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We cannot designate the intrinsic substance of Socratic culture more distinctly than by calling it the culture of the opera: for it is in this department that culture has expressed itself with special naïveté concerning its aims and perceptions, which is sufficiently surprising when we compare the genesis of the opera and the facts of operatic development with the eternal truths of the Apollonian and Dionysian. I call to mind first of all the origin of the stilo rappresentativo and the recitative. Is it credible that this thoroughly externalised operatic music, incapable of devotion, could be received and cherished with enthusiastic favour, as a re-birth, as it were, of all true music, by the very age in which the ineffably sublime and sacred music of Palestrina had originated? And who, on the other hand, would think of making only the diversion-craving luxuriousness of those Florentine circles and the vanity of their dramatic singers responsible for the love of the opera which spread with such rapidity? That in the same age, even among the same people, this passion for a half-musical mode of speech should awaken alongside of the vaulted structure of Palestrine harmonies which the entire Christian Middle Age had been building up, I can explain to myself only by a co-operating extra-artistic tendency in the essence of the recitative.

We can best describe the essential nature of Socratic culture by calling it the culture of opera. For it is in opera that this culture has expressed its aims and perceptions with particular naïveté. This is surprising enough when we compare opera’s origins and development with the eternal truths of the Apollonian and Dionysian. First, I think of the origins of the stilo rappresentativo and the recitative. Is it credible that such outwardly focused operatic music, incapable of devotion, could be welcomed and cherished so enthusiastically? Could it be treated as a rebirth, so to speak, of all true music? And could this happen in the very age that produced the indescribably sublime and sacred music of Palestrina? On the other hand, who would blame opera’s rapidly spreading appeal solely on the luxury-loving Florentine circles seeking entertainment? Who would blame it solely on them and the vanity of their dramatic singers? In the same age, even among the same people, a passion for this half-musical way of speaking arose. It arose alongside the vaulted structure of Palestrina’s harmonies, which the whole Christian Middle Ages had been building up. I can explain this only by an extra-artistic tendency at work in the very nature of recitative.

The listener, who insists on distinctly hearing the words under the music, has his wishes met by the singer in that he speaks rather than sings, and intensifies the pathetic expression of the words in this half-song: by this intensification of the pathos he facilitates the understanding of the words and surmounts the remaining half of the music. The specific danger which now threatens him is that in some unguarded moment he may give undue importance to music, which would forthwith result in the destruction of the pathos of the speech and the distinctness of the words: while, on the other hand, he always feels himself impelled to musical delivery and to virtuose exhibition of vocal talent. Here the "poet" comes to his aid, who knows how to provide him with abundant opportunities for lyrical interjections, repetitions of words and sentences, etc.,—at which places the singer, now in the purely musical element, can rest himself without minding the words. This alternation of emotionally impressive, yet only half-sung speech and wholly sung interjections, which is characteristic of the stilo rappresentativo, this rapidly changing endeavour to operate now on the conceptional and representative faculty of the hearer, now on his musical sense, is something so thoroughly unnatural and withal so intrinsically contradictory both to the Apollonian and Dionysian artistic impulses, that one has to infer an origin of the recitative foreign to all artistic instincts. The recitative must be defined, according to this description, as the combination of epic and lyric delivery, not indeed as an intrinsically stable combination which could not be attained in the case of such totally disparate elements, but an entirely superficial mosaic conglutination, such as is totally unprecedented in the domain of nature and experience. But this was not the opinion of the inventors of the recitative: they themselves, and their age with them, believed rather that the mystery of antique music had been solved by this stilo rappresentativo, in which, as they thought, the only explanation of the enormous influence of an Orpheus, an Amphion, and even of Greek tragedy was to be found. The new style was regarded by them as the re-awakening of the most effective music, the Old Greek music: indeed, with the universal and popular conception of the Homeric world as the primitive world, they could abandon themselves to the dream of having descended once more into the paradisiac beginnings of mankind, wherein music also must needs have had the unsurpassed purity, power, and innocence of which the poets could give such touching accounts in their pastoral plays. Here we see into the internal process of development of this thoroughly modern variety of art, the opera: a powerful need here acquires an art, but it is a need of an unæsthetic kind: the yearning for the idyll, the belief in the prehistoric existence of the artistic, good man. The recitative was regarded as the rediscovered language of this primitive man; the opera as the recovered land of this idyllically or heroically good creature, who in every action follows at the same time a natural artistic impulse, who sings a little along with all he has to say, in order to sing immediately with full voice on the slightest emotional excitement. It is now a matter of indifference to us that the humanists of those days combated the old ecclesiastical representation of man as naturally corrupt and lost, with this new-created picture of the paradisiac artist: so that opera may be understood as the oppositional dogma of the good man, whereby however a solace was at the same time found for the pessimism to which precisely the seriously-disposed men of that time were most strongly incited, owing to the frightful uncertainty of all conditions of life. It is enough to have perceived that the intrinsic charm, and therefore the genesis, of this new form of art lies in the gratification of an altogether unæsthetic need, in the optimistic glorification of man as such, in the conception of the primitive man as the man naturally good and artistic: a principle of the opera which has gradually changed into a threatening and terrible demand, which, in face of the socialistic movements of the present time, we can no longer ignore. The "good primitive man" wants his rights: what paradisiac prospects!

The listener insists on hearing the words clearly beneath the music. The singer meets this wish by speaking rather than singing, heightening the emotional force of the words in this half-song. By making the words more expressive, the singer makes them easier to understand and overcomes what remains of the music. But the singer now faces a particular danger. In an unguarded moment, he may give music too much importance. This would immediately destroy both the emotional force of the speech and the clarity of the words. On the other hand, he always feels driven to deliver the words musically and display his vocal skill. Here the "poet" comes to his aid. The poet knows how to give him plenty of opportunities for lyrical interjections and repetitions of words and sentences. At these points, the singer can rest in the purely musical element without worrying about the words. This alternation between emotionally powerful, half-sung speech and fully sung interjections is characteristic of the stilo rappresentativo. It rapidly shifts between appealing to the listener's powers of thought and imagination and appealing to his musical sense. This is utterly unnatural. It also contradicts both the Apollonian and Dionysian artistic impulses at their core. We must therefore conclude that recitative originated outside all artistic instincts. By this account, recitative must be defined as a combination of epic and lyric delivery. It is not a stable combination in itself, for that could not be achieved with such completely different elements. It is instead a wholly superficial mosaic of pieces glued together. Nothing like it can be found in nature or experience. But this was not the opinion of the inventors of recitative: they and their age believed something else. They thought that the stilo rappresentativo had solved the mystery of ancient music. In their view, it alone explained the enormous influence of Orpheus, Amphion, and even Greek tragedy. They regarded the new style as the revival of the most effective music, the music of ancient Greece. Indeed, people generally imagined the Homeric world as the primitive world. So they could indulge the dream that they had returned to humanity's paradisiacal beginnings. There, music too must have had the unsurpassed purity, power, and innocence so touchingly described by poets in their pastoral plays. Here we see how this thoroughly modern art form, opera, developed from within. A powerful need gives rise to an art, but the need is not aesthetic. It is the longing for an idyll and the belief that the artistic, good man existed in prehistoric times. Recitative was taken for the rediscovered language of this primitive man. Opera was seen as the recovered land of this idyllically or heroically good creature. In everything he does, he also follows a natural artistic impulse. He sings a little along with everything he has to say. Then, at the slightest emotional excitement, he immediately sings at full voice. It no longer matters to us that the humanists of those days used this newly created image of the paradisiacal artist to oppose the old Church image of man as naturally corrupt and lost. Opera can thus be understood as a doctrine of the good man, set against that older view. At the same time, it offered comfort against pessimism. The terrifying uncertainty of all conditions of life especially drove the serious-minded people of that time toward pessimism. It is enough to see where the essential charm, and therefore the origin, of this new art form lies. It lies in satisfying a wholly non-aesthetic need, in the optimistic glorification of man as such, and in the idea that primitive man is naturally good and artistic. This principle of opera has gradually turned into a threatening and terrible demand. Given the socialistic movements of the present day, we can no longer ignore it. The "good primitive man" wants his rights: what paradisiacal prospects!

I here place by way of parallel still another equally obvious confirmation of my view that opera is built up on the same principles as our Alexandrine culture. Opera is the birth of the theoretical man, of the critical layman, not of the artist: one of the most surprising facts in the whole history of art. It was the demand of thoroughly unmusical hearers that the words must above all be understood, so that according to them a re-birth of music is only to be expected when some mode of singing has been discovered in which the text-word lords over the counterpoint as the master over the servant. For the words, it is argued, are as much nobler than the accompanying harmonic system as the soul is nobler than the body. It was in accordance with the laically unmusical crudeness of these views that the combination of music, picture and expression was effected in the beginnings of the opera: in the spirit of this æsthetics the first experiments were also made in the leading laic circles of Florence by the poets and singers patronised there. The man incapable of art creates for himself a species of art precisely because he is the inartistic man as such. Because he does not divine the Dionysian depth of music, he changes his musical taste into appreciation of the understandable word-and-tone-rhetoric of the passions in the stilo rappresentativo, and into the voluptuousness of the arts of song; because he is unable to behold a vision, he forces the machinist and the decorative artist into his service; because he cannot apprehend the true nature of the artist, he conjures up the "artistic primitive man" to suit his taste, that is, the man who sings and recites verses under the influence of passion. He dreams himself into a time when passion suffices to generate songs and poems: as if emotion had ever been able to create anything artistic. The postulate of the opera is a false belief concerning the artistic process, in fact, the idyllic belief that every sentient man is an artist. In the sense of this belief, opera is the expression of the taste of the laity in art, who dictate their laws with the cheerful optimism of the theorist.

Here is another equally obvious piece of evidence for my view that opera rests on the same principles as our Alexandrine culture. Opera was born from the theoretical man, the critical layman, not the artist. This is one of the most surprising facts in the whole history of art. Thoroughly unmusical listeners demanded that the words be understood above all else. They therefore believed that music could be reborn only when a style of singing was found in which the words ruled the counterpoint as a master rules a servant. For, they argued, words are as much nobler than the accompanying harmonies as the soul is nobler than the body. Music, visual spectacle, and expression were combined at the birth of opera in keeping with these crude, unmusical views of laymen. Guided by the same aesthetics, poets and singers patronized by Florence’s leading lay circles made their first experiments there. The man incapable of art creates a kind of art for himself precisely because he is inartistic. Because he cannot sense the Dionysian depth of music, he comes to appreciate the intelligible rhetoric of words and tones expressing the passions in the stilo rappresentativo, as well as the sensual pleasures of singing. Because he cannot see a vision, he enlists the stage engineer and the decorator in his service. Because he cannot grasp the true nature of the artist, he conjures up an "artistic primitive man" to suit his taste. This is a man who sings and recites verses under the influence of passion. He imagines himself in a time when passion alone is enough to produce songs and poems, as if emotion had ever been able to create anything artistic. Opera rests on a false belief about the artistic process. It rests, in fact, on the idyllic belief that every person capable of feeling is an artist. In this sense, opera expresses the taste of laymen in art, who dictate their laws with the cheerful optimism of the theorist.

Should we desire to unite in one the two conceptions just set forth as influential in the origin of opera, it would only remain for us to speak of an idyllic tendency of the opera: in which connection we may avail ourselves exclusively of the phraseology and illustration of Schiller.²² "Nature and the ideal," he says, "are either objects of grief, when the former is represented as lost, the latter unattained; or both are objects of joy, in that they are represented as real. The first case furnishes the elegy in its narrower signification, the second the idyll in its widest sense." Here we must at once call attention to the common characteristic of these two conceptions in operatic genesis, namely, that in them the ideal is not regarded as unattained or nature as lost Agreeably to this sentiment, there was a primitive age of man when he lay close to the heart of nature, and, owing to this naturalness, had attained the ideal of mankind in a paradisiac goodness and artist-organisation: from which perfect primitive man all of us were supposed to be descended; whose faithful copy we were in fact still said to be: only we had to cast off some few things in order to recognise ourselves once more as this primitive man, on the strength of a voluntary renunciation of superfluous learnedness, of super-abundant culture. It was to such a concord of nature and the ideal, to an idyllic reality, that the cultured man of the Renaissance suffered himself to be led back by his operatic imitation of Greek tragedy; he made use of this tragedy, as Dante made use of Vergil, in order to be led up to the gates of paradise: while from this point he went on without assistance and passed over from an imitation of the highest form of Greek art to a "restoration of all things," to an imitation of man's original art-world. What delightfully naïve hopefulness of these daring endeavours, in the very heart of theoretical culture!—solely to be explained by the comforting belief, that "man-in-himself" is the eternally virtuous hero of the opera, the eternally fluting or singing shepherd, who must always in the end rediscover himself as such, if he has at any time really lost himself; solely the fruit of the optimism, which here rises like a sweetishly seductive column of vapour out of the depth of the Socratic conception of the world.

If we wish to unite the two ideas just described as influences on the origin of opera, we need only speak of an idyllic tendency of the opera. For this, we can rely entirely on Schiller’s words and example.²² "Nature and the ideal," he says, "are either objects of grief, when the former is represented as lost, the latter unattained; or both are objects of joy, in that they are represented as real. The first case furnishes the elegy in its narrower signification, the second the idyll in its widest sense." We must immediately note what these two ideas about the origin of opera have in common. In neither is the ideal seen as unattained or nature as lost. According to this view, there was a primitive age when man lived close to the heart of nature. Because he lived so naturally, he had achieved the ideal of humanity. He possessed both paradisiacal goodness and an artist’s nature. All of us were supposed to be descended from this perfect primitive man. In fact, we were said still to be faithful copies of him. We needed only to cast off a few things to recognize ourselves as this primitive man once more. We could do this by willingly giving up excessive learning and culture. The cultured man of the Renaissance let opera’s imitation of Greek tragedy lead him back to this harmony of nature and the ideal, to an idyllic reality. He used Greek tragedy as Dante used Vergil, to guide him to the gates of paradise. From there, he went on without help. He moved from imitating the highest form of Greek art to a "restoration of all things," an imitation of man’s original world of art. What delightfully naïve hopefulness these daring efforts showed, at the very heart of theoretical culture! They can be explained only by a comforting belief about "man-in-himself". According to this belief, he is the eternally virtuous hero of the opera, the eternal shepherd who plays his flute or sings. If he has ever truly lost himself, he must always rediscover himself as such in the end. These efforts are solely the fruit of an optimism that rises from the depths of the Socratic view of the world, like a sweetly seductive column of vapor.

The features of the opera therefore do not by any means exhibit the elegiac sorrow of an eternal loss, but rather the cheerfulness of eternal rediscovery, the indolent delight in an idyllic reality which one can at least represent to one's self each moment as real: and in so doing one will perhaps surmise some day that this supposed reality is nothing but a fantastically silly dawdling, concerning which every one, who could judge it by the terrible earnestness of true nature and compare it with the actual primitive scenes of the beginnings of mankind, would have to call out with loathing: Away with the phantom! Nevertheless one would err if one thought it possible to frighten away merely by a vigorous shout such a dawdling thing as the opera, as if it were a spectre. He who would destroy the opera must join issue with Alexandrine cheerfulness, which expresses itself so naïvely therein concerning its favourite representation; of which in fact it is the specific form of art. But what is to be expected for art itself from the operation of a form of art, the beginnings of which do not at all lie in the æsthetic province; which has rather stolen over from a half-moral sphere into the artistic domain, and has been able only now and then to delude us concerning this hybrid origin? By what sap is this parasitic opera-concern nourished, if not by that of true art? Must we not suppose that the highest and indeed the truly serious task of art—to free the eye from its glance into the horrors of night and to deliver the "subject" by the healing balm of appearance from the spasms of volitional agitations—will degenerate under the influence of its idyllic seductions and Alexandrine adulation to an empty dissipating tendency, to pastime? What will become of the eternal truths of the Dionysian and Apollonian in such an amalgamation of styles as I have exhibited in the character of the stilo rappresentativo? where music is regarded as the servant, the text as the master, where music is compared with the body, the text with the soul? where at best the highest aim will be the realisation of a paraphrastic tone-painting, just as formerly in the New Attic Dithyramb? where music is completely alienated from its true dignity of being, the Dionysian mirror of the world, so that the only thing left to it is, as a slave of phenomena, to imitate the formal character thereof, and to excite an external pleasure in the play of lines and proportions. On close observation, this fatal influence of the opera on music is seen to coincide absolutely with the universal development of modern music; the optimism lurking in the genesis of the opera and in the essence of culture represented thereby, has, with alarming rapidity, succeeded in divesting music of its Dionyso-cosmic mission and in impressing on it a playfully formal and pleasurable character: a change with which perhaps only the metamorphosis of the Æschylean man into the cheerful Alexandrine man could be compared.

The features of opera show not the sorrow of an eternal loss, but the cheerfulness of eternal rediscovery. They show an idle delight in an idyllic reality, which one can at least imagine as real at any moment. Yet one may someday suspect that this supposed reality is nothing but fantastically silly dawdling. Anyone who judged it against the terrible seriousness of true nature would have to cry out in disgust: Away with the phantom! The same would be true of anyone who compared it with the actual primitive scenes of humanity’s beginnings. Nevertheless, one would be wrong to think that a vigorous shout could frighten away something as idle as opera, as if it were a ghost. Anyone who would destroy opera must confront Alexandrine cheerfulness. Opera is the specific art form of that cheerfulness, which expresses its favorite conception so naively in opera. But what can art itself expect from the effects of an art form whose beginnings do not lie in the aesthetic realm at all? Opera has instead crept into the artistic realm from a half-moral sphere. Only now and then has it managed to deceive us about its mixed origins. What nourishes this parasitic opera enterprise, if not the life of true art? Must we not suppose that opera’s idyllic seductions and Alexandrine flattery will degrade art’s highest, truly serious task into empty distraction, into mere pastime? That task is to free the eye from its view of the horrors of night. It is also to deliver the "subject" from the spasms of agitations of the will through the healing balm of appearance. What will become of the eternal truths of the Dionysian and Apollonian in such a mixture of styles as I have shown in the character of the stilo rappresentativo? Here music is treated as the servant and the text as the master. Music is compared to the body, and the text to the soul. At best, the highest aim is to paint a paraphrase in sound, just as it once was in the New Attic Dithyramb. Here music is completely separated from its true dignity as the Dionysian mirror of the world. All that remains for it, as a slave of phenomena, is to imitate their formal character and create an external pleasure in the play of lines and proportions. On close examination, opera’s fatal influence on music is seen to coincide entirely with the general development of modern music. Optimism lurks in the origins of opera and in the essence of the culture it represents. With alarming speed, this optimism has stripped music of its Dionyso-cosmic mission and given it a playful, formal, and pleasurable character. Perhaps only the transformation of the Æschylean man into the cheerful Alexandrine man could be compared with this change.

If, however, in the exemplification herewith indicated we have rightly associated the evanescence of the Dionysian spirit with a most striking, but hitherto unexplained transformation and degeneration of the Hellene—what hopes must revive in us when the most trustworthy auspices guarantee the reverse process, the gradual awakening of the Dionysian spirit in our modern world! It is impossible for the divine strength of Herakles to languish for ever in voluptuous bondage to Omphale. Out of the Dionysian root of the German spirit a power has arisen which has nothing in common with the primitive conditions of Socratic culture, and can neither be explained nor excused thereby, but is rather regarded by this culture as something terribly inexplicable and overwhelmingly hostile,mdash;namely, German music as we have to understand it, especially in its vast solar orbit from Bach to Beethoven, from Beethoven to Wagner. What even under the most favourable circumstances can the knowledge-craving Socratism of our days do with this demon rising from unfathomable depths? Neither by means of the zig-zag and arabesque work of operatic melody, nor with the aid of the arithmetical counting board of fugue and contrapuntal dialectics is the formula to be found, in the trebly powerful light²³ of which one could subdue this demon and compel it to speak. What a spectacle, when our æsthetes, with a net of "beauty" peculiar to themselves, now pursue and clutch at the genius of music romping about before them with incomprehensible life, and in so doing display activities which are not to be judged by the standard of eternal beauty any more than by the standard of the sublime. Let us but observe these patrons of music as they are, at close range, when they call out so indefatigably "beauty! beauty!" to discover whether they have the marks of nature's darling children who are fostered and fondled in the lap of the beautiful, or whether they do not rather seek a disguise for their own rudeness, an æsthetical pretext for their own unemotional insipidity: I am thinking here, for instance, of Otto Jahn. But let the liar and the hypocrite beware of our German music: for in the midst of all our culture it is really the only genuine, pure and purifying fire-spirit from which and towards which, as in the teaching of the great Heraclitus of Ephesus, all things move in a double orbit-all that we now call culture, education, civilisation, must appear some day before the unerring judge, Dionysus.

If we have rightly connected the fading of the Dionysian spirit with this striking but previously unexplained transformation and decline of the Hellene, what hopes must awaken in us! For the most reliable signs promise the reverse process, the gradual awakening of the Dionysian spirit in our modern world. The divine strength of Herakles cannot languish forever in sensual bondage to Omphale. A power has risen from the Dionysian root of the German spirit. It has nothing in common with the basic conditions of Socratic culture and cannot be explained or justified by them. Rather, Socratic culture regards this power as something terrifyingly inexplicable and overwhelmingly hostile. That power is German music as we must understand it, especially in its vast solar orbit from Bach to Beethoven, from Beethoven to Wagner. What can the knowledge-hungry Socratism of our day do with this demon rising from unfathomable depths, even under the most favorable conditions? Neither the zigzags and arabesques of operatic melody nor the arithmetic of fugue and contrapuntal dialectics can provide the formula. No formula can be found whose triple-strength light²³ could subdue this demon and compel it to speak. What a spectacle our aesthetes make! They chase and grasp at the genius of music as it romps before them with incomprehensible life. They try to catch it in a net of "beauty" peculiar to themselves. But their own efforts cannot be judged by the standard of eternal beauty, any more than by the standard of the sublime. Let us look closely at these patrons of music as they tirelessly cry "beauty! beauty!" Do they bear the marks of nature's favorite children, nurtured and caressed in the lap of the beautiful? Or do they instead seek a disguise for their own coarseness, an aesthetic excuse for their own lack of feeling and dullness? I am thinking here, for example, of Otto Jahn. But let the liar and the hypocrite beware of our German music. For amid all our culture, it is truly the only genuine, pure and purifying fire-spirit. All things move from it and toward it in a double orbit, as in the teaching of the great Heraclitus of Ephesus. All that we now call culture, education, civilization, must one day appear before Dionysus, the judge who never errs.

Let us recollect furthermore how Kant and Schopenhauer made it possible for the spirit of German philosophy streaming from the same sources to annihilate the satisfied delight in existence of scientific Socratism by the delimitation of the boundaries thereof; how through this delimitation an infinitely profounder and more serious view of ethical problems and of art was inaugurated, which we may unhesitatingly designate as Dionysian wisdom comprised in concepts. To what then does the mystery of this oneness of German music and philosophy point, if not to a new form of existence, concerning the substance of which we can only inform ourselves presentiently from Hellenic analogies? For to us who stand on the boundary line between two different forms of existence, the Hellenic prototype retains the immeasurable value, that therein all these transitions and struggles are imprinted in a classically instructive form: except that we, as it were, experience analogically in reverse order the chief epochs of the Hellenic genius, and seem now, for instance, to pass backwards from the Alexandrine age to the period of tragedy. At the same time we have the feeling that the birth of a tragic age betokens only a return to itself of the German spirit, a blessed self-rediscovering after excessive and urgent external influences have for a long time compelled it, living as it did in helpless barbaric formlessness, to servitude under their form. It may at last, after returning to the primitive source of its being, venture to stalk along boldly and freely before all nations without hugging the leading-strings of a Romanic civilisation: if only it can learn implicitly of one people—the Greeks, of whom to learn at all is itself a high honour and a rare distinction. And when did we require these highest of all teachers more than at present, when we experience a re-birth of tragedy and are in danger alike of not knowing whence it comes, and of being unable to make clear to ourselves whither it tends.

Let us also recall how Kant and Schopenhauer made this possible for the spirit of German philosophy, which flowed from the same sources. By defining the limits of scientific Socratism, they allowed German philosophy to destroy its self-satisfied delight in existence. This also opened the way to an infinitely deeper and more serious view of ethics and art. We can confidently call this view Dionysian wisdom expressed in concepts. What, then, does the mystery of this unity of German music and philosophy point to, if not a new form of existence? We can only anticipate what that existence will be like by comparing it with the Greek example. We stand on the boundary between two different forms of existence. For us, the Greek example remains immeasurably valuable, because it shows all these transitions and struggles in a classically instructive form. Yet we seem to experience the main epochs of Greek genius in reverse order. For instance, we now seem to be moving backward from the Alexandrine age to the age of tragedy. At the same time, we feel that the birth of a tragic age means only that the German spirit is returning to itself. It is a blessed rediscovery of itself. For a long time, overwhelming and urgent outside influences forced it to serve their form, while it lived in helpless barbaric formlessness. Now that it has returned to the original source of its being, it may at last dare to stride boldly and freely before all nations. It need no longer cling to the leading strings of a Romanic civilisation. But it must learn to follow the guidance of one people, the Greeks. To learn from the Greeks at all is itself a high honor and a rare distinction. And when have we needed these greatest of all teachers more than now? We are experiencing a re-birth of tragedy, yet we risk both not knowing where it comes from and being unable to make clear to ourselves where it is leading.