21

Gliding back from these hortative tones into the mood which befits the contemplative man, I repeat that it can only be learnt from the Greeks what such a sudden and miraculous awakening of tragedy must signify for the essential basis of a people's life. It is the people of the tragic mysteries who fight the battles with the Persians: and again, the people who waged such wars required tragedy as a necessary healing potion. Who would have imagined that there was still such a uniformly powerful effusion of the simplest political sentiments, the most natural domestic instincts and the primitive manly delight in strife in this very people after it had been shaken to its foundations for several generations by the most violent convulsions of the Dionysian demon? If at every considerable spreading of the Dionysian commotion one always perceives that the Dionysian loosing from the shackles of the individual makes itself felt first of all in an increased encroachment on the political instincts, to the extent of indifference, yea even hostility, it is certain, on the other hand, that the state-forming Apollo is also the genius of the principium individuationis, and that the state and domestic sentiment cannot live without an assertion of individual personality. There is only one way from orgasm for a people,—the way to Indian Buddhism, which, in order to be at all endured with its longing for nothingness, requires the rare ecstatic states with their elevation above space, time, and the individual; just as these in turn demand a philosophy which teaches how to overcome the indescribable depression of the intermediate states by means of a fancy. With the same necessity, owing to the unconditional dominance of political impulses, a people drifts into a path of extremest secularisation, the most magnificent, but also the most terrible expression of which is the Roman imperium.

Leaving these exhortations behind, I return to the mood suited to a contemplative person. I repeat that only the Greeks can teach us what tragedy's sudden and miraculous awakening means for the very foundations of a people's life. The people of the tragic mysteries fought the battles against the Persians. And the people who fought those wars needed tragedy as a healing potion. For generations, this people had been shaken to its foundations by the most violent convulsions of the Dionysian demon. Yet who would have imagined that they could still express such uniformly powerful political feelings, natural domestic instincts, and primitive manly delight in conflict? Whenever Dionysian turmoil spreads significantly, we see the Dionysian release from the bonds of individuality make itself felt first in the weakening of political instincts. It weakens them to the point of indifference or even hostility toward politics. On the other hand, Apollo, the creator of states, is also the spirit of the principium individuationis. And neither the state nor domestic feeling can survive without an assertion of individual personality. For a people, there is only one path out of this frenzy: the path to Indian Buddhism. With its longing for nothingness, Indian Buddhism can be endured only through rare states of ecstasy that lift people above space, time, and individuality. These states, in turn, require a philosophy that teaches people to overcome the indescribable depression between them through an imaginative illusion. Just as inevitably, when political impulses rule without restraint, a people drifts toward extreme secularization. The Roman imperium is its most magnificent, but also its most terrible, expression.

Placed between India and Rome, and constrained to a seductive choice, the Greeks succeeded in devising in classical purity still a third form of life, not indeed for long private use, but just on that account for immortality. For it holds true in all things that those whom the gods love die young, but, on the other hand, it holds equally true that they then live eternally with the gods. One must not demand of what is most noble that it should possess the durable toughness of leather; the staunch durability, which, for instance, was inherent in the national character of the Romans, does not probably belong to the indispensable predicates of perfection. But if we ask by what physic it was possible for the Greeks, in their best period, notwithstanding the extraordinary strength of their Dionysian and political impulses, neither to exhaust themselves by ecstatic brooding, nor by a consuming scramble for empire and worldly honour, but to attain the splendid mixture which we find in a noble, inflaming, and contemplatively disposing wine, we must remember the enormous power of tragedy, exciting, purifying, and disburdening the entire life of a people; the highest value of which we shall divine only when, as in the case of the Greeks, it appears to us as the essence of all the prophylactic healing forces, as the mediator arbitrating between the strongest and most inherently fateful characteristics of a people.

Placed between India and Rome and tempted to choose between them, the Greeks managed to create a third way of life of classical purity. They did not enjoy it for long, but for that very reason it became immortal. For it is true in all things that those whom the gods love die young. But it is equally true that they then live forever with the gods. We must not demand that what is most noble have the lasting toughness of leather. Such steadfast endurance was part of the national character of the Romans, for example. But it probably does not belong among the essential qualities of perfection. But what remedy allowed the Greeks, at their best, to achieve their splendid balance? Their Dionysian and political impulses were extraordinarily strong. Yet they did not exhaust themselves in ecstatic brooding or a consuming scramble for empire and worldly honor. Instead, they achieved a balance like that of a noble wine that stirs the spirit and invites contemplation. To understand how, we must remember the enormous power of tragedy. It stirred, purified, and relieved the whole life of a people. We will grasp its highest value only when we see it as we do among the Greeks. There, it appears as the essence of all the forces that protect and heal, mediating between a people's strongest and most inherently fateful characteristics.

Tragedy absorbs the highest musical orgasm into itself, so that it absolutely brings music to perfection among the Greeks, as among ourselves; but it then places alongside thereof tragic myth and the tragic hero, who, like a mighty Titan, takes the entire Dionysian world on his shoulders and disburdens us thereof; while, on the other hand, it is able by means of this same tragic myth, in the person of the tragic hero, to deliver us from the intense longing for this existence, and reminds us with warning hand of another existence and a higher joy, for which the struggling hero prepares himself presentiently by his destruction, not by his victories. Tragedy sets a sublime symbol, namely the myth between the universal authority of its music and the receptive Dionysian hearer, and produces in him the illusion that music is only the most effective means for the animation of the plastic world of myth. Relying upon this noble illusion, she can now move her limbs for the dithyrambic dance, and abandon herself unhesitatingly to an orgiastic feeling of freedom, in which she could not venture to indulge as music itself, without this illusion. The myth protects us from the music, while, on the other hand, it alone gives the highest freedom thereto. By way of return for this service, music imparts to tragic myth such an impressive and convincing metaphysical significance as could never be attained by word and image, without this unique aid; and the tragic spectator in particular experiences thereby the sure presentiment of supreme joy to which the path through destruction and negation leads; so that he thinks he hears, as it were, the innermost abyss of things speaking audibly to him.

Tragedy absorbs the highest musical ecstasy, bringing music to perfection among the Greeks, as it does among us. But tragedy also places the tragic myth and the tragic hero beside music. Like a mighty Titan, the hero takes the entire Dionysian world on his shoulders, relieving us of its burden. At the same time, through the tragic hero, this same myth can free us from our intense longing for this existence. It also warns us of another existence and a higher joy. The struggling hero senses this higher joy in advance and prepares for it through his destruction, not his victories. Tragedy places a sublime symbol, the myth, between the universal authority of its music and the receptive Dionysian listener. It gives the listener the illusion that music is only the most effective means of bringing the visible world of myth to life. Relying on this noble illusion, tragedy can now move its limbs in the dithyrambic dance. It can give itself over without hesitation to an ecstatic sense of freedom. Without this illusion, tragedy would not dare to indulge in that freedom as music itself. The myth protects us from music, while also giving music its highest freedom. In return, music gives tragic myth an impressive and convincing metaphysical significance. Words and images could never achieve this significance without music’s unique help. The tragic spectator, in particular, experiences a sure foretaste of supreme joy, reached by the path through destruction and negation. Thus the spectator feels as though the innermost abyss of things were speaking audibly to him.

If in these last propositions I have succeeded in giving perhaps only a preliminary expression, intelligible to few at first, to this difficult representation, I must not here desist from stimulating my friends to a further attempt, or cease from beseeching them to prepare themselves, by a detached example of our common experience, for the perception of the universal proposition. In this example I must not appeal to those who make use of the pictures of the scenic processes, the words and the emotions of the performers, in order to approximate thereby to musical perception; for none of these speak music as their mother-tongue, and, in spite of the aids in question, do not get farther than the precincts of musical perception, without ever being allowed to touch its innermost shrines; some of them, like Gervinus, do not even reach the precincts by this path. I have only to address myself to those who, being immediately allied to music, have it as it were for their mother's lap, and are connected with things almost exclusively by unconscious musical relations. I ask the question of these genuine musicians: whether they can imagine a man capable of hearing the third act of Tristan und Isolde without any aid of word or scenery, purely as a vast symphonic period, without expiring by a spasmodic distention of all the wings of the soul? A man who has thus, so to speak, put his ear to the heart-chamber of the cosmic will, who feels the furious desire for existence issuing therefrom as a thundering stream or most gently dispersed brook, into all the veins of the world, would he not collapse all at once? Could he endure, in the wretched fragile tenement of the human individual, to hear the re-echo of countless cries of joy and sorrow from the "vast void of cosmic night," without flying irresistibly towards his primitive home at the sound of this pastoral dance-song of metaphysics? But if, nevertheless, such a work can be heard as a whole, without a renunciation of individual existence, if such a creation could be created without demolishing its creator—where are we to get the solution of this contradiction?

Perhaps my last propositions have given only a preliminary expression to this difficult idea, one that few will understand at first. Even so, I must continue to encourage my friends to make a further attempt. I must ask them to prepare themselves to grasp the universal proposition by considering one example from our common experience. For this example, I cannot appeal to those who rely on what they see on stage and on the performers’ words and emotions to approach an understanding of music. None of them speaks music as a mother tongue. Despite these aids, they get no farther than the outer precincts of musical understanding, never reaching its innermost shrines. Some, like Gervinus, do not even reach the precincts by this path. I must address only those who have an immediate bond with music, for whom it is, as it were, a mother’s lap. They are connected to things almost exclusively through unconscious musical relations. I ask these genuine musicians a question. Can they imagine someone hearing the third act of Tristan und Isolde purely as a vast symphonic passage, without the help of words or scenery? Could anyone hear it without dying as every wing of the soul expands in a spasm? Such a person would have put an ear, so to speak, to the heart chamber of the cosmic will. They would feel its furious desire for existence flowing into all the veins of the world. It would flow sometimes as a thundering stream, sometimes as the gentlest brook. Would such a person not collapse at once? Could anyone, in the wretched, fragile dwelling of the human individual, endure hearing countless cries of joy and sorrow echoing from the "vast void of cosmic night"? Would they not be drawn irresistibly toward their original home by this pastoral dance song of metaphysics? But suppose such a work can be heard in its entirety without giving up individual existence. Suppose such a creation could be created without destroying its creator. How are we to resolve this contradiction?

Here there interpose between our highest musical excitement and the music in question the tragic myth and the tragic hero—in reality only as symbols of the most universal facts, of which music alone can speak directly. If, however, we felt as purely Dionysian beings, myth as a symbol would stand by us absolutely ineffective and unnoticed, and would never for a moment prevent us from giving ear to the re-echo of the universalia ante rem. Here, however, the Apollonian power, with a view to the restoration of the well-nigh shattered individual, bursts forth with the healing balm of a blissful illusion: all of a sudden we imagine we see only Tristan, motionless, with hushed voice saying to himself: "the old tune, why does it wake me?" And what formerly interested us like a hollow sigh from the heart of being, seems now only to tell us how "waste and void is the sea." And when, breathless, we thought to expire by a convulsive distention of all our feelings, and only a slender tie bound us to our present existence, we now hear and see only the hero wounded to death and still not dying, with his despairing cry: "Longing! Longing! In dying still longing! for longing not dying!" And if formerly, after such a surplus and superabundance of consuming agonies, the jubilation of the born rent our hearts almost like the very acme of agony, the rejoicing Kurwenal now stands between us and the "jubilation as such," with face turned toward the ship which carries Isolde. However powerfully fellow-suffering encroaches upon us, it nevertheless delivers us in a manner from the primordial suffering of the world, just as the symbol-image of the myth delivers us from the immediate perception of the highest cosmic idea, just as the thought and word deliver us from the unchecked effusion of the unconscious will. The glorious Apollonian illusion makes it appear as if the very realm of tones presented itself to us as a plastic cosmos, as if even the fate of Tristan and Isolde had been merely formed and moulded therein as out of some most delicate and impressible material.

Here, the tragic myth and the tragic hero come between our highest musical excitement and the music itself. In reality, they are only symbols of the most universal facts, which music alone can express directly. But if we felt as purely Dionysian beings, myth as a symbol would have no effect on us. We would not even notice it. It would never for a moment stop us from listening to the echo of the universalia ante rem. Here, however, the Apollonian power bursts forth with the healing balm of a blissful illusion. It seeks to restore the individual, who has been almost shattered. Suddenly, we imagine that we see only Tristan, lying motionless and saying quietly to himself: "the old tune, why does it wake me?" What once held our attention like a hollow sigh from the heart of being now seems to tell us only how "waste and void is the sea." Earlier, our feelings had swelled so violently that we thought we would die, breathless and bound to our present existence by only a slender thread. Now we hear and see only the hero, mortally wounded but not yet dying. He cries in despair: "Longing! Longing! In dying still longing! for longing not dying!" Earlier, after such an excess and abundance of consuming agony, the jubilation of the horn pierced our hearts almost like agony at its peak. Now, however, the rejoicing Kurwenal stands between us and "jubilation as such," his face turned toward the ship carrying Isolde. However powerfully we feel another's suffering, it still frees us in some way from the world's primal suffering. In the same way, the symbolic image of myth frees us from directly perceiving the highest cosmic idea. Thought and words likewise free us from the unchecked outpouring of the unconscious will. The glorious Apollonian illusion makes it seem as if the very realm of tones appeared before us as a world of visible forms. It seems as if even Tristan and Isolde's fate had been shaped within that realm, as if from a most delicate and pliable material.

Thus does the Apollonian wrest us from Dionysian universality and fill us with rapture for individuals; to these it rivets our sympathetic emotion, through these it satisfies the sense of beauty which longs for great and sublime forms; it brings before us biographical portraits, and incites us to a thoughtful apprehension of the essence of life contained therein. With the immense potency of the image, the concept, the ethical teaching and the sympathetic emotion—the Apollonian influence uplifts man from his orgiastic self-annihilation, and beguiles him concerning the universality of the Dionysian process into the belief that he is seeing a detached picture of the world, for instance, Tristan and Isolde, and that, through music, he will be enabled to see it still more clearly and intrinsically. What can the healing magic of Apollo not accomplish when it can even excite in us the illusion that the Dionysian is actually in the service of the Apollonian, the effects of which it is capable of enhancing; yea, that music is essentially the representative art for an Apollonian substance?

Thus the Apollonian pulls us away from Dionysian universality and fills us with rapture for individuals. It fixes our sympathy on them. Through them, it satisfies our sense of beauty, which longs for great and sublime forms. It presents portraits of individual lives and prompts us to reflect on the essence of life they contain. Through the immense power of images, concepts, moral teaching, and sympathy, the Apollonian influence lifts us from our ecstatic self-annihilation. It also distracts us from the universality of the Dionysian process. It leads us to believe that we are seeing a detached picture of the world, such as Tristan and Isolde. And it leads us to believe that through music we can see that picture more clearly and deeply. What can Apollo’s healing magic not accomplish? It can even make us believe that the Dionysian serves the Apollonian and can heighten its effects. It can make us believe, indeed, that music is essentially the art that represents an Apollonian substance.

With the pre-established harmony which obtains between perfect drama and its music, the drama attains the highest degree of conspicuousness, such as is usually unattainable in mere spoken drama. As all the animated figures of the scene in the independently evolved lines of melody simplify themselves before us to the distinctness of the catenary curve, the coexistence of these lines is also audible in the harmonic change which sympathises in a most delicate manner with the evolved process: through which change the relations of things become immediately perceptible to us in a sensible and not at all abstract manner, as we likewise perceive thereby that it is only in these relations that the essence of a character and of a line of melody manifests itself clearly. And while music thus compels us to see more extensively and more intrinsically than usual, and makes us spread out the curtain of the scene before ourselves like some delicate texture, the world of the stage is as infinitely expanded for our spiritualised, introspective eye as it is illumined outwardly from within. How can the word-poet furnish anything analogous, who strives to attain this internal expansion and illumination of the visible stage-world by a much more imperfect mechanism and an indirect path, proceeding as he does from word and concept? Albeit musical tragedy likewise avails itself of the word, it is at the same time able to place alongside thereof its basis and source, and can make the unfolding of the word, from within outwards, obvious to us.

The harmony already established between perfect drama and its music gives the drama a clarity that spoken drama alone usually cannot achieve. The independent lines of melody simplify all the living figures onstage, making them as distinct as a catenary curve. We can also hear these lines together in the changes in harmony, which respond most delicately to the unfolding action. These changes let us grasp the relations between things immediately, through our senses rather than through abstract thought. They also show us that the essence of a character or a line of melody becomes clear only through these relations. Music thus compels us to see more broadly and more deeply than usual. It makes us spread out the curtain of the scene before us like a delicate fabric. For our inward-looking, spiritual eye, the world onstage expands infinitely, even as it is illuminated outwardly from within. How can a poet who works with words offer anything comparable? Such a poet seeks the same inner expansion and illumination of the visible stage world. But the poet follows an indirect path, starting with words and concepts and relying on a much less perfect mechanism. Although musical tragedy also uses words, it can set their foundation and source alongside them. It can make the unfolding of words from within outward clear to us.

Of the process just set forth, however, it could still be said as decidedly that it is only a glorious appearance, namely the afore-mentioned Apollonian illusion, through the influence of which we are to be delivered from the Dionysian obtrusion and excess. In point of fact, the relation of music to drama is precisely the reverse; music is the adequate idea of the world, drama is but the reflex of this idea, a detached umbrage thereof. The identity between the line of melody and the lining form, between the harmony and the character-relations of this form, is true in a sense antithetical to what one would suppose on the contemplation of musical tragedy. We may agitate and enliven the form in the most conspicuous manner, and enlighten it from within, but it still continues merely phenomenon, from which there is no bridge to lead us into the true reality, into the heart of the world. Music, however, speaks out of this heart; and though countless phenomena of the kind might be passing manifestations of this music, they could never exhaust its essence, but would always be merely its externalised copies. Of course, as regards the intricate relation of music and drama, nothing can be explained, while all may be confused by the popular and thoroughly false antithesis of soul and body; but the unphilosophical crudeness of this antithesis seems to have become—who knows for what reasons—a readily accepted Article of Faith with our æstheticians, while they have learned nothing concerning an antithesis of phenomenon and thing-in-itself, or perhaps, for reasons equally unknown, have not cared to learn anything thereof.

Yet it could still be said just as firmly that the process described above is only a glorious appearance. It is the Apollonian illusion mentioned earlier, which is supposed to deliver us from Dionysian intrusion and excess. In fact, the relation between music and drama is exactly the reverse. Music is the adequate idea of the world. Drama is only a reflection of that idea, a detached shadow of it. The melodic line corresponds to the form it underlies, and harmony corresponds to that form’s relations between characters. But these correspondences are the reverse of what one might suppose when contemplating musical tragedy. We may make the form move and come alive as vividly as possible and illuminate it from within. But it remains a mere phenomenon. No bridge leads from it to true reality, to the heart of the world. Music, however, speaks from that heart. Countless phenomena of this kind might be passing manifestations of music, but they could never exhaust its essence. They would always be only outward copies of it. The popular and utterly false opposition between soul and body explains nothing about the complex relation between music and drama. It only confuses everything. Yet the unphilosophical crudity of this opposition seems to have become an easily accepted article of faith among our aestheticians. Who knows why? They have learned nothing about the opposition between phenomenon and thing-in-itself. Or perhaps, for reasons equally unknown, they have not cared to learn anything about it.

Should it have been established by our analysis that the Apollonian element in tragedy has by means of its illusion gained a complete victory over the Dionysian primordial element of music, and has made music itself subservient to its end, namely, the highest and clearest elucidation of the drama, it would certainly be necessary to add the very important restriction: that at the most essential point this Apollonian illusion is dissolved and annihilated. The drama, which, by the aid of music, spreads out before us with such inwardly illumined distinctness in all its movements and figures, that we imagine we see the texture unfolding on the loom as the shuttle flies to and fro,—attains as a whole an effect which transcends all Apollonian artistic effects. In the collective effect of tragedy, the Dionysian gets the upper hand once more; tragedy ends with a sound which could never emanate from the realm of Apollonian art. And the Apollonian illusion is thereby found to be what it is,—the assiduous veiling during the performance of tragedy of the intrinsically Dionysian effect: which, however, is so powerful, that it finally forces the Apollonian drama itself into a sphere where it begins to talk with Dionysian wisdom, and even denies itself and its Apollonian conspicuousness. Thus then the intricate relation of the Apollonian and the Dionysian in tragedy must really be symbolised by a fraternal union of the two deities: Dionysus speaks the language of Apollo; Apollo, however, finally speaks the language of Dionysus; and so the highest goal of tragedy and of art in general is attained.

If our analysis has established that the Apollonian element in tragedy has won a complete victory over the primordial Dionysian element of music through illusion, an important qualification is needed. This would mean that the Apollonian has made music serve its own purpose: to reveal the drama as fully and clearly as possible. But the Apollonian illusion dissolves and disappears at the most essential point. With music’s help, the drama unfolds before us, its movements and figures lit from within and made so clear that we imagine we can see the fabric being woven as the shuttle flies back and forth. Yet the drama as a whole achieves an effect that transcends all Apollonian artistic effects. In the overall effect of tragedy, the Dionysian gains the upper hand once more. Tragedy ends with a sound that could never come from the realm of Apollonian art. The Apollonian illusion is thus revealed for what it is: a sustained veil over the inherently Dionysian effect during the performance of tragedy. But this Dionysian effect is so powerful that it finally forces the Apollonian drama itself into a realm where it begins to speak with Dionysian wisdom. The drama even denies itself and its own Apollonian vividness. The intricate relationship between the Apollonian and the Dionysian in tragedy must therefore be symbolized as a brotherly union of the two deities. Dionysus speaks the language of Apollo. Apollo, however, finally speaks the language of Dionysus. And so the highest goal of tragedy and of art in general is achieved.