Introduction¹

Frederick Nietzsche was born at Röcken near Lützen, in the Prussian province of Saxony, on the 15th of October 1844, at 10 a.m. The day happened to be the anniversary of the birth of Frederick-William IV., then King of Prussia, and the peal of the local church-bells which was intended to celebrate this event, was, by a happy coincidence, just timed to greet my brother on his entrance into the world. In 1841, at the time when our father was tutor to the Altenburg Princesses, Theresa of Saxe-Altenburg, Elizabeth, Grand Duchess of Olden-burg, and Alexandra, Grand Duchess Constantine of Russia, he had had the honour of being presented to his witty and pious sovereign. The meeting seems to have impressed both parties very favourably; for, very shortly after it had taken place, our father received his living at Röcken "by supreme command." His joy may well be imagined, therefore, when a first son was born to him on his beloved and august patron's birthday, and at the christening ceremony he spoke as follows:—"Thou blessed month of October!—for many years the most decisive events in my life have occurred within thy thirty-one days, and now I celebrate the greatest and most glorious of them all by baptising my little boy! O blissful moment! O exquisite festival! O unspeakably holy duty! In the Lord's name I bless thee!—With all my heart I utter these words: Bring me this, my beloved child, that I may consecrate it unto the Lord. My son, Frederick William, thus shalt thou be named on earth, as a memento of my royal benefactor on whose birthday thou wast born!"

Frederick Nietzsche was born on October 15, 1844, at 10 a.m. in Röcken, near Lützen, in the Prussian province of Saxony. The day also happened to be the birthday of Frederick-William IV., then King of Prussia. By a happy coincidence, the local church bells rang in celebration just as my brother entered the world. In 1841, our father was tutor to the Altenburg Princesses: Theresa of Saxe-Altenburg, Elizabeth, Grand Duchess of Oldenburg, and Alexandra, Grand Duchess Constantine of Russia. During that time, he had the honor of meeting his witty and pious sovereign. The meeting seems to have impressed both men very favorably. Soon afterward, our father received his parish at Röcken "by supreme command." One can imagine his joy when his first son was born on the birthday of his beloved and august patron. At the christening, he spoke as follows: "Blessed month of October! For many years, the most decisive events in my life have taken place during your thirty-one days. Now I celebrate the greatest and most glorious of them all by baptizing my little boy! What a blissful moment! What a beautiful celebration! What an unspeakably holy duty! In the Lord's name I bless you! With all my heart I say: Bring me this, my beloved child, so that I may consecrate him to the Lord. My son, you shall be called Frederick William on earth, in memory of my royal benefactor, on whose birthday you were born!"

Our father was thirty-one years of age, and our mother not quite nineteen, when my brother was born. Our mother, who was the daughter of a clergyman, was good-looking and healthy, and was one of a very large family of sons and daughters. Our paternal grandparents, the Rev. Oehler and his wife, in Pobles, were typically healthy people. Strength, robustness, lively dispositions, and a cheerful outlook on life, were among the qualities which every one was pleased to observe in them. Our grandfather Oehler was a bright, clever man, and quite the old style of comfortable country parson, who thought it no sin to go hunting. He scarcely had a day's illness in his life, and would certainly not have met with his end as early as he did—that is to say, before his seventieth year—if his careless disregard of all caution, where his health was concerned, had not led to his catching a severe and fatal cold. In regard to our grand-mother Oehler, who died in her eighty-second year, all that can be said is, that if all German women were possessed of the health she enjoyed, the German nation would excel all others from the standpoint of vitality. She bore our grandfather eleven children; gave each of them the breast for nearly the whole of its first year, and reared them all It is said that the sight of these eleven children, at ages varying from nineteen years to one month, with their powerful build, rosy cheeks, beaming eyes, and wealth of curly locks, provoked the admiration of all visitors. Of course, despite their extraordinarily good health, the life of this family was not by any means all sunshine. Each of the children was very spirited, wilful, and obstinate, and it was therefore no simple matter to keep them in order. Moreover, though they always showed the utmost respect and most implicit obedience to their parents—even as middle-aged men and women—misunderstandings between themselves were of constant occurrence. Our Oehler grandparents were fairly well-to-do; for our grandmother hailed from a very old family, who had been extensive land-owners in the neighbourhood of Zeitz for centuries, and her father owned the baronial estate of Wehlitz and a magnificent seat near Zeitz in Pacht. When she married, her father gave her carriages and horses, a coachman, a cook, and a kitchenmaid, which for the wife of a German minister was then, and is still, something quite exceptional. As a result of the wars in the beginning of the nineteenth century, however, our great-grandfather lost the greater part of his property.

Our father was thirty-one, and our mother was not quite nineteen, when my brother was born. Our mother was the daughter of a clergyman. She was good-looking and healthy, and came from a very large family of sons and daughters. Our paternal grandparents, the Rev. Oehler and his wife, in Pobles, were characteristically healthy people. Everyone was pleased to see their strength, robustness, lively spirits, and cheerful outlook on life. Our grandfather Oehler was a bright, clever man, a comfortable country parson of the old school. He thought it no sin to go hunting. He was scarcely ill a day in his life. He died before he was seventy, but he would certainly have lived longer if he had not neglected his health. His careless disregard for his health led him to catch a severe and fatal cold. Our grandmother Oehler died in her eighty-second year. All that can be said of her is that, if all German women enjoyed her health, the German nation would surpass all others in vitality. She bore our grandfather eleven children, breastfed each for nearly the whole of its first year, and raised them all. The children ranged in age from nineteen years to one month. Their strong builds, rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and masses of curly hair are said to have impressed every visitor. Of course, despite their extraordinarily good health, life in this family was not all sunshine. Each child was very spirited, willful, and stubborn, so keeping them in order was no simple matter. Moreover, they constantly had misunderstandings with one another. Yet they always showed their parents the utmost respect and unquestioning obedience, even when they were middle-aged men and women. Our Oehler grandparents were fairly well-off. Our grandmother came from a very old family that had owned extensive lands near Zeitz for centuries. Her father owned the baronial estate of Wehlitz and a magnificent residence in Pacht near Zeitz. When she married, he gave her carriages and horses, a coachman, a cook, and a kitchen maid. That was highly unusual for a German minister's wife then, and it still is. The wars at the beginning of the nineteenth century, however, cost our great-grandfather most of his property.

Our father's family was also in fairly comfortable circumstances, and likewise very large. Our grandfather Dr. Nietzsche (D.D. and Superintendent) married twice, and had in all twelve children, of whom three died young. Our grandfather on this side, whom I never knew, must certainly have been a distinguished, dignified, very learned and reserved man; his second wife—our beloved grandmother—was an active-minded, intelligent, and exceptionally good-natured woman. The whole of our father's family, which I only got to know when they were very advanced in years, were remarkable for their great power of self-control, their lively interest in intellectual matters, and a strong sense of family unity, which manifested itself both in their splendid readiness to help one another and in their very excellent relations with each other. Our father was the youngest son, and, thanks to his uncommonly lovable disposition, together with other gifts, which only tended to become more marked as he grew older, he was quite the favourite of the family. Blessed with a thoroughly sound constitution, as all averred who knew him at the convent-school in Rossleben, at the University, or later at the ducal court of Altenburg, he was tall and slender, possessed an undoubted gift for poetry and real musical talent, and was moreover a man of delicate sensibilities, full of consideration for his whole family, and distinguished in his manners.

Our father’s family was also quite large and fairly well-off. Our grandfather Dr. Nietzsche (D.D. and Superintendent) married twice and had twelve children in all. Three of them died young. I never knew this grandfather, but he must certainly have been distinguished, dignified, very learned, and reserved. His second wife, our beloved grandmother, was active-minded, intelligent, and exceptionally kind. I came to know our father’s family only when they were very old. They were remarkable for their great self-control, their lively interest in intellectual matters, and their strong sense of family unity. This unity showed in their wonderful willingness to help one another and in their excellent relationships with each other. Our father was the youngest son and a great favorite in the family. This was thanks to his unusually lovable nature and his other gifts, which became even more pronounced as he grew older. Everyone who knew him at the convent school in Rossleben, at the University, or later at the ducal court of Altenburg said he was in thoroughly sound health. He was tall and slender, with an undeniable gift for poetry and real musical talent. He was also a man of delicate sensibilities, considerate toward his whole family, and distinguished in his manners.

My brother often refers to his Polish descent, and in later years he even instituted research-work with the view of establishing it, which met with partial success. I know nothing definite concerning these investigations, because a large number of valuable documents were unfortunately destroyed after his breakdown in Turin. The family tradition was that a certain Polish nobleman Nicki (pronounced Nietzky) had obtained the special favour of Augustus the Strong, King of Poland, and had received the rank of Earl from him. When, however, Stanislas Leszcysski the Pole became king, our supposed ancestor became involved in a conspiracy in favour of the Saxons and Protestants. He was sentenced to death; but, taking flight, according to the evidence of the documents, he was ultimately befriended by a certain Earl of Brühl, who gave him a small post in an obscure little provincial town. Occasionally our aged aunts would speak of our great-grandfather Nietzsche, who was said to have died in his ninety-first year, and words always seemed to fail them when they attempted to describe his handsome appearance, good breeding, and vigour. Our ancestors, both on the Nietzsche and the Oehler side, were very long-lived. Of the four pairs of great-grandparents, one great-grandfather reached the age of ninety, five great-grandmothers and-fathers died between eighty-two and eighty-six years of age, and two only failed to reach their seventieth year.

My brother often spoke of his Polish ancestry. In later years, he even commissioned research to establish it, with partial success. I know nothing definite about these investigations because many valuable documents were unfortunately destroyed after his breakdown in Turin. According to family tradition, a Polish nobleman named Nicki (pronounced Nietzky) had won the special favor of Augustus the Strong, King of Poland. The king had also made him an Earl. But when Stanislas Leszcysski the Pole became king, our supposed ancestor became involved in a conspiracy supporting the Saxons and Protestants. He was sentenced to death, but he fled. According to the documents, an Earl of Brühl eventually befriended him and gave him a minor post in an obscure provincial town. Our elderly aunts occasionally spoke of our great-grandfather Nietzsche, who was said to have died in his ninety-first year. They always seemed at a loss for words when describing his handsome appearance, good breeding, and vigor. Our ancestors on both the Nietzsche and the Oehler side lived very long lives. Of our four pairs of great-grandparents, one great-grandfather reached ninety. Five died between the ages of eighty-two and eighty-six, and only two failed to reach seventy.

The sorrow which hung as a cloud over our branch of the family was our father's death, as the result of a heavy fall, at the age of thirty-eight. One night, upon leaving some friends whom he had accompanied home, he was met at the door of the vicarage by our little dog. The little animal must have got between his feet, for he stumbled and fell backwards down seven stone steps on to the paving-stones of the vicarage courtyard. As a result of this fall, he was laid up with concussion of the brain, and, after a lingering illness, which lasted eleven months, he died on the 30th of July 1849. The early death of our beloved and highly-gifted father spread gloom over the whole of our childhood. In 1850 our mother withdrew with us to Naumburg on the Saale, where she took up her abode with our widowed grandmother Nietzsche; and there she brought us up with Spartan severity and simplicity, which, besides being typical of the period, was quite de rigeur in her family. Of course, Grand-mamma Nietzsche helped somewhat to temper her daughter-in-law's severity, and in this respect our Oehler grandparents, who were less rigorous with us, their eldest grandchildren, than with their own children, were also very influential. Grandfather Oehler was the first who seems to have recognised the extraordinary talents of his eldest grandchild.

The sorrow that hung like a cloud over our branch of the family was our father’s death. He died at thirty-eight as a result of a serious fall. One night, he had walked some friends home. When he returned, our little dog met him at the door of the vicarage. The little animal must have gotten between his feet. He stumbled and fell backward down seven stone steps onto the paving stones of the vicarage courtyard. The fall left him bedridden with a concussion. After a lingering illness that lasted eleven months, he died on July 30, 1849. The early death of our beloved and highly gifted father cast a shadow over our entire childhood. In 1850, our mother moved with us to Naumburg on the Saale. There she lived with our widowed grandmother Nietzsche and brought us up with Spartan severity and simplicity. This was typical of the period and was also de rigeur in her family. Grand-mamma Nietzsche, of course, helped soften her daughter-in-law’s severity somewhat. Our Oehler grandparents were also very influential in this respect. They were less strict with us, their eldest grandchildren, than with their own children. Grandfather Oehler seems to have been the first to recognize the extraordinary talents of his eldest grandchild.

From his earliest childhood upwards, my brother was always strong and healthy; he often declared that he must have been taken for a peasant-boy throughout his childhood and youth, as he was so plump, brown, and rosy. The thick fair hair which fell picturesquely over his shoulders tended somewhat to modify his robust appearance. Had he not possessed those wonderfully beautiful, large, and expressive eyes, however, and had he not been so very ceremonious in his manner, neither his teachers nor his relatives would ever have noticed anything at all remarkable about the boy; for he was both modest and reserved.

From early childhood, my brother was always strong and healthy. He often said that people must have taken him for a peasant boy throughout his childhood and youth. He was so plump, brown, and rosy. His thick, fair hair fell picturesquely over his shoulders and softened his robust appearance somewhat. But he had wonderfully beautiful, large, expressive eyes, and his manner was very formal. Without those qualities, neither his teachers nor his relatives would have noticed anything remarkable about him. He was modest and reserved.

He received his early schooling at a preparatory school, and later at a grammar school in Naumburg. In the autumn of 1858, when he was fourteen years of age, he entered the Pforta school, so famous for the scholars it has produced. There, too, very severe discipline prevailed, and much was exacted from the pupils, with the view of inuring them to great mental and physical exertions. Thus, if my brother seems to lay particular stress upon the value of rigorous training, free from all sentimentality, it should be remembered that he speaks from experience in this respect. At Pforta he followed the regular school course, and he did not enter a university until the comparatively late age of twenty. His extraordinary gifts manifested themselves chiefly in his independent and private studies and artistic efforts. As a boy his musical talent had already been so noticeable, that he himself and other competent judges were doubtful as to whether he ought not perhaps to devote himself altogether to music. It is, however, worth noting that everything he did in his later years, whether in Latin, Greek, or German work, bore the stamp of perfection—subject of course to the limitation imposed upon him by his years. His talents came very suddenly to the fore, because he had allowed them to grow for such a long time in concealment. His very first performance in philology, executed while he was a student under Ritschl, the famous philologist, was also typical of him in this respect, seeing that it was ordered to be printed for the Rheinische Museum. Of course this was done amid general and grave expressions of doubt; for, as Dr. Ritschl often declared, it was an unheard-of occurrence for a student in his third term to prepare such an excellent treatise.

He attended a preparatory school and later a grammar school in Naumburg. In the autumn of 1858, at fourteen, he entered the Pforta school, famous for the scholars it has produced. Discipline there was also very strict, and much was demanded of the pupils. The aim was to get them used to great mental and physical effort. So, if my brother seems to place special value on rigorous training without sentimentality, remember that he speaks from experience. At Pforta he followed the regular school course. He did not enter a university until the relatively late age of twenty. His extraordinary gifts showed themselves mainly in his independent private studies and artistic work. Even as a boy, his musical talent was so noticeable that he and other qualified judges wondered whether he should devote himself entirely to music. It is worth noting, however, that everything he did in later years, whether in Latin, Greek, or German, bore the mark of perfection, allowing for the limits of his age. His talents came to the fore very suddenly because he had let them develop in private for so long. His first work in philology was also typical of him in this respect. He wrote it while studying under Ritschl, the famous philologist, and it was selected for publication in the Rheinische Museum. Of course, the decision was met with widespread and serious doubt. As Dr. Ritschl often said, it was unheard of for a student in his third term to write such an excellent treatise.

Being a great lover of out-door exercise, such as swimming, skating, and walking, he developed into a very sturdy lad. Rohde gives the following description of him as a student: with his healthy complexion, his outward and inner cleanliness, his austere chastity and his solemn aspect, he was the image of that delightful youth described by Adalbert Stifter.

He loved outdoor exercise, including swimming, skating, and walking, and grew into a sturdy young man. Rohde described him as a student. With his healthy complexion, physical and inner cleanliness, strict chastity, and solemn manner, he resembled the delightful youth described by Adalbert Stifter.

Though as a child he was always rather serious, as a lad and a man he was ever inclined to see the humorous side of things, while his whole being, and everything he said or did, was permeated by an extraordinary harmony. He belonged to the very few who could control even a bad mood and conceal it from others. All his friends are unanimous in their praise of his exceptional evenness of temper and behaviour, and his warm, hearty, and pleasant laugh that seemed to come from the very depths of his benevolent and affectionate nature. In him it might therefore be said, nature had produced a being who in body and spirit was a harmonious whole: his unusual intellect was fully in keeping with his uncommon bodily strength.

Though he was always rather serious as a child, as a young man and later in life he tended to see the humorous side of things. An extraordinary harmony ran through his whole being and everything he said or did. He was one of the very few people who could control even a bad mood and hide it from others. All his friends agree in praising his exceptionally even temper and conduct. They also praise his warm, hearty, pleasant laugh, which seemed to come from the depths of his kind and affectionate nature. So it might be said that nature had made him a harmonious whole in body and spirit. His unusual intellect was fully matched by his uncommon physical strength.

The only abnormal thing about him, and something which we both inherited from our father, was short-sightedness, and this was very much aggravated in my brother's case, even in his earliest schooldays, owing to that indescribable anxiety to learn which always characterised him. When one listens to accounts given by his friends and schoolfellows, one is startled by the multiplicity of his studies even in his schooldays.

The only unusual thing about him was his nearsightedness, which we both inherited from our father. His nearsightedness was made much worse, even in his earliest schooldays, by his indescribable eagerness to learn. That eagerness was always characteristic of him. Listening to his friends and schoolmates, one is surprised by the range of his studies even in his schooldays.

In the autumn of 1864, he began his university life in Bonn, and studied philology and theology; at the end of six months he gave up theology, and in the autumn of 1865 followed his famous teacher Ritschl to the University of Leipzig. There he became an ardent philologist, and diligently sought to acquire a masterly grasp of this branch of knowledge. But in this respect it would be unfair to forget that the school of Pforta, with its staff of excellent teachers—scholars that would have adorned the chairs of any University—had already afforded the best of preparatory trainings to any one intending to take up philology as a study, more particularly as it gave all pupils ample scope to indulge any individual tastes they might have for any particular branch of ancient history. The last important Latin thesis which my brother wrote for the Landes-Schule, Pforta, dealt with the Megarian poet Theognis, and it was in the rôle of a lecturer on this very subject that, on the 18th January 1866, he made his first appearance in public before the philological society he had helped to found in Leipzig. The paper he read disclosed his investigations on the subject of Theognis the moralist and aristocrat, who, as is well known, described and dismissed the plebeians of his time in terms of the heartiest contempt The aristocratic ideal, which was always so dear to my brother, thus revealed itself for the first time. Moreover, curiously enough, it was precisely this scientific thesis which was the cause of Ritschl's recognition of my brother and fondness for him.

In the autumn of 1864, he began university at Bonn, studying philology and theology. After six months, he gave up theology. In the autumn of 1865, he followed his famous teacher Ritschl to the University of Leipzig. There he became a passionate student of philology and worked hard to master the subject. But it would be unfair to forget the excellent preparation he had already received at the school of Pforta. Its excellent teachers were scholars who would have been worthy of professorships at any university. Pforta offered the best preparation for anyone intending to study philology. In particular, it gave all pupils ample opportunity to pursue their individual interests in any branch of ancient history. The last important Latin thesis my brother wrote for the Landes-Schule, Pforta, concerned the Megarian poet Theognis. On 18 January 1866, he made his first appearance in public by lecturing on this same subject. He spoke before the philological society he had helped found in Leipzig. His paper presented his research on Theognis, the moralist and aristocrat. As is well known, Theognis described and dismissed the plebeians of his time with the deepest contempt. The aristocratic ideal, which was always so dear to my brother, thus revealed itself for the first time. Curiously enough, it was precisely this scholarly thesis that led Ritschl to recognize my brother and become fond of him.

The whole of his Leipzig days proved of the utmost importance to my brother's career. There he was plunged into the very midst of a torrent of intellectual influences which found an impressionable medium in the fiery youth, and to which he eagerly made himself accessible. He did not, however, forget to discriminate among them, but tested and criticised the currents of thought he encountered, and selected accordingly. It is certainly of great importance to ascertain what those influences precisely were to which he yielded, and how long they maintained their sway over him, and it is likewise necessary to discover exactly when the matured mind threw off these fetters in order to work out its own salvation.

My brother’s time in Leipzig was extremely important to his career. There he encountered a flood of intellectual influences. The fiery young man was receptive to them and eagerly opened himself to them. But he did not accept them all without judgment. He tested and criticized the ideas he encountered and chose among them. It is certainly very important to establish exactly which influences he accepted and how long they held sway over him. It is also necessary to discover exactly when his mature mind cast off these restraints to work out its own salvation.

The influences that exercised power over him in those days may be described in the three following terms: Hellenism, Schopenhauer, Wagner. His love of Hellenism certainly led him to philology; but, as a matter of fact, what concerned him most was to obtain a wide view of things in general, and this he hoped to derive from that science; philology in itself, with his splendid method and thorough way of going to work, served him only as a means to an end.

The influences that shaped him in those days may be described in three terms: Hellenism, Schopenhauer, Wagner. His love of Hellenism certainly led him to philology. But what mattered most to him was gaining a broad view of things in general, which he hoped philology would provide. Despite his brilliant method and thorough approach, philology itself was only a means to an end for him.

If Hellenism was the first strong influence which already in Pforta obtained a sway over my brother, in the winter of 1865-66, a completely new, and therefore somewhat subversive, influence was introduced into his life with Schopenhauer's philosophy. When he reached Leipzig in the autumn of 1865, he was very downcast; for the experiences that had befallen him during his one year of student life in Bonn had deeply depressed him. He had sought at first to adapt himself to his surroundings there, with the hope of ultimately elevating them to his lofty views on things; but both these efforts proved vain, and now he had come to Leipzig with the purpose of framing his own manner of life. It can easily be imagined how the first reading of Schopenhauer's The World as Will and Idea worked upon this man, still stinging from the bitterest experiences and disappointments. He writes: "Here I saw a mirror in which I espied the world, life, and my own nature depicted with frightful grandeur." As my brother, from his very earliest childhood, had always missed both the parent and the educator through our father's untimely death, he began to regard Schopenhauer with almost filial love and respect. He did not venerate him quite as other men did; Schopenhauer's personality was what attracted and enchanted him. From the first he was never blind to the faults in his master's system, and in proof of this we have only to refer to an essay he wrote in the autumn of 1867, which actually contains a criticism of Schopenhauer's philosophy.

Hellenism was the first strong influence on my brother, taking hold of him while he was still at Pforta. Then, in the winter of 1865-66, Schopenhauer's philosophy brought a completely new and therefore somewhat disruptive influence into his life. When he arrived in Leipzig in the autumn of 1865, he was very discouraged. His experiences during his year as a student in Bonn had deeply depressed him. At first, he had tried to adapt to his surroundings there. He hoped eventually to raise them to his own lofty view of things. But both efforts failed, and he came to Leipzig determined to shape his own way of life. It is easy to imagine how his first reading of Schopenhauer's The World as Will and Idea affected him. He was still stinging from the bitterest experiences and disappointments. He writes: "Here I saw a mirror in which I saw the world, life, and my own nature portrayed with frightening grandeur." Our father's untimely death had deprived my brother of both a parent and a teacher from his earliest childhood. He began to regard Schopenhauer with almost a son's love and respect. He did not admire him quite as other men did. It was Schopenhauer's personality that attracted and enchanted him. From the first, he was never blind to the faults in his master's system. For proof, we need only look at an essay he wrote in the autumn of 1867. It contains a criticism of Schopenhauer's philosophy.

Now, in the autumn of 1865, to these two influences, Hellenism and Schopenhauer, a third influence was added—one which was to prove the strongest ever exercised over my brother—and it began with his personal introduction to Richard Wagner. He was introduced to Wagner by the latter's sister, Frau Professor Brockhaus, and his description of their first meeting, contained in a letter to Erwin Rohde, is really most affecting. For years, that is to say, from the time Billow's arrangement of Tristan and Isolde for the pianoforte, had appeared, he had already been a passionate admirer of Wagner's music; but now that the artist himself entered upon the scene of his life, with the whole fascinating strength of his strong will, my brother felt that he was in the presence of a being whom he, of all modern men, resembled most in regard to force of character.

In the autumn of 1865, a third influence joined Hellenism and Schopenhauer. It began when my brother met Richard Wagner and would prove to be the strongest influence ever exercised over him. Wagner’s sister, Frau Professor Brockhaus, introduced them. My brother’s description of their first meeting, in a letter to Erwin Rohde, is deeply moving. For years, ever since Billow’s piano arrangement of Tristan and Isolde appeared, my brother had passionately admired Wagner’s music. But now the artist himself entered his life, with all the fascinating power of his strong will. My brother felt that, of all modern men, Wagner was the one he most resembled in strength of character.

Again, in the case of Richard Wagner, my brother, from the first, laid the utmost stress upon the man's personality, and could only regard his works and views as an expression of the artist's whole being, despite the fact that he by no means understood every one of those works at that time. My brother was the first who ever manifested such enthusiastic affection for Schopenhauer and Wagner, and he was also the first of that numerous band of young followers who ultimately inscribed the two great names upon their banner. Whether Schopenhauer and Wagner ever really corresponded to the glorified pictures my brother painted of them, both in his letters and other writings, is a question which we can no longer answer in the affirmative. Perhaps what he saw in them was only what he himself wished to be some day.

From the beginning, my brother placed the greatest importance on Richard Wagner's personality. He saw Wagner's works and views as expressions of the artist's whole being. Yet at the time, he did not understand every one of Wagner's works. My brother was the first to show such enthusiastic affection for Schopenhauer and Wagner. He was also the first of the many young followers who eventually put those two great names on their banner. In his letters and other writings, my brother painted glowing pictures of Schopenhauer and Wagner. We can no longer say that they really matched those pictures. Perhaps he saw in them only what he himself hoped to become one day.

The amount of work my brother succeeded in accomplishing, during his student days, really seems almost incredible. When we examine his record for the years 1865-67, we can scarcely believe it refers to only two years' industry, for at a guess no one would hesitate to suggest four years at least. But in those days, as he himself declares, he still possessed the constitution of a bear. He knew neither what headaches nor indigestion meant, and, despite his short sight, his eyes were able to endure the greatest strain without giving him the smallest trouble. That is why, regardless of seriously interrupting his studies, he was so glad at the thought of becoming a soldier in the forthcoming autumn of 1867; for he was particularly anxious to discover some means of employing his bodily strength.

The amount of work my brother managed to accomplish as a student seems almost incredible. Looking at his record for 1865 to 1867, we can hardly believe it represents only two years of work. Anyone guessing would readily say it took at least four years. But in those days, as he himself said, he still had the constitution of a bear. He had never experienced headaches or indigestion. Despite his nearsightedness, his eyes could withstand the greatest strain without giving him the slightest trouble. That is why he was so glad at the thought of becoming a soldier in the coming autumn of 1867, even though it would seriously interrupt his studies. He was especially eager to find some way to use his physical strength.

He discharged his duties as a soldier with the utmost mental and physical freshness, was the crack rider among the recruits of his year, and was sincerely sorry when, owing to an accident, he was compelled to leave the colours before the completion of his service. As a result of this accident he had his first dangerous illness.

He carried out his duties as a soldier with great mental and physical energy. He was the best rider among that year's recruits. He was sincerely sorry when an accident forced him to leave the army before completing his service. As a result of the accident, he suffered his first serious illness.

While mounting his horse one day, the beast, which was an uncommonly restive one, suddenly reared, and, causing him to strike his chest sharply against the pommel of the saddle, threw him to the ground. My brother then made a second attempt to mount, and succeeded this time, notwithstanding the fact that he had severely sprained and torn two muscles in his chest, and had seriously bruised the adjacent ribs. For a whole day he did his utmost to pay no heed to the injury, and to overcome the pain it caused him; but in the end he only swooned, and a dangerously acute inflammation of the injured tissues was the result. Ultimately he was obliged to consult the famous specialist, Professor Volkmann, in Halle, who quickly put him right.

One day, as my brother was mounting his unusually skittish horse, it suddenly reared. He struck his chest hard against the pommel of the saddle, and the horse threw him to the ground. He tried to mount again and succeeded, despite having severely sprained and torn two chest muscles and badly bruised the nearby ribs. For a whole day, he did his best to ignore the injury and overcome the pain. But he eventually fainted, and the injured tissues became dangerously inflamed. In the end, he had to consult the famous specialist Professor Volkmann in Halle, who quickly put him right.

In October 1868, my brother returned to his studies in Leipzig with double joy. These were his plans: to get his doctor's degree as soon as possible; to proceed to Paris, Italy, and Greece, make a lengthy stay in each place, and then to return to Leipzig in order to settle there as a privat docent. All these plans were, however, suddenly frustrated owing to his premature call to the University of Bale, where he was invited to assume the duties of professor. Some of the philological essays he had written in his student days, and which were published by the Rheinische Museum, had attracted the attention of the Educational Board at Bale. Ratsherr Wilhelm Vischer, as representing this body, appealed to Ritschl for fuller information. Now Ritschl, who had early recognised my brother's extraordinary talents, must have written a letter of such enthusiastic praise ("Nietzsche is a genius: he can do whatever he chooses to put his mind to"), that one of the more cautious members of the council is said to have observed: "If the proposed candidate be really such a genius, then it were better did we not appoint him; for, in any case, he would only stay a short time at the little University of Bale." My brother ultimately accepted the appointment, and, in view of his published philological works, he was immediately granted the doctor's degree by the University of Leipzig. He was twenty-four years and six months old when he took up his position as professor in Bale,—and it was with a heavy heart that he proceeded there, for he knew "the golden period of untrammelled activity" must cease. He was, however, inspired by the deep wish of being able "to transfer to his pupils some of that Schopenhauerian earnestness which is stamped on the brow of the sublime man." "I should like to be something more than a mere trainer of capable philologists: the present generation of teachers, the care of the growing broods,—all this is in my mind. If we must live, let us at least do so in such wise that others may bless our life once we have been peacefully delivered from its toils."

In October 1868, my brother returned to his studies in Leipzig with twice his usual joy. He planned to get his doctorate as soon as possible. Then he would travel to Paris, Italy, and Greece, spending a long time in each place. Afterward, he would return to Leipzig and settle there as a privat docent. But all these plans were suddenly disrupted when he was called earlier than expected to the University of Bale. He had been invited to take up a professorship there. Some philological essays he had written as a student had attracted the attention of the Educational Board at Bale. The essays had been published in the Rheinische Museum. On the board's behalf, Ratsherr Wilhelm Vischer asked Ritschl for more information. Ritschl had recognized my brother's extraordinary talents early on. He must have written a letter of enthusiastic praise: "Nietzsche is a genius: he can do whatever he chooses to put his mind to." One of the more cautious council members is said to have replied: "If the proposed candidate really is such a genius, we had better not appoint him. In any case, he would only stay a short time at the little University of Bale." My brother eventually accepted the appointment. Because of his published philological works, the University of Leipzig immediately awarded him a doctorate. He was twenty-four years and six months old when he took up his professorship in Bale. He went there with a heavy heart, knowing that "the golden period of unrestricted activity" had to end. Yet he deeply wished "to pass on to his pupils some of that Schopenhauerian seriousness stamped on the brow of the sublime man." "I should like to be more than a mere trainer of capable philologists. I have in mind the present generation of teachers and the care of the growing young. If we must live, let us at least live so that others may bless our life once we have been peacefully freed from its labors."

When I look back upon that month of May 1869, and ask both of friends and of myself, what the figure of this youthful University professor of four-and-twenty meant to the world at that time, the reply is naturally, in the first place: that he was one of Ritschl's best pupils; secondly, that he was an exceptionally capable exponent of classical antiquity with a brilliant career before him; and thirdly, that he was a passionate adorer of Wagner and Schopenhauer. But no one has any idea of my brother's independent attitude to the science he had selected, to his teachers and to his ideals, and he deceived both himself and us when he passed as a "disciple" who really shared all the views of his respected master.

When I look back on May 1869, I ask my friends and myself what this 24-year-old university professor meant to the world then. Naturally, the first answer is that he was one of Ritschl's best pupils. Second, he was an exceptionally capable scholar of classical antiquity with a brilliant career ahead of him. Third, he was a passionate admirer of Wagner and Schopenhauer. But no one realizes how independently my brother regarded his chosen field, his teachers, and his ideals. He deceived both himself and us when he passed as a "disciple" who truly shared all his respected master's views.

On the 28th May 1869, my brother delivered his inaugural address at Bale University, and it is said to have deeply impressed the authorities. The subject of the address was "Homer and Classical Philology."

On May 28, 1869, my brother gave his inaugural address at Bale University. It is said to have deeply impressed the university authorities. The address was titled "Homer and Classical Philology."

Musing deeply, the worthy councillors and professors walked homeward. What had they just heard? A young scholar discussing the very justification of his own science in a cool and philosophically critical spirit! A man able to impart so much artistic glamour to his subject, that the once stale and arid study of philology suddenly struck them—and they were certainly not impressionable men—as the messenger of the gods: "and just as the Muses descended upon the dull and tormented Boeotian peasants, so philology comes into a world full of gloomy colours and pictures, full of the deepest, most incurable woes, and speaks to men comfortingly of the beautiful and brilliant godlike figure of a distant, blue, and happy fairyland."

Deep in thought, the respectable councillors and professors walked home. What had they just heard? A young scholar had calmly and critically examined the very justification for his own field! He had given his subject so much artistic glamour that philology suddenly seemed to them like a messenger of the gods. And they were certainly not easily impressed. The study had once seemed stale and dry: "Just as the Muses descended upon the dull and tormented Boeotian peasants, so philology comes into a world full of gloomy colors and images, full of the deepest, most incurable sorrows. It speaks comfortingly to people of the beautiful, brilliant, godlike figure of a distant, blue, and happy fairyland."

"We have indeed got hold of a rare bird, Herr Ratsherr," said one of these gentlemen to his companion, and the latter heartily agreed, for my brother's appointment had been chiefly his doing.

"We've found a rare bird, Herr Ratsherr," one of the gentlemen said to his companion. His companion heartily agreed, since he had been chiefly responsible for my brother's appointment.

Even in Leipzig, it was reported that Jacob Burckhardt had said: "Nietzsche is as much an artist as a scholar." Privy-Councillor Ritschl told me of this himself, and then he added, with a smile: "I always said so; he can make his scientific discourses as palpitatingly interesting as a French novelist his novels."

Even in Leipzig, people reported that Jacob Burckhardt had said: "Nietzsche is as much an artist as a scholar." Privy Councillor Ritschl told me this himself. Then he added with a smile: "I always said so. He can make his scholarly talks as thrillingly interesting as a French novelist makes his novels."

"Homer and Classical Philology"—my brother's inaugural address at the University—was by no means the first literary attempt he had made; for we have already seen that he had had papers published by the Rheinische Museum; still, this particular discourse is important, seeing that it practically contains the programme of many other subsequent essays. I must, however, emphasise this fact here, that neither "Homer and Classical Philology," nor The Birth of Tragedy, represents a beginning in my brother's career. It is really surprising to see how very soon he actually began grappling with the questions which were to prove the problems of his life. If a beginning to his intellectual development be sought at all, then it must be traced to the years 1865-67 in Leipzig. The Birth of Tragedy, his maiden attempt at book-writing, with which he began his twenty-eighth year, is the last link of a long chain of developments, and the first fruit that was a long time coming to maturity. Nietzsche's was a polyphonic nature, in which the most different and apparently most antagonistic talents had come together. Philosophy, art, and science—in the form of philology, then—each certainly possessed a part of him. The most wonderful feature—perhaps it might even be called the real Nietzschean feature—of this versatile creature, was the fact that no eternal strife resulted from the juxtaposition of these inimical traits, that not one of them strove to dislodge, or to get the upper hand of, the others. When Nietzsche renounced the musical career, in order to devote himself to philology, and gave himself up to the most strenuous study, he did not find it essential completely to suppress his other tendencies: as before, he continued both to compose and derive pleasure from music, and even studied counterpoint somewhat seriously. Moreover, during his years at Leipzig, when he consciously gave himself up to philological research, he began to engross himself in Schopenhauer, and was thereby won by philosophy for ever. Everything that could find room took up its abode in him, and these juxtaposed factors, far from interfering with one another's existence, were rather mutually fertilising and stimulating. All those who have read the first volume of the biography with attention must have been struck with the perfect way in which the various impulses in his nature combined in the end to form one general torrent, and how this flowed with ever greater force in the direction of a single goal. Thus science, art, and philosophy developed and became ever more closely related in him, until, in The Birth of Tragedy, they brought forth a "centaur," that is to say, a work which would have been an impossible achievement to a man with only a single, special talent. This polyphony of different talents, all coming to utterance together and producing the richest and boldest of harmonies, is the fundamental feature not only of Nietzsche's early days, but of his whole development. It is once again the artist, philosopher, and man of science, who as one man in later years, after many wanderings, recantations, and revulsions of feeling, produces that other and rarer Centaur of highest rank—Zarathustra.

"Homer and Classical Philology," my brother's inaugural address at the University, was by no means his first literary effort. As we have seen, he had already published papers in the Rheinische Museum. Still, this address is important because it effectively sets out the program for many of his later essays. I must emphasize, however, that neither "Homer and Classical Philology," nor The Birth of Tragedy, marks the beginning of my brother's career. It is striking how early he began wrestling with the questions that would become his life's problems. If we look for the beginning of his intellectual development, we must go back to his years in Leipzig, 1865-67. The Birth of Tragedy, his first attempt at writing a book, appeared as he began his twenty-eighth year. It was the last link in a long chain of developments, and the first fruit of a long maturation. Nietzsche's nature was polyphonic. It brought together talents that were very different and apparently opposed to one another. Philosophy, art, and science, in the form of philology, each certainly claimed a part of him. The most remarkable feature of this versatile person was the absence of lasting conflict between these hostile traits. Perhaps it might even be called the truly Nietzschean feature. None of these talents tried to displace or dominate the others. When Nietzsche gave up a musical career to devote himself to philology, he studied with great intensity. But he did not think it necessary to suppress his other interests completely. As before, he continued to compose and enjoy music, and he even studied counterpoint quite seriously. Moreover, during his years in Leipzig, he deliberately devoted himself to philological research. Yet he also began to immerse himself in Schopenhauer, and philosophy thereby won him over forever. Everything that could find room in him made its home there. Far from interfering with one another, these different elements enriched and stimulated one another. Everyone who has read the first volume of the biography attentively must have noticed how perfectly his different impulses eventually combined. They formed one great torrent, which flowed with ever greater force toward a single goal. Thus science, art, and philosophy developed in him and grew ever closer. In The Birth of Tragedy, they produced a "centaur," a work no man with only one specialized talent could have achieved. This polyphony of different talents, all speaking together and producing the richest and boldest harmonies, marks Nietzsche's entire development. It is not confined to his early years. In later years, after many wanderings, recantations, and reversals of feeling, the artist, philosopher, and man of science again acted as one. Together they produced that other, rarer Centaur of the highest rank, Zarathustra.

The Birth of Tragedy requires perhaps a little explaining—more particularly as we have now ceased to use either Schopenhauerian or Wagnerian terms of expression. And it was for this reason that five years after its appearance, my brother wrote an introduction to it, in which he very plainly expresses his doubts concerning the views it contains, and the manner in which they are presented. The kernel of its thought he always recognised as perfectly correct; and all he deplored in later days was that he had spoiled the grand problem of Hellenism, as he understood it, by adulterating it with ingredients taken from the world of most modern ideas. As time went on, he grew ever more and more anxious to define the deep meaning of this book with greater precision and clearness. A very good elucidation of its aims, which unfortunately was never published, appears among his notes of the year 1886, and is as follows:—

The Birth of Tragedy perhaps needs a little explanation, especially since we no longer use Schopenhauerian or Wagnerian terms. For this reason, five years after the book appeared, my brother wrote an introduction to it. In that introduction, he expressed his doubts very plainly about its ideas and how they were presented. He always recognized the central idea as perfectly correct. In later years, he regretted only that he had spoiled the great problem of Hellenism, as he understood it. He had mixed it with elements drawn from the most modern ideas. As time went on, he became increasingly eager to explain the book’s deeper meaning more precisely and clearly. His notes from 1886 contain a very good explanation of its aims, which unfortunately was never published. It reads as follows:

"Concerning The Birth of Tragedy.—A book consisting of mere experiences relating to pleasurable and unpleasurable æsthetic states, with a metaphysico-artistic background. At the same time the confession of a romanticist the sufferer feels the deepest longing for beauty—he begets it; finally, a product of youth, full of youthful courage and melancholy.

"About The Birth of Tragedy: This book consists entirely of experiences of pleasant and unpleasant aesthetic states. It has a metaphysical and artistic background. It is also the confession of a romantic: the sufferer longs most deeply for beauty and creates it. Finally, it is a work of youth, full of youthful courage and melancholy.

"Fundamental psychological experiences: the word 'Apollonian' stands for that state of rapt repose in the presence of a visionary world, in the presence of the world of beautiful appearance designed as a deliverance from becoming; the word Dionysos, on the other hand, stands for strenuous becoming, grown self-conscious, in the form of the rampant voluptuousness of the creator, who is also perfectly conscious of the violent anger of the destroyer.

"Fundamental psychological experiences: The word 'Apollonian' stands for a state of absorbed calm before a visionary world. It is a world of beautiful appearance, designed to deliver us from becoming. The word Dionysos, on the other hand, stands for strenuous becoming that has become conscious of itself. It takes the form of the creator's unrestrained pleasure. The creator is also fully aware of the destroyer's violent anger.

"The antagonism of these two attitudes and the desires that underlie them. The first-named would have the vision it conjures up eternal: in its light man must be quiescent, apathetic, peaceful, healed, and on friendly terms with himself and all existence; the second strives after creation, after the voluptuousness of wilful creation, i.e. constructing and destroying. Creation felt and explained as an instinct would be merely the unremitting inventive action of a dissatisfied being, overflowing with wealth and living at high tension and high pressure,—of a God who would overcome the sorrows of existence by means only of continual changes and transformations,—appearance as a transient and momentary deliverance; the world as an apparent sequence of godlike visions and deliverances.

"The opposition between these two attitudes and the desires behind them. The first wants the vision it creates to be eternal. In its light, man must be still, detached, peaceful, healed, and at peace with himself and all existence. The second seeks creation and the pleasure of deliberate creation, that is, building and destroying. If creation were felt and understood as an instinct, it would be merely the constant invention of a dissatisfied being. This being would overflow with wealth and live under high tension and pressure. It would be a God who would overcome the sorrows of existence only through continual change and transformation. Appearance would be a fleeting, momentary deliverance. The world would be an apparent succession of godlike visions and deliverances."

"This metaphysico-artistic attitude is opposed to Schopenhauer's one-sided view which values art, not from the artist's standpoint but from the spectator's, because it brings salvation and deliverance by means of the joy produced by unreal as opposed to the existing or the real (the experience only of him who is suffering and is in despair owing to himself and everything existing).—Deliverance in the form and its eternity (just as Plato may have pictured it, save that he rejoiced in a complete subordination of all too excitable sensibilities, even in the idea itself). To this is opposed the second point of view—art regarded as a phenomenon of the artist, above all of the musician; the torture of being obliged to create, as a Dionysian instinct.

"This metaphysical and artistic attitude opposes Schopenhauer's one-sided view. He values art from the spectator's standpoint, not the artist's. For him, art brings salvation and deliverance through the joy of the unreal, as opposed to what exists or is real. Only someone who suffers and despairs over himself and everything that exists experiences this joy. This is deliverance in form and its eternity. Plato may have pictured it this way, except that he rejoiced in the complete subordination of overly excitable feelings, even within the idea itself. A second viewpoint opposes this one. It sees art as a phenomenon of the artist, especially the musician. It sees the torment of being compelled to create as a Dionysian instinct."

"Tragic art, rich in both attitudes, represents the reconciliation of Apollo and Dionysos. Appearance is given the greatest importance by Dionysos; and yet it will be denied and cheerfully denied. This is directed against Schopenhauer's teaching of Resignation as the tragic attitude towards the world.

"Tragic art brings together both attitudes, reconciling Apollo and Dionysos. Dionysos gives appearance the greatest importance. Yet appearance will be denied, and denied cheerfully. This challenges Schopenhauer's teaching of Resignation as the tragic attitude toward the world."

"Against Wagner's theory that music is a means and drama an end.

"Against Wagner's theory that music is a means to an end, and drama is the end.

"A desire for tragic myth (for religion and even pessimistic religion) as for a forcing frame in which certain plants flourish.

"A desire for tragic myth (for religion, even pessimistic religion), as for a growing frame where certain plants thrive.

"Mistrust of science, although its ephemerally soothing optimism be strongly felt; the 'serenity' of the theoretical man.

Distrust of science, although its briefly soothing optimism is strongly felt. The "serenity" of the theoretical man.

"Deep antagonism to Christianity. Why? The degeneration of the Germanic spirit is ascribed to its influence.

"Deep hostility to Christianity. Why? Christianity is blamed for the decline of the Germanic spirit.

"Any justification of the world can only be an æsthetic one. Profound suspicions about morality (—it is part and parcel of the world of appearance).

"The world can only be justified on aesthetic grounds. Deep suspicions about morality (it is part of the world of appearances).

"The happiness of existence is only possible as the happiness derived from appearance. ('Being' is a fiction invented by those who suffer from becoming.)

"Happiness in existence is possible only through appearances. ('Being' is a fiction invented by those who suffer from becoming.)

"Happiness in becoming is possible only in the annihilation of the real, of the 'existing,' of the beautifully visionary,—in the pessimistic dissipation of illusions:—with the annihilation of the most beautiful phenomena in the world of appearance, Dionysian happiness reaches its zenith."

"Happiness in becoming is possible only through the annihilation of the real, of the 'existing,' of beautiful visions. This means the pessimistic dispelling of illusions. When the most beautiful phenomena in the world of appearances are annihilated, Dionysian happiness reaches its peak."

The Birth of Tragedy is really only a portion of a much greater work on Hellenism, which my brother had always had in view from the time of his student days. But even the portion it represents was originally designed upon a much larger scale than the present one; the reason probably being, that Nietzsche desired only to be of service to Wagner. When a certain portion of the projected work on Hellenism was ready and had received the title Greek Cheerfulness, my brother happened to call upon Wagner at Tribschen in April 1871, and found him very low-spirited in regard to the mission of his life. My brother was very anxious to take some decisive step to help him, and, laying the plans of his great work on Greece aside, he selected a small portion from the already completed manuscript—a portion dealing with one distinct side of Hellenism,—to wit, its tragic art. He then associated Wagner's music with it and the name Dionysos, and thus took the first step towards that world-historical view through which we have since grown accustomed to regard Wagner.

The Birth of Tragedy is really only part of a much larger work on Hellenism. My brother had planned that work since his student days. But even this portion was originally planned on a much larger scale. The reason was probably that Nietzsche wanted only to help Wagner. A portion of the planned work on Hellenism was ready and had been titled Greek Cheerfulness. In April 1871, my brother happened to visit Wagner at Tribschen. He found Wagner deeply discouraged about his life’s mission. My brother was eager to take a decisive step to help him. So he set aside his plans for the great work on Greece. From the completed manuscript, he selected a small portion dealing with one distinct aspect of Hellenism: its tragic art. He then connected Wagner’s music and the name Dionysos with it. This was the first step toward the world-historical view through which we have since grown accustomed to seeing Wagner.

From the dates of the various notes relating to it, The Birth of Tragedy must have been written between the autumn of 1869 and November 1871—a period during which "a mass of æsthetic questions and answers" was fermenting in Nietzsche's mind. It was first published in January 1872 by E. W. Fritsch, in Leipzig, under the title The Birth of Tragedy out of the Spirit of Music. Later on the title was changed to The Birth of Tragedy, or Hellenism and Pessimism.

The dates of the various notes about The Birth of Tragedy suggest that Nietzsche wrote it between autumn 1869 and November 1871. During this period, "a mass of aesthetic questions and answers" was fermenting in his mind. E. W. Fritsch first published it in Leipzig in January 1872, under the title The Birth of Tragedy out of the Spirit of Music. The title was later changed to The Birth of Tragedy, or Hellenism and Pessimism.

ELIZABETH FORSTER-NIETZSCHE.

ELIZABETH FORSTER-NIETZSCHE.

WEIMAR, September 1905.

WEIMAR, September 1905.