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We shall now have to avail ourselves of all the principles of art hitherto considered, in order to find our way through the labyrinth, as we must designate the origin of Greek tragedy. I shall not be charged with absurdity in saying that the problem of this origin has as yet not even been seriously stated, not to say solved, however often the fluttering tatters of ancient tradition have been sewed together in sundry combinations and torn asunder again. This tradition tells us in the most unequivocal terms, that tragedy sprang from the tragic chorus, and was originally only chorus and nothing but chorus: and hence we feel it our duty to look into the heart of this tragic chorus as being the real proto-drama, without in the least contenting ourselves with current art-phraseology—according to which the chorus is the ideal spectator, or represents the people in contrast to the regal side of the scene. The latter explanatory notion, which sounds sublime to many a politician—that the immutable moral law was embodied by the democratic Athenians in the popular chorus, which always carries its point over the passionate excesses and extravagances of kings—may be ever so forcibly suggested by an observation of Aristotle: still it has no bearing on the original formation of tragedy, inasmuch as the entire antithesis of king and people, and, in general, the whole politico-social sphere, is excluded from the purely religious beginnings of tragedy; but, considering the well-known classical form of the chorus in Æschylus and Sophocles, we should even deem it blasphemy to speak here of the anticipation of a "constitutional representation of the people," from which blasphemy others have not shrunk, however. The ancient governments knew of no constitutional representation of the people in praxi, and it is to be hoped that they did not even so much as "anticipate" it in tragedy.

We must now use all the principles of art considered so far to find our way through the labyrinth of the origin of Greek tragedy. I do not think I can be accused of absurdity when I say that the problem has not even been seriously stated, let alone solved. Yet the fluttering tatters of ancient tradition have often been sewn together in various combinations and torn apart again. This tradition tells us unmistakably that tragedy sprang from the tragic chorus, and that it was originally chorus and nothing but chorus. We must therefore look into the heart of the tragic chorus as the true original drama. We cannot be content with the usual language of art criticism. According to that language, the chorus is the ideal spectator, or represents the people as opposed to the royal figures on stage. The latter explanation sounds profound to many a politician. It holds that the democratic Athenians embodied the unchanging moral law in the popular chorus. The chorus, on this view, always prevails over the passionate excesses and extravagances of kings. However strongly an observation by Aristotle may suggest this explanation, it has no bearing on the original formation of tragedy. The entire contrast between king and people, indeed the whole political and social sphere, is absent from tragedy’s purely religious beginnings. Moreover, when we consider the familiar classical form of the chorus in Æschylus and Sophocles, we should regard it as blasphemy to speak of an anticipation of a "constitutional representation of the people" here. Others, however, have not shrunk from this blasphemy. Ancient governments knew nothing of constitutional representation of the people in practice, and one hopes they did not even "anticipate" it in tragedy.

Much more celebrated than this political explanation of the chorus is the notion of A. W. Schlegel, who advises us to regard the chorus, in a manner, as the essence and extract of the crowd of spectators,—as the "ideal spectator." This view when compared with the historical tradition that tragedy was originally only chorus, reveals itself in its true character, as a crude, unscientific, yet brilliant assertion, which, however, has acquired its brilliancy only through its concentrated form of expression, through the truly Germanic bias in favour of whatever is called "ideal," and through our momentary astonishment. For we are indeed astonished the moment we compare our well-known theatrical public with this chorus, and ask ourselves if it could ever be possible to idealise something analogous to the Greek chorus out of such a public. We tacitly deny this, and now wonder as much at the boldness of Schlegel's assertion as at the totally different nature of the Greek public. For hitherto we always believed that the true spectator, be he who he may, had always to remain conscious of having before him a work of art, and not an empiric reality: whereas the tragic chorus of the Greeks is compelled to recognise real beings in the figures of the stage. The chorus of the Oceanides really believes that it sees before it the Titan Prometheus, and considers itself as real as the god of the scene. And are we to own that he is the highest and purest type of spectator, who, like the Oceanides, regards Prometheus as real and present in body? And is it characteristic of the ideal spectator that he should run on the stage and free the god from his torments? We had believed in an æsthetic public, and considered the individual spectator the better qualified the more he was capable of viewing a work of art as art, that is, æsthetically; but now the Schlegelian expression has intimated to us, that the perfect ideal spectator does not at all suffer the world of the scenes to act æsthetically on him, but corporeo-empirically. Oh, these Greeks! we have sighed; they will upset our æsthetics! But once accustomed to it, we have reiterated the saying of Schlegel, as often as the subject of the chorus has been broached.

Much more celebrated than this political explanation of the chorus is A. W. Schlegel's idea. He advises us to see the chorus as, in a sense, the essence and distillation of the audience, the "ideal spectator." But historical tradition tells us that tragedy originally consisted only of a chorus. Compared with this tradition, Schlegel's view reveals its true character: a crude, unscientific, but brilliant assertion. Its brilliance, however, comes only from its concise wording, the truly Germanic bias in favor of anything called "ideal," and our momentary astonishment. We are indeed astonished when we compare the familiar theater audience of our own day with this chorus. Could an idealized version of such an audience ever produce anything like the Greek chorus? We silently answer no. Then we marvel both at the boldness of Schlegel's assertion and at how completely different the Greek audience must have been. Until now, we always believed that a true spectator, whoever they might be, had to remain aware of watching a work of art, not an actual event. Yet the Greek tragic chorus is compelled to recognize the figures on stage as real beings. The chorus of the Oceanides truly believes it sees the Titan Prometheus before it. The Oceanides consider themselves as real as the god on stage. Are we then to admit that the highest and purest kind of spectator is one who, like the Oceanides, sees Prometheus as physically present and real? And is it characteristic of the ideal spectator to run onto the stage and free the god from his torments? We had believed in an audience that viewed art as art. We considered each spectator better qualified the more capable they were of viewing a work of art as art, that is, aesthetically. But now Schlegel's phrase has suggested that the perfect ideal spectator does not experience the world on stage aesthetically at all. Instead, the ideal spectator experiences it as a physical, actual reality. Oh, these Greeks! we have sighed. They will overturn our aesthetics! But once we grew accustomed to Schlegel's saying, we repeated it whenever the subject of the chorus came up.

But the tradition which is so explicit here speaks against Schlegel: the chorus as such, without the stage,—the primitive form of tragedy,—and the chorus of ideal spectators do not harmonise. What kind of art would that be which was extracted from the concept of the spectator, and whereof we are to regard the "spectator as such" as the true form? The spectator without the play is something absurd. We fear that the birth of tragedy can be explained neither by the high esteem for the moral intelligence of the multitude nor by the concept of the spectator without the play; and we regard the problem as too deep to be even so much as touched by such superficial modes of contemplation.

But the tradition is quite clear here, and it speaks against Schlegel. The chorus by itself, without a stage, was the original form of tragedy. This does not fit with the idea of a chorus of ideal spectators. What kind of art would be based on the idea of the spectator, with the "spectator as such" as its true form? A spectator without a play is absurd. We fear that the birth of tragedy cannot be explained by a high regard for the moral intelligence of the crowd. Nor can it be explained by the idea of a spectator without a play. We consider the problem too deep for such superficial ways of thinking even to begin to address it.

An infinitely more valuable insight into the signification of the chorus had already been displayed by Schiller in the celebrated Preface to his Bride of Messina, where he regarded the chorus as a living wall which tragedy draws round herself to guard her from contact with the world of reality, and to preserve her ideal domain and poetical freedom.

Schiller had already offered an infinitely more valuable insight into the meaning of the chorus. In the celebrated preface to his Bride of Messina, he described the chorus as a living wall. Tragedy draws this wall around itself to keep reality out and preserve its ideal realm and poetic freedom.

It is with this, his chief weapon, that Schiller combats the ordinary conception of the natural, the illusion ordinarily required in dramatic poetry. He contends that while indeed the day on the stage is merely artificial, the architecture only symbolical, and the metrical dialogue purely ideal in character, nevertheless an erroneous view still prevails in the main: that it is not enough to tolerate merely as a poetical license that which is in reality the essence of all poetry. The introduction of the chorus is, he says, the decisive step by which war is declared openly and honestly against all naturalism in art.—It is, methinks, for disparaging this mode of contemplation that our would-be superior age has coined the disdainful catchword "pseudo-idealism." I fear, however, that we on the other hand with our present worship of the natural and the real have landed at the nadir of all idealism, namely in the region of cabinets of wax-figures. An art indeed exists also here, as in certain novels much in vogue at present: but let no one pester us with the claim that by this art the Schiller-Goethian "Pseudo-idealism" has been vanquished.

With this, his chief weapon, Schiller fights the usual idea of what is natural, the illusion usually expected in dramatic poetry. He argues that an mistaken view still prevails, even though daylight on stage is artificial, the architecture merely symbolic, and the metrical dialogue purely ideal. It is not enough to tolerate what is really the essence of all poetry as a mere poetic license. He says that introducing the chorus is the decisive step. It declares open and honest war against all naturalism in art. I think our supposedly superior age coined the scornful catchword "pseudo-idealism" to disparage this way of thinking. But I fear that our present worship of nature and reality has brought us to the lowest point of all idealism: the realm of wax museums. Art exists there too, as it does in certain novels now very much in fashion. But let no one bother us with the claim that this art has defeated the Schiller-Goethian "Pseudo-idealism."

It is indeed an "ideal" domain, as Schiller rightly perceived, upon—which the Greek satyric chorus, the chorus of primitive tragedy, was wont to walk, a domain raised far above the actual path of mortals. The Greek framed for this chorus the suspended scaffolding of a fictitious natural state and placed thereon fictitious natural beings. It is on this foundation that tragedy grew up, and so it could of course dispense from the very first with a painful portrayal of reality. Yet it is, not an arbitrary world placed by fancy betwixt heaven and earth; rather is it a world possessing the same reality and trustworthiness that Olympus with its dwellers possessed for the believing Hellene. The satyr, as being the Dionysian chorist, lives in a religiously acknowledged reality under the sanction of the myth and cult. That tragedy begins with him, that the Dionysian wisdom of tragedy speaks through him, is just as surprising a phenomenon to us as, in general, the derivation of tragedy from the chorus. Perhaps we shall get a starting-point for our inquiry, if I put forward the proposition that the satyr, the fictitious natural being, is to the man of culture what Dionysian music is to civilisation. Concerning this latter, Richard Wagner says that it is neutralised by music even as lamplight by daylight. In like manner, I believe, the Greek man of culture felt himself neutralised in the presence of the satyric chorus: and this is the most immediate effect of the Dionysian tragedy, that the state and society, and, in general, the gaps between man and man give way to an overwhelming feeling of oneness, which leads back to the heart of nature. The metaphysical comfort,—with which, as I have here intimated, every true tragedy dismisses us—that, in spite of the perpetual change of phenomena, life at bottom is indestructibly powerful and pleasurable, this comfort appears with corporeal lucidity as the satyric chorus, as the chorus of natural beings, who live ineradicable as it were behind all civilisation, and who, in spite of the ceaseless change of generations and the history of nations, remain for ever the same.

As Schiller rightly saw, the Greek satyric chorus, the chorus of primitive tragedy, walked in an "ideal" realm. This realm stood far above the actual paths of mortals. The Greeks built a suspended scaffolding of a fictional natural state for this chorus. They placed fictional natural beings on it. Tragedy grew from this foundation, so it could dispense with a painful portrayal of reality from the start. Yet this was not an arbitrary world that imagination placed between heaven and earth. It had the same reality and trustworthiness for the believing Hellene as Olympus and its inhabitants. The satyr, as a Dionysian chorus member, lives in a religiously recognized reality, sanctioned by myth and cult. Tragedy begins with him, and its Dionysian wisdom speaks through him. This surprises us just as much as the origin of tragedy in the chorus generally does. Perhaps we can find a starting point for our inquiry in this proposition. The satyr, the fictional natural being, is to the man of culture what Dionysian music is to civilization. Richard Wagner says that music neutralizes civilization just as daylight neutralizes lamplight. In the same way, I believe, the Greek man of culture felt himself neutralized before the satyric chorus. This is the most immediate effect of Dionysian tragedy. The state, society, and the divisions between people generally give way to an overwhelming feeling of oneness. This feeling leads back to the heart of nature. As I have suggested here, every true tragedy leaves us with metaphysical comfort. This comfort is the knowledge that, despite the constant change of appearances, life is fundamentally indestructible, powerful, and pleasurable. The satyric chorus gives this comfort a clear bodily form. It is a chorus of natural beings who live, as if indestructible, behind all civilization. Despite the endless change of generations and the history of nations, they remain forever the same.

With this chorus the deep-minded Hellene, who is so singularly qualified for the most delicate and severe suffering, consoles himself:—he who has glanced with piercing eye into the very heart of the terrible destructive processes of so-called universal history, as also into the cruelty of nature, and is in danger of longing for a Buddhistic negation of the will. Art saves him, and through art life saves him—for herself.

With this chorus, the deeply thoughtful Hellene consoles himself. He is uniquely capable of the most delicate and severe suffering. He has looked piercingly into the heart of the terrible destructive processes of so-called universal history and into nature’s cruelty. He is in danger of longing for a Buddhist negation of the will. Art saves him, and through art, life saves him for herself.

For we must know that in the rapture of the Dionysian state, with its annihilation of the ordinary bounds and limits of existence, there is a lethargic element, wherein all personal experiences of the past are submerged. It is by this gulf of oblivion that the everyday world and the world of Dionysian reality are separated from each other. But as soon as this everyday reality rises again in consciousness, it is felt as such, and nauseates us; an ascetic will-paralysing mood is the fruit of these states. In this sense the Dionysian man may be said to resemble Hamlet: both have for once seen into the true nature of things, —they have perceived, but they are loath to act; for their action cannot change the eternal nature of things; they regard it as shameful or ridiculous that one should require of them to set aright the time which is out of joint. Knowledge kills action, action requires the veil of illusion—it is this lesson which Hamlet teaches, and not the cheap wisdom of John-a-Dreams who from too much reflection, as it were from a surplus of possibilities, does not arrive at action at all. Not reflection, no!—true knowledge, insight into appalling truth, preponderates over all motives inciting to action, in Hamlet as well as in the Dionysian man. No comfort avails any longer; his longing goes beyond a world after death, beyond the gods themselves; existence with its glittering reflection in the gods, or in an immortal other world is abjured. In the consciousness of the truth he has perceived, man now sees everywhere only the awfulness or the absurdity of existence, he now understands the symbolism in the fate of Ophelia, he now discerns the wisdom of the sylvan god Silenus: and loathing seizes him.

We must understand that the rapture of the Dionysian state destroys the ordinary boundaries and limits of existence. It also has a lethargic element, in which all personal experiences of the past are submerged. This gulf of forgetting separates the everyday world from the world of Dionysian reality. But as soon as everyday reality returns to consciousness, we recognize it for what it is, and it nauseates us. These states produce a mood of self-denial that paralyzes the will. In this sense, the Dionysian man may be said to resemble Hamlet. Both have seen into the true nature of things. They have perceived, but they are unwilling to act. For their actions cannot change the eternal nature of things. They think it shameful or ridiculous to expect them to set right a world that is out of joint. Knowledge kills action. Action requires the veil of illusion. This is the lesson Hamlet teaches. It is not the cheap wisdom of John-a-Dreams, who never acts because he thinks too much, as if overwhelmed by possibilities. It is not reflection, no! True knowledge, insight into an appalling truth, outweighs every motive for action in Hamlet and in the Dionysian man alike. No comfort helps him any longer. His longing reaches beyond a world after death, beyond the gods themselves. He rejects existence, along with its glittering reflection in the gods or in an immortal world beyond this one. Aware of the truth he has perceived, man now sees only the horror or absurdity of existence everywhere. He now understands the symbolism in Ophelia’s fate. He now grasps the wisdom of Silenus, the god of the woods. And loathing seizes him.

Here, in this extremest danger of the will, art approaches, as a saving and healing enchantress; she alone is able to transform these nauseating reflections on the awfulness or absurdity of existence into representations wherewith it is possible to live: these are the representations of the sublime as the artistic subjugation of the awful, and the comic as the artistic delivery from the nausea of the absurd. The satyric chorus of dithyramb is the saving deed of Greek art; the paroxysms described above spent their force in the intermediary world of these Dionysian followers.

Here, when the will faces its greatest danger, art approaches as a saving and healing enchantress. She alone can transform these sickening reflections on the horror or absurdity of existence into images we can live with. These are images of the sublime, which uses art to conquer horror, and the comic, which uses art to free us from the nausea of the absurd. The satyr chorus of the dithyramb is the saving deed of Greek art. The violent upheavals described above spent their force in the intermediate world of these Dionysian followers.