destroys its character, even though Aristotle endorses this very view of the chorus. Sophocles recommended this change in the chorus’s position through his practice and, according to tradition, even in a treatise. It was the first step toward the annihilation of the chorus. The stages of that destruction follow one another with alarming speed in Euripides, Agathon, and the New Comedy. Optimistic dialectics drives music out of tragedy with the whip of its syllogisms. In other words, it destroys the essence of tragedy. That essence can be explained only as a manifestation and illustration of Dionysian states, the visible expression of music, and the dream-world of Dionysian ecstasy.

If, therefore, we are to assume an anti-Dionysian tendency operating even before Socrates, which received in him only an unprecedentedly grand expression, we must not shrink from the question as to what a phenomenon like that of Socrates indicates: whom in view of the Platonic dialogues we are certainly not entitled to regard as a purely disintegrating, negative power. And though there can be no doubt whatever that the most immediate effect of the Socratic impulse tended to the dissolution of Dionysian tragedy, yet a profound experience of Socrates' own life compels us to ask whether there is necessarily only an antipodal relation between Socratism and art, and whether the birth of an "artistic Socrates" is in general something contradictory in itself.

If, then, we assume that an anti-Dionysian tendency was at work even before Socrates, we must ask what a figure like him represents. In Socrates, this tendency found an expression of unprecedented grandeur. Yet the Platonic dialogues certainly do not allow us to see him as a purely destructive, negative force. There can be no doubt that the most immediate effect of the Socratic impulse was to dissolve Dionysian tragedy. Yet a profound experience in Socrates' own life forces us to ask whether Socratism and art are necessarily opposed. We must also ask whether the birth of an "artistic Socrates" is inherently contradictory.

For that despotic logician had now and then the feeling of a gap, or void, a sentiment of semi-reproach, as of a possibly neglected duty with respect to art. There often came to him, as he tells his friends in prison, one and the same dream-apparition, which kept constantly repeating to him: "Socrates, practise music." Up to his very last days he solaces himself with the opinion that his philosophising is the highest form of poetry, and finds it hard to believe that a deity will remind him of the "common, popular music." Finally, when in prison, he consents to practise also this despised music, in order thoroughly to unburden his conscience. And in this frame of mind he composes a poem on Apollo and turns a few Æsopian fables into verse. It was something similar to the demonian warning voice which urged him to these practices; it was because of his Apollonian insight that, like a barbaric king, he did not understand the noble image of a god and was in danger of sinning against a deity—through ignorance. The prompting voice of the Socratic dream-vision is the only sign of doubtfulness as to the limits of logical nature. "Perhaps "—thus he had to ask himself—"what is not intelligible to me is not therefore unreasonable? Perhaps there is a realm of wisdom from which the logician is banished? Perhaps art is even a necessary correlative of and supplement to science?"

That despotic logician sometimes felt a gap, or emptiness. He felt a faint reproach, as if he might have neglected a duty to art. As he tells his friends in prison, the same dream often came to him. It kept repeating: "Socrates, practise music." Until his final days, he comforts himself with the belief that his philosophizing is the highest form of poetry. He finds it hard to believe that a deity would remind him to make "common, popular music." Finally, in prison, he agrees to practice this despised music too, so as to clear his conscience completely. In this frame of mind, he writes a poem about Apollo and turns a few Æsopian fables into verse. Something like the demonian warning voice urged him to do this. Because of his Apollonian insight, he did not understand the noble image of a god, much like a barbaric king. Through ignorance, he was in danger of offending a deity. The voice urging him on in his dream is the only sign that Socrates doubted the limits of his logical nature. "Perhaps," he had to ask himself, "what I cannot understand is not necessarily unreasonable? Perhaps there is a realm of wisdom from which the logician is banished? Perhaps art is even a necessary counterpart and supplement to science?"