'Either/Or' (full text of the English translations of Swenson (volume 1) and Lowrie (volume 2)

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{{Template}} Either/Or English translation by David F. Swenson and Walter Lowrie.

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VOLUME ONE TRANSLATED BY DAVID F. SWENSON and LILLIAN M. SWENSON [1]

EITHER /OR

By S0REN KIERKEGAARD

VOLUME ONE

TRANSLATED BY

DAVID F. SWENSON and LILLIAN M. SWENSON

LONDON

HUMPHREY MILFORD, OXFORD UNXVERSITT PRESS C944

Printed in the United States of America at Princeton University Press Princeton, New Jersey

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

T his first English printing of Spren Klierkegaard’s Either /Or by the Princeton University Press in 1943, is noteworthy in that it marks the centennial anniversary of its first Danish publication in 1843. It was also the first of Kierkegaard’s important contributions to Danish literature, and established his fame as a writer. The occasion for its production lay in the unhappy circumstance of his engagement to Regina Olsen and its subsequent breach, and this ex- perience constituted the determining factor which placed Kierkegaard almost at a stroke, in full possession of his aesthetic and literary powers. During the next twelve years he was responsible for a tremendous out- put of aesthetic and religious literature, the former, as in the case of Either/ Or, being published not under his own name, but under the names of various pseudonyms. As he later explained, he was responsible for the creation of the pseudonymous authors, but not for their thoughts which were their own. Space forbids going into the subject of the pseudonyms in detail, but the interested reader is referred to Dr. Walter Lowrie’s Kierkegaard, where the subject is discussed at some length. His religious productions were always published in his own name.

Since I am not a Kierkegaard scholar it would be presumptuous for me in my own person to try to speak of the character and significance of Either /Or. As some degree of orientation is, however, necessary, or at least helpful to the reader for a proper understanding of the form and purpose of this work, I shall take the liberty of reproducing certain passages from my husband’s writings, and also some quotations from KLierkegaard himself which have a particular bearing upon this first volume of Either /Or.

An ethical view of life is here contrasted with a purely aesthetic atti- tude. The aestheticist is the author of the papers that constitute the first volume, and is here designated as a; the ethicist b is responsible for the second volume, consisting of letters written to a, couched in terms of friendly admonition. The title of the work suggests that the reader is confronted with a decisive alternative; he is invited to weigh and choose for himself.

A consciously non-cthical philosophy inspires the varied contents of the first volume. These consist of a group of lyrical aphorisms (Dia- psalmata) ; a study of the spirit of modern tragedy contrasted with the ancient, together with a poetized sketch of a modernized Antigone; a psychological analysis of certain heroines of reflective grief (Shadow-

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

graphs), with a poetic rendering of their inner self-communion; an oration on the subject of who may be regarded as the unhappiest of mortals; a review of Scribe’s comedy. The First Love, sparkling with wit and buoyed up by an aesthetic enthusiasm which puffs its subject up into a masterpiece; a study of the sensuous-erotic in human nature, insofar as it is present in an unconsciously immediate manner, described through the medium of Mozart’s music, particularly of his opera Don Juan', and a parallel study of a reflective seducer, who is not so much a personality with a consciousness, as he is the abstract embodiment of a force of nature. This seducer is presented through a section of his diary, copied surreptitiously— -a diary which besides sketching brilliantly minor episodes, tells the story of a diabolically clever seduction, so managed that the outward appearance leaves it doubtful who is the seducer and who the seduced. In addition there is a bit of pure theoriz- ing in the essay called the Rotation Method, in which a thoroughly sophisticated enjoyment-philosophy explains by means of what artistry its goal may best be realized, and the devil of boredom be exorcised.

Four years after the appearance of Either/ Or Kierkegaard published his greatest philosophical work, the mammoth Concluding Unscien^ tijic Postscript, and in that he took occasion to review and evaluate the entire pseudonymous output. Of Either /Or he says in part: “It is an indirect j)olemic against speculative philosophy, which is indifferent to the existential. The fact that there is no result, and no finite decision, is an indirect expression for the truth as inwardness, and thus perhaps a polemic against the truth as knowledge. . . . The first part represents an existential probability which cannot win through to existence, a melan- choly that needs to be ethically worked up. Melancholy is its essential character, and this so deep that though autopathic, it deceptively occu- pies itself with the sufferings of others (Shadowgraphs), and for the rest deceives by concealing itself under the cloak of pleasure, rationality, demoralization, the deception and the concealment being at one and the same time its strength and its weakness, its strength in imagination, and its weakness in winning through to existence. It is an imagina- tion-existence in aesthetic passion, and therefore paradoxical, collid- ing with time; it is in its maximum despair; it is therefore not existence but an existential possibility tending toward existence, and brought so close to it that you feel how every moment is wasted as long as it has not come to a decision. But the existential possibility in the existing, a refuses to become aware of, and keeps existence away by the most subde of all deceptions, by thinking; he has thought

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

everything possible, and yet he has not existed at all. The consequence of this is that only the Diapsahnata are pure lyrical effusions; the rest has abundant thought-content, which may easily deceive, as if having thought something were identical with existing. . . . The relation is not to be conceived as that between an immature and a mature thought, but between not existing and existing, a is therefore a developed thinker, he is far superior to b as a dialectician, he has been endowed with all the seductive gifts of soul and understanding; thereby it becomes clearer by

what characteristic it is that b differs from him If the book has any

merit, this will essentially consist in not giving any result, but iii trans- forming everything into inwardness: in die first part, an imaginary inwardness which evokes the possibilities with intensified passion, with sufficient dialectical power to transform all into nothing in despair; in the second part, an ethical pathos, which with a quiet, incorruptible, and yet infinite passion of resolve embraces the modest ethical task, and edified thereby stands self-revealed before God and man.

“There is no didacticism in the book, but from this it does not follow that there is no thought-content; thus it is one thing to think, and another thing to exist in what has been thought. Existence is in its rela- tion to thought just as litde something following of itself as it is some- thing thoughdess. . . . We have here presented to us an existence in thought, and the book or the work has no finite rdation to anybody.” — Unscientific Postscrip, 226-228.

I regret very much that the reader of this first volume will find a cer- tain tmcvenness of style due to my inability as a translator to attain the high standard demanded by my husband of himself. With the assent of the publishers I have deviated from the general custom of including the quotations from the Greek used by an author, ia the body of the text. My reason for departing from precedent is due to the fact that there are at the present time so relatively few students of Greek, and it was thought it would make for greater readability to use translations in the text, while the originals will be found in the notes.

I am indebted to the partial translation of the “Diary of the Seducer” by Knud Pick for light on the translation of certain idiomatic expressions. I am particularly grateful to Mr. Paul T. Martinsen for careful reading of the manuscript with me. I also desire to express my sincere apprecia- tion to Princeton University Press for unfailing courtesy and con- sideration in the face of the tremendous difficulties and delays incident to wartime shortages and restrictions.

March ly, ig43

Lillian Marvin Swenson

CONTENTS

translator’s preface V

PREFACE 3

DIAPSALMATA I3

THE IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

OR THE MUSICAL EROTIC 35

THE ANCIENT TRAGICAL MOTIVE

AS REFLECTED IN THE MODERN III

SHADOWGRAPHS I35

THE UNHAPPIEST MAN I77

THE FIRST LOVE 189

THE ROTATION METHOD 23I

DIARY OF THE SEDUCER 249

NOTES 372

383

INDEX

EITHER/OR

A FRAGMENT OF LIFE

PUBLISHED BY

VICTOR EREMITA

PART I

containing A’s Papers

Are passions, then, the pagans of the soul? Reason alone baptized?

YOUNG

COPENHAGEN, 1843

PREFACE

D ear Reader: I wonder if you may not sometimes have felt inclined to doubt a little the correcmess of the familiar philo- sophic maxim that the external is the internal, and the internal the external. Perhaps you have cherished in your heart a secret which you felt in all its joy or pain, was too precious for you to share with another. Perhaps your life has brought you in contact with some person of whom you suspected something of Ae kind was true, although you were never able to wrest his secret from him either by force or cunning. Perhaps neither of these presuppositions applies to you and your life, and yet you are not a stranger to this doubt; it flits across your mind now and then like a passing shadow. Such a doubt comes and goes, and no one knows whence it comes, nor whither it goes. For my part I have always been heretically-minded on this point in philosophy, and have therefore early accustomed myself, as far as possible, to institute obser- vations and inquiries concerning it. I have sought guidance from those authors whose views I shared on this matter; in short, I have done everything in my power to remedy the deficiency in the philosophical works.

Gradually the sense of hearing came to be my favorite sense; for just as the voice is the revelation of the external, incommensurable inward- ness, so the ear is the instrument by which this inwardness*is appre- hended, hearing is the sense by which it is appropriated. Whenever, then, I found a contradiction between what I saw and what I heard, then I found my doubt confirmed, and my enthusiasm for the investiga- tion stimulated. In the confessional the priest is separated from the one confessing by a screen; he does not see, he only hears. Gradually as he listens, he constructs an outward appearance which corresponds to the voice he hears. Consequently, he experiences no contradiction. It is otherwise, however, when you hear and see at the same time, and yet perceive a screen between yourself and the speaker. My researches in this direction have met with varying degrees of success. Sometimes I have been favored by fortune, sometimes not, and one needs good fortune to win results along this road. However, I have never lost my desire to continue my investigations. More than once I have been almost ready to regret my perseverance, while occasionally unexpected success has crowned my efforts. It was such an unexpected bit of luck which in a very curious mann er put me in the possession of the papers which I now have the honor of offering to the reading public. These papers have af-

PREFACE

forded me an insight into the lives of tvro men, have confirmed my doubt that the external is not the internal. This was especially true about one of them. His external mode of life had been in complete contra- diction to his inner life. The same was true to a certain extent with the other also, inasmuch as he concealed a more significant inwardness imder a somewhat commonplace exterior.

Still, I had best proceed in order and explain how I came into pos- session of these papers. It is now about seven years since I first noticed at a merchant’s shop here in town a secretary which from the very first moment I saw it attracted my attention. It was not of modern work- manship, had been used a good deal, and yet it fascinated me. It is im- possible for me to explain the reason for this impression, but most people in the course of their lives have had some similar experience. My daily path took me by this shop, and I never failed a fingle day to pause and feast my eyes upon it I gradually made up a history about it; it became a daily necessity for me to see it, and so I did not hesitate to go out of my way for the sake of seeing it, when an imaccustomed route made this necessary. And the more I looked at it, the more I wanted to own it I realized very well that it was a peculiar desire, since I had no use for such a piece of furniture, and it would be an extrava- gance for me to buy it But desire is a very sophisticated passion. I made an excuse for going into the shop, asked about other things, and as I was leaving, I casually made the shopkeeper a very low offer for the secre- tary. I thought possibly he might accept it; then chance would have played into my hands. It was certainly not for the sake of the money I behaved thus, but to salve my conscience. The plan miscarried, the dealer was uncommonly firm. I continued to pass the place daily, and to look at the secretary with loving eyes. “You must make up your mind,” I thought, “for suppose it is sold, then it will be too late. Even if you were lucky enough to get hold of it again, you would never have the same feeling about it.” My heart beat violently; then I went into the shop. I bought it and paid for it. “This must be the last time,” thought I, “that you are so extravagant; it is really lucky that you bought it, for now every t im e you look at it, you will reflect on how extravagant you were; a new period of your life must begin with the acquisition of the secretary.” Alas, desire is very eloquent, and good resolutions are always at hand.

The secretary was duly set up in my apartment, and as in the first period of my enamorment, I had taken pleasure in gazing at it from the

PREFACE

Street, so now I walked back and forth in front of it at home. Litde by litde I familiarized myself with its rich economy, its many drawers and recesses, and I was thoroughly pleased with my secretary. Still, things could not continue thus. In the summer of 1836 1 arranged my affairs so

that I could take a week’s trip to the country. The postilion was engaged

for five o’clock in the morning. The necessary baggage had been packed the evening before, and everything was in readiness. I awakened at four, but the vision of the beautiful coimtry I was to visit so enchanted me that I again fell asleep, or into a dream. My servant evidendy thought he would let me sleep as long as possible, for he did not call me until half-past six. The postilion was already blowing his horn, and although I am not usually inclined to obey the mandates of others, I have always made an exception in the case of the postboy and his musical theme. I was speedily dressed and already at the door, when it occurred to me. Have you enough money in your pocket.? There was not much there, I opened the secretary to get at the money drawer to take what money there was. Of course the drawer would not move. Every attempt to open it failed. It was all as bad as it could possibly be. Just at this moment, while my ears were ringing with the postboy’s alluring notes, to meet such difficulties! The blood rushed to my head, I became angry. As Xerxes ordered the sea to be lashed, so I resolved to take a terrible re- venge. A hatchet was fetched. With it I dealt the secretary a shattering blow, shocking to see. Whether in my anger I struck the wrohg place, or the drawer was as stubborn as myself, the result of the blow was not as anticipated. The drawer was closed and remained closed. But something else happened. Whether my blow had struck exacdy the right spot, or whether the shock to the framework of the secretary was responsible, I do not know, but I do know that a secret door sprang open, one which I had never before noticed. This opened a pigeonhole that I naturally had never discovered. Here to my great surprise I found a mass of papers, the papers which form the content of the present work. My in- tention as to the journey, remained unchanged. At the first station we came to I would negotiate a loan. A mahogany case m which I usually kept a pair of pistols was hastily emptied and the papers were placed in it. Pleasure had triumphed, and had become even greater. In my heart I begged the secretary for forgiveness for the harsh treatment, while my thought foimd its doubt strengthened, that the external is not the in- ternal, as well as my empirical generalization confirmed, that Juck is necessary to make such discoveries possible.

PREFACE

I reached Hiller0d in the middle of the forenoon, set my finances in order, and got a general impression of the magnificent scenery. The following morning I at once began my excursions, which now took on a very different character from that which I had originally intended. My servant followed me with the mahogany case. I sought out a romantic spot in the forest where I should be as free as possible from surprise, and then took out the documents. Mine host who noticed these frequent ex- cursions in company with the mahogany case, ventured the remark that I must be trying to improve my marksmanship. For this conjecture I was duly grateful, and left him undisturbed in his belief.

A hasty glance at the papers showed me that they were made up of two collections whose external differences were strongly marked. One of them was written on a kind of vellum in quarto, with a fairly wide margin. The handwriting was legible, sometimes even a little elegant, in a single place, careless. The other was written on full sheets of foolscap with ruled columns, such as is ordinarily used for legal documents and the like. The handwriting was clear, somewhat spreading, uniform and even, apparently that of a business man. The contents also proved to be very dissimilar. One part consisted of a number of aesthetic essays of varying length, the other was composed of two long inquiries and one shorter one, all with an ethical content, as it seemed, and in the form of letters. This dissimilarity was completely confirmed by 'a closer exami- nation. The second series consists of letters written to the author of the first series.

But I must try to find some briefer designation to identify the two authors. I have examined the letters very carefully, but I have found little or nothing to the purpose. Concerning the first author, the aesthete, the papers yield absolutely nothing. As for the second, the letter writer, it appears that his name was William, and that he was a magistrate, but of what court is not stated. If I were to confine myself strictly to this data, and decide to call him William, I should lack a corresponding designation for the first author, and should have to give him an arbitrary name. Hence I have preferred to call the first author a, the second b.

In addition to the longer essays, I have found among the papers a number of slips of paper on which were written aphorisms, lyrical ef- fusions, reflections. The handwriting indicated a as the author, and the nature of the contents confirmed my conjecture.

Then I tried to arrange the papers as well as I could. In the case of those written by b this was fairly easy. Each of these letters presupposes

PREFACE

the one preceding, and in the second letter there is a quotation from the first; the third letter presupposes the other two.

The arranging of a’s paper was not so simple. I have therefore let chance determine the order, that is to say, I have left them in the order in which I found them, without being able to decide whether this order has any chronological value or ideal significance. The slips of paper lay loose in the pigeonhole, and so I have had to allot them a place. I have placed them first because it seemed to me that they might best be re- garded as provisional glimpses of what the longer essays develop more connectedly. I have called them Diapsdmata, and have added as a sort of motto: ad se ipsum. This tide and this motto are in a manner mine, and yet not altogether so. They are mine insofar as they are applied to the whole collection, but they also belong to a, for the word Diapsdmata was written on one of the slips of paper, and on two of them, the phrase, ad se Ipsum. A little French verse which was found above one of the aphorisms, I have placed on the inside of the tide page, a common prac- tice with A himself. Since many of the aphorisms have a lyric form, it seemed proper to use the word Diapsdmata as the principal tide. If the reader should consider this choice unfortunate, then I must acknowledge that this was my own device, and that as it was used by a over one of the aphorisms, it was certainly in good taste. I have left the arrangement of the individual aphorisms to chance. That these individual expressions often contradict one another seemed quite natural, since each’ one of them belongs precisely to an essential mood. I did not think it worth while to adopt an arrangement that would make these contradictions less striking. I followed chance, and it is also chance that has directed my attention to the fact that the first and the last aphorisms correspond to one another, as the one is touched by the suffering that lies in being a poet, while the other enjoys the satisfaction which lies in always hav- ing the laugh on its side.

As to a’s aesthetic essays, I have nothing to emphasize concerning them. They were found all ready for printing, and insofar as they con- tain any difl&culties, they must be permitted to speak for themselves. For my part I may state that I have added a translation of the Greek quota- tions scattered through the essays, which is taken from one of the better German translations.

The last of a’s papers is a story entitled. Diary of the Seducer. Here we meet with new difficulties, since a does not acknowledge himself as author, but only as editor. This is an old trick of the novelist, and I should not object to it, if it did not make my own position so compli-

PREFACE

catedj as one author seems to be enclosed in another, like the parts in a Chinese puzzle box. Here is not the place to explain in greater detail the reasons for my opinion. I shall only note that the dominant mood in a’s preface in a manner betrays the poet. It seems as if a had actually become afraid of his poem, as if it continued to terrify him, like a troubled dream when it is told. If it were an actual occurrence which he had become privy to, then it seems strange that the preface shows no trace of a’s joy in seeing the realization of the idea which had so often floated before his mind. The idea of the seducer is suggested in the essay on the Immediate-Erotic as well as in the Shadowgraphs, namely, the idea that the analogue to Don fuan must be a reflective seducer who comes under the category of the interesting, where the question is not about how many he seduces, but about how he does it. I find no trace of such joy in the preface, but rather, as was said, a certain horror and trembhng, which might well have its fcause in his poetical relationship to this idea. Nor am I surprised that it affected a thus; for I, who have simply nothing to do with this narrative, I who am twice removed from the original author, I, too, have sometimes felt quite strange when, in the silence of the night, I have busied myself with these papers. It was as if the Seducer came like a shadow over the floor, as if he fixed his demoniac eye upon me, and said: “Well, so you are going to publish my papers! It is quite imjustifiable in you; you arouse anxiety in the dear little lassies. Still, I \inderstand it; in return you would make me and my kind harmless. There you are mistaken; for I need only change the method, and my circumstances become more favorable than before. What a stream of lassies I see running straight into my arms when they hear that seductive name: a seducer! Give me half a year and I shall provide a story which will be more interesting than all I have hitherto experienced. I imagine a young, vigorous girl of spirit who conceives the extraordinary idea of avenging her sex upon me. She thinks to co- erce me, to make me feel the pangs of unrequited love. That is just the girl for me. If she does not herself strike deeply enough, then I shall come to her assistance, I shall writhe like the eel of the Wise Men of Gotham. And then when I have brought her to the point I wish, then is she mine!”

But perhaps I have already abused my position as editor in burdening the reader with my reflections. The occasion must provide the excuse. It was on account of the awkwardness of my position, occasioned by a’s calling himself only the editor, not the author of this story, that I let myself be carried away, n

PREFACE

What more I have to say about this story shall be exclusively in my role as editor. I think that I have perhaps foimd something in it that will determine the time of its action. The Diary has a date here and there, but the year is always omitted. This might seem to preclude further in- quiry, but by studying the individual dates, I believe I have found a clue. Of course every year has a seventh of April, a third of July, a second of August, and so forth; but it is not true that the seventh of April falls every year upon Monday. I have therefore made certain calculations, and have found that this combination fits the year 1834. 1 cannot tell whether a had thought of this or not, but probably not, since then he would not have used so much caution as he has. Nor does the Diary read, Monday the seventh of April, and so on, but merely April 7. Even on the seventh of April, the entry begins thus: Consequently on Monday — ^whereby the reader’s attention is distracted; but by reading through the entry under this date, one sees that it must have been written on Monday. As far as this story is concerned, I now have a definite date. But every attempt to utilize it in determining the time of the other es- says, has failed. I might have made this story the third in the collection, but, as I said above, I preferred to leave it to chance, and everything is in the sequence in which I found it.

As far as b’s papers are concerned, these arrange themselves easily and naturally. In their case I have permitted myself an alteration, and have provided them with a title, since their epistolary style prevented the au- thor from using a title. Should the reader, therefore, after having be- come familiar with the contents, decide that the titles are not well chosen, I shall have to reconcile myself to the disappointment of having done something poorly that I wished to do well.

In a single place I found a remark set down in the margin. I have used this as a note, so as not to interrupt the even flow of the text.

As regards b’s manuscript, I have allowed myself no alterations, but have scrupulously treated it as a finished document. I might perhaps have easily corrected an occasional carelessness, such as is explicable when one remembers that the author is merely a letter writer. I have not wished to do this because I feared that I might go too far. When b states that out o£ every hundred young men who go astray , ninety-nine are saved bv wornen, and one by divine grace, it is easy to see that he has not been very~rlgid m his reckonmg, smce he provides no place at all for those who are actually lost. I could easily have made a litde modification in the reckoning, but there seemed to me something far more beautiful

PREFACE

in b’s miscalculation. In another place he mentions a Greek wise man by the name of Myson, and says of him that he enjoyed the rare distinction of being reckoned among the Seven Sages, when their number is fixed at fourteen. I wondered at first where b could have got this information, and also what Greek author it was that he cited. My suspicion at once fell on Diogenes Laertius, and by looking up Jpcher and Moreri, I found a reference to him. b’s statement might perhaps need correction; the case is not quite as he puts it, since there was some uncertainty among the ancients as to who the Seven Sages were. But I have not thought it worth while to make any corrections, since it seemed to me that while his statement is not quite accurate historically, it might have another value.

The point I have now reached, I had arrived at five years ago. I had arranged the papers as at present, had decide'd to publish them, but thought best to postpone it for a time. Five years seemed long enough. The five years are now up, and I begin where I left off. I need not assure the reader that I have tried in every conceivable way to find some trace of the authors. The dealer, like most of his kind, kept no books; he did not know from whom he had bought the secretary; he thought it might have been at public auction. I shall not attempt to describe the many fruidess attempts I have made to identify the authors, attempts which have taken so much of my time, since the recollection gives me no pleas- ure. As to the result, however, I can describe it to the reader very briefly, for the result was simply nil.

As I was about to carry out my decision to have the papers published, one more scruple awakened within me. Perhaps the reader will permit me to speak frankly. It occurred to me that I might be guilty of an in- discretion toward the unknown authors. However, the more familiar I became with the papers, the more these scruples disappeared. The papers were of such a nature that since my most painstaking investiga- tions had failed to throw any light upon them, I was confident that no reader would be able to do so, since I dare compare myself with any such reader, not in taste and sympathy and insight, but in patience and in- dustry. For supposing the anonymous authors were still living, that they lived in this town, that they came unexpectedly upon their own papers, still if they themselves kept silent, there would be no consequences fol- lowing the publication. For in the strictest sense of the word, these

PREFACE

papers do what we sometimes say of all printed matter — they keep theh own counsel.

One other scruple that I have had, was in itself of less significance and fairly easy to overcome, and has been overcome in even an easier way than I had anticipated. It occurred to me that these papers might be financially lucrative. It seemed proper that I should receive a small hon- orarium for my editorial services; but an author’s royalty would be too much. As the honest Scotch farmer in The White Lady, decided to buy and cultivate the family estate, and then restore it to the Counts of Avenel if they should ever return, so I decided to put the entire returns at interest, so that when the authors turned up, I could give them the whole amount with compound interest. If the reader has not already, because of my complete ineptitude, assured himself that I am neither an author nor a professional literary man who makes publishing his pro- fession, then the naivete of this reasoning must establish it indisputably. My scruples were probably more easily overcome because in Denmark an author’s royalty is by no means a fortune, and the authors would have to remain away a long time for their royalties, even at compound inter- est, to become a financial object.

It remained only to choose a title. I might call them Papers, Post- humous Papers, Found Papers, Lost Papers, and so forth. A nugaber of variants could be found, but none of these titles satisfied me. I have therefore allowed myself a liberty, a deception, for which I shall try to make an accounting. During my constant occupation with the papers, it dawned upon me that they might be looked at from a new point of view, by considering all of them as the work of one man. I know very well everything that can be urged against this view, that it is unhistor- ical, improbable, unreasonable, that one man should be the author of both parts, although the reader might easily be tempted to the play on words, that he who says a must also say b. However, I have not yet been able to relinquish the idea. Let us imagine a man who had lived through both of these phases, or who had thought upon both, a’s papers contain a number of attempts to formulate an aesthetic philosophy of life. A single, coherent, aesthetic view of life can scarcely be carried out. b’s papers contain an ethical view of life. As I let this thought sink into my soul, it became clear to me that I might make use of it in choosing a title. The one I have selected precisely expresses this. The reader cannot lose very much because of it, which he may well forget while reading the book. Then, when he has read it, he may reflect upon the tide. This

PREFACE

will free him from all finite questions as to whether a was really con- vinced of his error and repented, whether b conquered, or if it perhaps ended by b’s going over to a’s opinion. In this respect, these papers have no ending. If anyone thinks this is not as it should be, one is not thereby justified in saying that it is a fault, for one must call it a misfortune. For my own part I regard it as fortunate. One sometimes chances upon novels in which certain characters represent opposing views of life. It usually ends by one of them convincing the other. Instead of these views being allowed to speak for themselves, the reader is enriched by being told the historical result, that one has convinced the other. I regard it as fortunate that these papers contain no such information. Whether a wrote his aesthetic essays after having received b’s letters, whether his soul continued to be tossed about in wild abandon, or whether it found rest, I caimot say, since the papers indicate nothing. Nor is there any clue as to how things went with b, whether he had strength to hold to his convictions or not. When the book is read, then a and b are forgotten, only their views confront one another, and await no finite decision in particular personalities.

I have nothing farther to say except that the honored authors, if they were aware of my purpose, might possibly wish to add a word to the readet, I shall therefore speak a few words on their behalf, a would probably interpose no objection to the publication; he would probably warn the reader: read them or refuse to read them, you will regret both. What B would say is more difficult to decide. He would perhaps re- proach me, especially with regard to the publication of a’s papers. He would let me feel that he had no part in them, that he washed his hands of responsibility. When he had done this, then he would perhaps turn to the book with these words: “Go out into the world then, escape if possible the attention of critics, seek a single reader in a favorable hour, and should you meet a feminine reader, then would I say: ‘My fair reader, you will perhaps fiind in this book something you ought not to know; other things you might well profit from knowing; may you so read the first that having read it, you may be as one who has not read it; may you read the other so that having read it, you may be as one who cannot forget it.’ ” I, as editor, only add the wish that the book may meet the reader in an auspicious hour, and that the fair reader may succeed in following b’s well meant advice.

Nov. 1, 1842

The Editor

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ad se ipsum

Grandeur, savoir, renommee, AmitU, plaisir et Men,

Tout n’est que vent, que jumie: Tour mieux dire, tout n’est rien.

W HAT is a poet? A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn ; by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music. His fate is like that of the unfortunate victims whom the tyrant Phalaris imprisoned in a brazen bull, and slowly tortured over a steady fire; their cries could not reach the tyrant’s ears so as to strike terror into his heart; when they reached his ears they sounded like sweet music. And men crowd about the poet and say to him: “Sing for us soon again”; that is as much as to say: “May new sufferings torment your soul, but may your lips be formed as before; for the cries would only frighten us, but the music is delicious.” And the critics come, too, and say: “Quite correct, and so it ought to be, according to the rules of aesthetics.” Now it is understood that a critic resembles a poet to a hair; he only lacks the suffering in his heart, and the music upon his lips. Lo, therefore I would rather be a swineherd from Amager, and be under- stood by the swine, than be a poet and be misunderstood by men.

The first question in the earliest and most compendious instruction the child receives, is, as everyone knows, this: What will the child have? The answer is: da-da. And with such reflections life begins, and yet men deny original sin. And to whom docs the child owe its first drubbings, whom other than the parents ?

I prefer to talk with children, for it is still possible to hope that they may become rational beings. But those who have already become so — good Lord!

How absurd men are! They never use the liberties they have, they de- mand those they do not have. They have freedom of thought, they demand freedom of speech.

I do not care for anything. I do not care to ride, for the exercise is too violent. I do not care to walk, walking is too strenuous. I do not care to lie down, for I should either have to remain lying, and I do not care to do that, or I should have to get up again, and I do not care to do that either. Summa summarum : I do not care at all.

There are well-known insects which die in the moment of fecunda- 1 tion. So it is with all joy; life’s supreme and richest moment of pleasure i is coupled with death.

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Tested Advice for Authors: Set down your reflections carelessly, and let them be printed; in correcting the proof sheets a number of good ideas will gradually suggest themselves. Therefore, take courage, all you who have not yet dared to publish anything; even misprints are not to be despised, and an author who becomes witty by the aid of misprints, must be regarded as having become witty in a perfectly lawful manner.

This is the chief imperfection of all things human, that the object of desire is first attainable through its opposite, I shall not speak about the multitude of temperamental types which ought to keep the psycholo- gist busy (the melancholy temperament has the greatest comic sense; the most exuberant is often the most idyllic; the debauched often the most moral; the doubtful often the most religious), I shall merely recall the fact that an eternal happiness is first descried through sin.

In addition to the rest of the numerous circle of my acquaintances, I still have one intimate confidant— my melancholy. In the midst of my joy, in the midst of my work, he beckons to me and calls me aside, even though I remain present in the body. My melancholy is the most faithful mistress I have known; what wonder, then, that I love in return.

There is a gossipy reasoning which in its endlessness bears about the same relation to the result as the interminable line of Egyptian mon- archs bears to the historical value of their reigns.

Old age realizes the dreams of youth: look at Dean Swift; in his youth he built an asylum for the iusane, in his old age he was himself an in- mate.

When you see with what hypochondriac profundity an earlier genera- tion of Englishmen discovered the ambiguity which lies at the root of laughter, it is enough to cause a feeling of anxiety. Dr. Hartley, for ex- ample, makes the following remark: “When laughter first manifests itself in the infant, it is an incipient cry, excited by pain, or by a feeling of pain suddenly inhibited, and recurring at brief intervals.” What if everything in the world were a misunderstanding, what if laughter were really tears ?

There are occasions when it gives one a sense of infinite sadness to see

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a human being standing all alone in the world. Thus the other day I saw a poor girl walk all alone to church to be confirmed.

Cornelius Nepos tells of a certain commander, who was shut up in a fortress with a considerable force of cavalry, and who ordered the horses to be whipped every day, lest they be injured by so much standing still — so I live these days like one besieged; but lest I take harm from too much sitting still, I cry myself weary.

I say of my sorrow what the Englishman says of his house: my sorrow is my casde. There are many who regard sorrow as one of the con- veniences of life.

I feel as if I were a piece in a game of chess, when my opponent says of it: That piece cannot be moved.

The reason why Aladdin is so invigorating is because this piece ex- presses a genial and childlike audacity in the most extravagant desires.

How many are there in our age who truly dare to wish, dare to desire, dare to address Nature with anything more than a polite child’s please, please, or else with the rage of a lost soul.? How many are there who, in view of the feeling that man is made in the image of God, a° thing that our age prates so much about, have the true voice of command.? Or do we not all stand there like Noureddin, bowing and scraping, fearful lest we ask too much or too litde? Does not every magnificent demand litde by litde reduce itself to a sickly reflection over the ego, craving one thing after the other, an art in which we are thoroughly trained ?

I am as shrunken as a Hebrew sheva, weak and silent as a Daghesh lene', I feel like a letter printed backward in the line, and yet as im- portant as a three-tailed Pasha, as jealous for myself and my thoughts as a bank for its notes, and as generally introverted as any pronomen re- flexivum. If only misfortunes and sorrows were like the good deeds of which the doer is conscious, so that they who do them have already re- ceived their reward — ^if this held true of sorrow, then were I the hap- piest of men: for I take all my troubles in advance, and yet they all remain behind.

The tremendous poetic vigor of folk-literature expresses itself among

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other ways, in the strength to desire. The desires of our age are in com- parison with these, both dull and sinful, since we desire what belongs to our neighbor. Folk-literature was very well aware that the neighbor possessed as little what he desired as did the one who desired it. And when it did indulge in sinful desires, then were they so terrible as to cause men to tremble. This desire does not cheapen itself by a cold calcu- lation of probabilities in sober reason. Don Juan still struts across the stage with his 1,003 mistresses. No one dares to smile, out of respect for the venerable tradition. If a poet had ventured the like in our age, he would have been hooted off the stage.

How strangely sad I felt on seeing a poor man shuffling through the streets in a worn-out, light yellowish-green coat. I was sorry for him, but the thing that moved me most was that the color of this coat so vividly reminded me of my first childish productions in the noble art of paint- ing. This color was precisely one of my vital hues. Is it not sad that these color mixtures, which I still think of with so much pleasure, are found nowhere in life; the whole world thinks them harsh, bizarre, suitable only for Nuremberg toys. Or if one sometimes happens on them, there is always something unpleasant about the encounter, as in this present case. It is always some weak-minded person, or one who has been un- fortunate, in short, always someone who feels himself an alien in the world, and whom the world will not recognize. And I, who always painted my heroes with this never-to-be-forgotten yellowish-green col- oring on their coats! And is it not so with all the mingled colors of childhood? The hues that life once had, gradually become too strong, too harsh, for our dim eyes.

Alas, the doors of fortune do not open inward, so that by storming them one can force them open; but they open outward, and therefore nothing can be done.

I have the courage, I believe, to doubt everything; I have the courage, I believe, to fight with everything; but I have not the courage to know anything; not the courage to possess, to own anything. Most people complain that the world is so prosaic, that life is not like romance, where opportunities are always so favorable. I complain that life is not like romance, where on e had b^d-hearted parents and nixies and trolls to fight, and enchanted princesses to free. What are all such enemies taken

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together, compared with the pale, bloodless, tenacious, nocturnal shapes with which I fight, and to whom I give life and substance.

How barren is my soul and thought, and yet forever tortured by empty birthpangs, sensual and tormenting! Must my spirit then ever remain tongue-tied, must I always babble.? What I need is a voice as penetrating as the eye of Lynceus, as terrifying as the sigh of the giants, as persistent as the sound of nature, as full of derision as a frosty wind- gust, as malicious as Echo’s heartless mockeries, of a compass from the deepest bass to the most mellifluous soprano, modulated from the sacred softness of a whisper to the violent fury of rage. This is what I need in order to breathe, to get expression for what is on my mind, to stir the bowels of my compassion and my wrath. — But my voice sticks in my throat, or dies away like the blessing upon the lips of the dumb.

What portends? What will the future bring? I do not know, I have no presentiment. When a spider hurls itself down from some fixed point, consistently with its nature, it always sees before it only an empty space wherein it can find no foothold however much it sprawls. And so it is with me: always before me an empty space; what drives me forward ' is a consistency which lies behind me. This life is topsy-turvy and ter- rible, not to be endured.

No time of life is so beautiful as the early days of love, when with every meeting, every glance, one fetches something new home to rejoice over.

My view of life is utterly meaningless. I suppose an evil spirit has set a pair of spectacles upon my nose, of which one lens is a tremendously powerful magnifying glass, the other an equally powerful reducing glass.

The doubter is a whip top; he holds himself, like a top, on the point for a longer or shorter time, according to the momentum; but stand he cannot, as little as a top.

Of all ridiculous things, it seems to me the most ridiculous is to be a busy man of affairs, prompt to meals, and prompt to work. Hence when I see a fly settle down in a crucial ihoment on the nose of a business man, or see him bespattered by a carriage which passes by him in even greatCiT

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J,0

haste, or a drawbridge opens before him, or a tile from the roof falls down and strikes him dead, then I laugh heartily. And who could help laughing? What do they accomplish, these hustlers? Are they not like the housewife, when her house was on fire, who in her excitement saved the fire-tongs? What more do they save from the great fire of life?

Generally speaking, I lack the patience to live. I cannot see the grass grow, but since I cannot, I do not care to look at it at all. My views are the fleeting observations of a “traveling scholastic,” rushing through life in greatest haste. People say that a gentleman’s stomach is filled before his eyes; I have not noticed it; my eyes are sated and weary of every- thing, and yet I hunger.

Ask whatever questions you please, but do not ask me for reasons. A young woman may be forgiven for not being able to give reasons, since they say she lives in her feelings. Not so with me. I generally have so many reasons, and most often such mutually contradictory reasons, that for this reason it is impossible for me to give reasons. There seems to be something wrong with cause and effect also, that they do not rightly hang together. Tremendous and powerful causes sometimes produce small and unimpressive effects, sometimes none at all; then again it

happens that a brisk litde cause produces a colossal effect.

And now the innocent pleasures of life. One must admit that they have but one fault, they are so innocent. Moreover, they must be in- dulged in moderately. When my doctor prescribes a diet, there is some sense in that; I abstain from certain foods for a certain specified time; but to be dietetic on a diet — ^that is really asking too much.

Life has become a bitter drink to me, and yet I must take it like medi- cine, slowly, drop by drop.

^^o one ever comes back from the dead, no one ever enters the world , Without weeping; no one is asked when he wishes to enter life, no cne |s asked when he wishes to leave.

Time flows, life is a stream, people say, and so on. I do not notice it. Time stands still, and I with it. All the plans I make fly right back upon myself; when I would spit, I even spit into my own face.

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When I get up in the morning, I go straight back to bed again. I feel best in the evening when I put out the light and pull the eiderdown over my head. Then I sit up again, look about the room with indescrib- able satisfaction; and so good night, down under the eiderdown.

What am I good for.? For anything or nothing. That is a rare clever- ness; I wonder if the world will appreciate it.? God knows whether the servant girls who seek a position as maid of all work, find a place, or, lacking that, anything whatsoever.

-^ne ought to be a mystery, not only to others, but also to one’s self, i " I study myself; when I am weary of this, then for a pastime I light a ‘ cigar and think: the Lord only knows what He meant by me, or what *, He would m^e out of me.

No pregnant woman can have stranger or more impatient desires than I. These desires concern sometimes the most trivial things, some- times the most exalted, but they are equally imbued with the soul’s mo- mentary passion. At this moment I wish a bowl of buckwheat porridge.

I remember from my school days that we always had this dish on Wednesdays. I remember how smooth and white it was when served, how the butter smiled at you, how warm the porridge looked, how hun- gry I was, how impatient to be allowed to begin. Ah, such a dish of buck- wheat porridge! I would give more than my birthright for it!

The magician Virgil had himself cut into pieces and put into a kettle to be boiled for a week, in order to renew his youth. He hired a man to stand watch so that no intruder would peep into the caldron. But the watchman could not resist the temptation; it was too early, Virgil vanished with a cry like a little child. I, too, have doubtless peeped too soon into the kettle, the kettle of life and its historical development, and will probably never be able to become anything more than a child.

man should never lose his courage; when misfortunes tower most fearfully about him, there appears in the sky a helping hand.” Thus spoke the Reverend Jesper Morten last evensong. Now I am in the habit of traveling much under the open sky, but I had never seen any- thing of the kind. A few days ago, however, while on a walking tour, some such phenomenon took place. It was not exactly a hand, but some- thing like an arm which stretched out of the sky. I began to ponder:

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it occurred to me that if only Jesper Morten were here, he might be able to decide whether this was the phenomenon he referred to. As I stood there in the midst of my thoughts, I was addressed by a wayfarer. Point- ing up to the sky, he said: “Do you see that waterspout? They are very rare in these parts; sometimes they carry whole houses away with them.” “The l^rd preserve us,” thought I, “is that a waterspout?” and took to my heels as fast as I could. I wonder what the Reverend Jesper Morten would have done in my place?

Let others complain that the age is wicked; my complaint is that it is wretched; for it lacks passion. Meii’s thoughts are thin and flimsy like lace, they are themselves pitiable like the lacemakers. The thoughts of their hearts are too paltry to be sinful. For a worm it might be regarded as a sin to harbor such droughts, but not for a being made in the image of God. Their lusts are dull and sluggish, their passions sleepy. They do their duty, these shopkeeping souls, but they clip ,the coin a trifle, like the Jews; they think that even if the Lord keeps ever so careful a set of books, they may still cheat Him a little. Out upon them! This is the reason my soul always turns back to the Old Testa- ment and to Shakespeare. I feel that those who speak there are at least human beings: they hate, they love, they murder their enemies, and curse their descendants throughout all generations, they sin.

I divide my time as follows: half the time I sleep, the other half I dream. I never dream when I sleep, for that would be a pity, for sleeping is the highest accomplishment of genius.

To be a perfect man is after all the highest human ideal. Now I have got corns, which ought to help some.

The result of my life is simply nothing, a mood, a single color. My result is like the painting of the artist who was to paint a picture of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea. To this end, he painted the whole wall red, explaining that the Israelites had already crossed over, and that the Egyptians were drowned.

Nature still recognizes the dignity of humanity; for when you wish to keep the birds away from the trees, you fix up something to resemble a man, and even this faint resemblance to a human being which a scare- crow has, is enough to inspire the birds with respect.

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For love to have significance, the hour of its birth must be illumined by the moon, just as Apis in order to be the true Apis, must be moon- illuminated. It was necessary that the moon should shine upon the cow that was to bear Apis, at the moment of impregnation.

The best proof for the wretchedness of existence is the proof that is derived from the contemplation of its glories.

Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it. They fare as did that dwarf who kept guard over a captured princess in his castle. One day he took a midday nap. When he woke up in hour later, the princess was gone. Quickly he pulled on his seven- league boots; with one stride he was far beyond her.

My soul is so heavy that thought can no more sustain it, no wing- Deat lift it up into the ether. If it moves, it sweeps along the ground like -he low flight of birds when a thunderstorm is approaching. Over my inmost being there broods a depression, an anxiety, that presages an earthquake.

Life is so empty and meaningless. — e bury a man; we follow him

o the grave, we throw three spadefuls of earth over him; we ride out

.0 the cemetery in a carriage, we ride home in a carriage; we take com- fort in thinking that a long life lies before us. How long is seven times

en years ? Why do we not finish it at once, why do we not stay and step

down into the grave with him, and draw lots to see who shall happen

o be the last unhappy living being to throw the last three spadefuls of

arth over the last of the dead ? *

The lassies do not please me. Their beauty vanishes like a dream, and ike yesterday when it is past. Their constancy — yes, their constancy! Either they are faithless, which no longer concerns me, or they are faith- Til. If I found such a one, she might please me because of her rarity, but ihc would not please me in the long run; for she would either always •emain constant, and then I should become a victim of my own experi- mental zeal, since I should have to keep up with her; or she would some- ime cease to be faithful, and so I should have the same old story over igain.

Wretched Destiny! In vain you paint your furrowed face like an old ,

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harlot, in vain you jingle your fool’s bells; you weary me; it is always the same, an idem per idem. No variety, always a rehash! Come, Sleep and Death, you promise nothing, you keep everything.

These two familiar strains of the violin! These two familiar strains here at this moment, in the middle of the street. Have I lost my senses ? Does my ear, which from love of Mozart’s music has ceased to hear, create these sounds; have the gods given me, unhappy beggar at the door of the temple— have they given me an ear that makes the sounds it hears? Only two strains, now I hear nothing more. Just as they burst forth from the deep choral tones of the immortal overture, so here they extricate themselves from the noise and confusion of the street, with all the surprise of a revelation. — It must be here in the neighborhood, for now I hear the lighter tones of the dance music. — ^And so it is to you, unhappy artist pair, I owe this joy. — One of them was about seventeen, he wore a coat of green kalmuck, with large bone buttons. The coat was much too large for him. He held the violin close up under his chin, his hat was pressed down over his eyes, his hand was hidden in a glove without fingers, his fingers were red and blue from cold. The other man was older; he wore a chenille shawl. Both were blind. A litde girl, pre- sumably their guide, stood in front of them, her hands tucked imder her neckerchief. We gradually gathered around them, some admirers of this music: a letter carrier with his mailbag, a little boy, a servant girl, a couple of roustabouts. The well appointed carriages rolled noisily by, the heavy wagons drowned out the strains, which by snatches flashed forth. Unhappy artist pair, do you know that these tones are an epitome of all the glories of the wprld.? — ^How like a tryst it was!

It happened that a fire broke out backstage in a theater. The clown came out to inform the public. They thought it was a jest and ap- plauded. He repeated his warning, they shouted even louder. So I think the world wfll come to an end amid general applause from all the wits, who believe that it is a joke.

In the last analysis, what is the significance of life? If we divide man- kind into two great classes, wd may say that one works for a living, the other does not need to. But working for a living cannot be the m eaning of life, since it would be a contradiction to say that the perpetual pro- duction of the conditions for subsistence is an answer to the question about its significance, which by the help of this, must be conditioned.

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The lives of the other class have in general no other significance than hat they consume the conditions of subsistence. And to say that the significance of life is death, seems again a contradiction.

vj?he essence of pleasure does not lie in the thing enjoyed, but in the iccompanying consciousness. If I had a humble spirit in my service, ivho, when I asked for a glass of water, brought me the world’s costliest ivines blended in a chalice, I should dismiss him, in order to teach him hat pleasure consists not in what I enjoy, but in having my own way.

And so I am not the master of my life, I am only one thread among many, which must be woven into the fabric of life! Very well, if I can- aot spin, I can at least cut the thread.

Everything is to be acquired in stillness, and in the silence of the divine. It is not only of Psyche’s future child it holds, that its future de- pends on her silence.

Mit einem Kind, das goultch wenn Du scha/eigst —

Dock menschlich, wenn Du das Geheimniss zeigst.

I seem destined to have to suffer every possible mood, to acquire ex- perience in every direction. Every moment I lie like a child, who must learn to swim, out in the middle of the sea. I scream (wWch I have earned from the Greeks, from whom one can learn everything which is purely human ) ; for I have indeed a harness about my waist, but the pole that holds me up I do not see. It is a fearful way in which to get experience.

It is quite remarkable that one gets a conception of eternity from two pf the most appalling contrasts in life. If I think of that unhappy book- keeper who lost his reason from despair at having involved his firm in pankruptcy by adding 7 and 6 to make 14; if I think of him day after day, oblivious to ever5rthing else, repeating to himself: 7 and 6 are 14, dien I have an image of eternity. — ^If I imagine a voluptuous feminine peauty in a harem, reclining on a couch in all charming grace, without

oncern for anything in all the world, then I have a symbol for eternity.

' What the philosophers say about Reality is often as disappointing as 1 sign you see in a shop window, which reads: Pressing Done Here. If

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you brought your clothes to be pressed, you would be fooled; for the sign is only for sale.

I'here is nothing more dangerous to me than remembering. The mo- ment I have remembered some life-relationship, that moment it ceased to exist. People say that separation tends to revive love. Quite true, but it revives it in a purely poetic manner. The life that is lived wholly in memory is the most perfect conceivable, the satisfactions of memory are richer than any reality, and have a security that no reality possesses. A remembered life-relation has already passed into eternity, and has no more temporal interest.

If any man needs to keep a diary, then I, and that for the purpose of assisting my memory. After a time it frequently happens that I have completely forgotten the reason which led me to do this or that, not only in connection with trifles, but also in connection with the most momentous decisions. And if I do recall my reason, it sometimes seems so strange to me that I can hardly believe it was my reason. This doubt could be resolved if I had something to refer to. A reason is generally a very curious thing; if I apprehend it with the total intensity of my pas- sion, then it grows up into a huge necessity which can move heaven and earth. But if I lack passion, I look down upon it with scorn. — ^For some time r have been wondering what it was that moved me to resign my position as teacher in a secondary school. As I think it over, it seems to me that such a position was precisely what I wanted. Today a light dawned upon me; the reason was just this, that I had considered myself absolutely fitted for the post. Had I retained it, I should have had every- thing to lose and nothing to gain. Hence I thought it best to resign, and to seek employment with a traveling troop of players, since I had no talent for theatricals, and therefore had everything to gain.

One must be very naive to believe that it will do any good to cry out and shout in the world, as if that would change one’s fate. Better take things as they come, and make no fuss. When I was yoimg and went into a restaurant, I would say to the waiter, “A good cut, a very good cut, from the loin, and not too fat.” Perhaps the waiter did not even hear me, to say nothing of paying any attention to my request, and still less was it likely that my voice should reach the kitchen and influence the cook, and even if it did, there was perhaps not a good cut on the entire roast. Now I never shout any more.

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The social striving and the beautiful sympathy which prompts it spreads more and more. In Leipzig there has recently been formed a society whose members are pledged, out of sympathy for the sad fate of old horses, to eat their flesh.

I have but one friend, Echo; and why is Echo my friend.? Because I love my sorrow, and Echo does not take it away from me. I have only one confidant, the silence of the night; and why is it my confidant? Because it is silent.

As it befell Parmeniscus in the legend, who in the cave of Trophonius lost the power to laugh, but got it again on the island of Delos, at the sight of the shapeless block exhibited there as the image of the goddess Leto, so it has befallen me. When I was young, I forgot how to laugh in the cave of Trophonius; when I was older, I opened my eyes and beheld reality, at which I began to laugh, and since then I have not stopped laughing. I saw that the meaning of life was to secure a livelihood, and that its goal was to attain a high position; that love’s rich dream was marriage with an heiress; that friendship’s blessing was help in financial difl&culties; that wisdom was what the majority assumed it to be; that enthusiasm consisted in making a speech; that it was courage to risk the loss of ten dollars; that kindness consisted in saying, “You are welcome,” at the dinner table; that piety consisted in going to communioh once a year. This I saw, and I laughed.

What is the power that binds me? How was the chain made with which the Fenris wolf was bound? It was wrought from the sound of a cat’s paws walking over the ground, from women’s beards, from the roots of rocks, from the nerves of bears, from the breath of fishes, and the spittle of birds. And thus I, too, am bound in a chain formed of dark imaginings, of unquiet dreams, of restless thoughts, of dread presenti- ments, of inexplicable anxieties. This chain is “very supple, soft as silk, elastic imder the highest tension, and cannot be broken in two.”

Strangely enough, it is always the same thing which at every age en- gages our attention, and we go only so far, or rather, we go backward. When I was fifteen years old, and a pupil in the classical school, I wrote with much imction about the proofs for the existence of God and the immortality of the soul, about the concept of faith, and on the signifi- cance of the miraculous. For my examen artium I wrote an essay on the

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Immortality of the Soul, wliich was awarded p'oe ceteris', later I won a prize for another essay on this same subject. Who would have believed that I, after having made so substantial and promising a beginning, should now in my twenty-fifth year, have come to the pass of not being able to give a single proof for the immortality of the soul.? I remember especially from my school days, that an essay of mine on immortality, was singled out for extraordinary praise and read to the class by the teacher, both on account of the excellence of the thought and the beauty of the style. Alas, alas, alas! this essay I threw away a long time ago! What a misfortune! By this essay my doubting soul might now perhaps be captivated, both by reason of the style and of the thought. Hence, I advise all parents, guardians, and teachers to caution the children under their care, so that they may preserve the Danish themes they write at jhe age of fifteen. To give this advice is the only contribution I can make tn tli/» w^^lfare of the human race.

s/K.nowledge of the truth I may perhaps have attained to; happiness, certainly not. What shall I do? Accomplish something in the world, men tell me. Shall I then publish my grief to the world, contribute one more proof for the wretchedness and misery of existence, perhaps dis- cover a new flaw in human life, hitherto unnoticed? I might then reap the rare reward of becoming famous, like the man who discovered the spots on Jupiter. I prefer, however, to keep silent.

How true human nature is to itself. With what native genius does not a little child often show us a living image of the greater relation. Today I really enjoyed watching Httle Louis. He sat in his little chair; he looked about him with apparent pleasure. The nurse Mary went through the room. “Mary,” he cried. “Yes, little Louis,” she answered with her usual friendliness, and came to him. He tipped his head a little to one side, fastened his immense eyes upon her with a certain gleam of mischief in them, and thereupon said quite phlegmatically, “Not this Mary, an- other Mary.” What about us older folk ? We cry out to the whole world, and when it comes smiling to meet us, then we say: “This was not the Mary.”

My life is like an eternal night; when at last I die, then I can say with Achilles:

"Du hist vollbracht, Nachtwache meines Daseyns"

DIAPSALMATA

My life is absolutely meaningless. When I consider the different periods into which it falls, it seems like the word Schnur in the diction- ary, which means in the first place a string, in the second, a daughter- in-law. The only thing lacking is that the word Schnur should mean in the third place a camel, in the fourth, a dust-brush.

I am like a Liineberger pig. My thinking is a passion. I can root up truffles excellently for other people, even if I get no pleasure out of them myself. I dig the problems out with my nose, but the only thing I can do with them is to throw them back over my head.

Vainly I strive against it. My foot slips. My life is still a poet’s ex- istence. What could be more unhappy? I am predestined; fate laughs atjtne when it suddenly shows me how everything I do to resist, becomes a moment in such an existence. I can describe hope so vividly that every hoping individual will acknowledge my description; and yet it is a de- ception, for while I picture hope, I think of memory.

There is still another proof for the existence of God, one which has hitherto been overlooked. It is propounded by a servant in Aristophanes’ The Knights:

Demosthenes: Shrines? shrines? Why surely you don’t believe in the gods?

Nicias: I do.

Demosthenes: But what’s your argument? Where’s your proof?

Nicias: Because I feel they persecute me and hate me, in

spite of everything I try to please ’em.

Demosthenes: Well, well. That’s true; you’re right about that.

How terrible tedium is — ^terribly tedious; I know no stronger expres- sion, none truer, for only the like is known by the like. If only there were some higher, stronger expression, then there would be at least a move- ment. I lie stretched out, inactive; the only thing I see is emptiness, the only thing I move about in is emptiness. I do not even suffer pain. The vulture constantly devoured Prometheus’ liver; the poison constantly dripped down on Loki; that was at least an interruption, even though a monotonous one. Even pain has lost its refreshment for me. If I were offered all the glories of the world, or all its pain, the one would move me as little as the other, I would not turn over on the other side either

DIAPSALMATA

to obtain them or to escape them. I die the death. Is there anything that could divert me.? Aye, if I might behold a constancy that could with- stand every trial, an enthusiasm that endured everything, a faith that could remove mountains, a thought that could unite the finite and the infinite. But my soul’s poisonous doubt is all-consuming. My soul is like the dead sea, over which no bird can fly; when it has flown midway, then it sinks down to death and destruction.

Strange, with what equivocal anxiety at keeping and losing, man yet clings to this life. Sometimes I have considered taking a decisive step, compared with which all my preceding ones would be only childish tricks — of setting out on the great voyage of discovery. As a ship at its laimching is hailed with the roar of cannon, so would I hail myself. And yet. Is it courage I lack? If a stone fell down and killed me, that would be a way out.

tautology is and remains still the supreme principle, the highest law of thoughtTWhat wonder then that most men use it? Nor is it so en- tirely empty but that it may well serve to fill out an entire life. It has’ its witty, jesting, entertaining form; it is the infinite judgment. This is the paradoxical and transcendental kind of tautology. It has the serious, scientific, edifying form. The formula for this is: when two magnitudes are severally equal to one and the same third magnitude, they are equal to each other. This is a quantitative inference. This kind of tautology is especially useful in cathedrals and pulpits, where you are expected to say something profound.

The disproportion in my build is that my forelegs are too short. Like the kangaroo, I have very short forelegs, and tremendously long hind legs. Ordinarily I sit quite stiU; but if I move, the tremendous leap that follows strikes terror to all my acquaintances, friends and rdatives.

EITHER/OR An ecstatic lecture

If you marry, you will regret it; if you do not marry, you will also regret it; if you marry or do not marry, you will regret both; whether you marry or do not marry, you will regret both. Laugh at the world’s follies, you will r^et it; weq) over them, you will also regret that;

DIAFSALMATA

laugh at the world’s follies or weep over them, you will regret both; whether you laugh at the world’s follies or weep over them, you will regret both. Believe a woman, you will regret it, believe her not, you will also regret that; believe a woman, or believe her not, you will regret both; whether you believe a woman or believe her not, you will regret both. Hang yourself, you will regret it; do not hang yourself, and you will also regret that; hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret both; whether you hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret both. This, gendemen, is the sum and substance of all philos- ophy. It is not only at certain moments that I view everything aeterno modo, as Spinoza says, but I live constantly aeterno modo. There are many who think that they live thus, because after having done the one or the other, they combine or mediate the opposites. But this is a mis- understanding; for the true eternity does not lie behind either/or, but before it. Hence, their eternity will be merely a painful succession of temporal moments, and they will be consumed by a two-fold regret. My philosophy is at least easy to understand, for I have only one prin- ciple, and I do not even proceed from that. It is necessary to distinguish between the successive dialectic in either/or, and the eternal dialectic here set forth. Thus, when I say that I do not proceed from my principle, this must not be understood in opposition to a proceeding forth from it, but is rather a negative expression for the principle itself, through which it is apprehended in equal opposition to a proceeding or a non-proceed- ing from it. I do not proceed from my principle; for if I did, I would regret it, and if I did not, I would also regret that. If it seems, therefore, to one or another of my respected hearers that there is anything in what I say, it only proves that he has no talent for philosophy; if it seems to have any forward movement, this also proves the same. But for those who can follow me, although I do not make any progress, I shall now unfold the eternal truth, by virtue of which this philosophy remains within itself, and admits of no higher philosophy. For if I proceeded from my principle, I should find it impossible to stop; for if I stopped, I should regret it, and if I did not stop, I should also regret that, and so forth. But since I never start, so can I never stop; my eternal departure is identical with my eternal cessation. Experience has shown that it is by no means difficult for philosophy to begin. Far from it. It begins witii nothing, and consequently can always begin. But the difficulty, both for philosophy and for philosophers, is to stop. This difficulty is obviated in my philosophy; for if anyone believes that when I stop now, I really stop, he proves himself lacking in the speculative insight. F6r I do not

DIAPSALMATA

stop now, I stopped at the time when I began. Hence my philosophy has the advantage of brevity, and it is also impossible to refute; for if anyone were to contradict me, I should undoubtedly have the right to call him mad. Thus it is seen that the philosopher lives continuously aeterno modo, and has not, like Sintenis of blessed memory, only certain hours which are lived for eternity.

Why was I not born in Nyboder? Why did I not die in infancy? Then my father would have laid me in a little box, taken it under his arm, carried me out some Sunday afternoon to the grave, thrown the earth upon the casket himself, and softly uttered a few w^dijjllbtei- ligible only to himself. It was only in the happy days wd»%e wcffld was young, that men could imagine infants weepingjj||rTlysium, ^ cause they had died so early.

I have never been happy; and yet it has always seemed to me as if happiness were in my train, as if glad fairies danced about me, invisible to others but not to me, whose eyes gleamed with joy. And when I go among men, as happy and glad as a god, and they envy me my happi- ness, then I laugh; for I despise men, and avenge myself upon them. I have never in my heart wished to wrong any man, but have always, just when I am most moved, given the appearance that everyone who came near me, was wronged and injured. And when I hear otiers praised for their faithfulness and integrity, then I laugh; for I despise men, and avenge myself upon them. My heart has never been hardened against any human being, but always, just when I was most affected, I have given the impression that my heart was closed and alien to every human feeling. And when I hear others praised for their goodness of hearty and see them loved for the depth and wealth of their feeling, then I laugh; for I despise men and avenge myself upon them. When I see myself cursed, abominated, hated, for my coldness and heartlessness: then I laugh, then my wrath is satiated. If these good people could really put me in the wrong, if they could actually make me do wrong— well, then I should have lost.

This is my misfortune: at my side there always walks an angel of death, and I do not besprinkle the door-lintels of the elect with blood, as a sign that he shall pass by; no, it is just their doors that he enters — for only l^^e love that lives in memory is happy.

DIAPSALMATA

Wme can no longer make my heart glad; a little of it makes me sad, much makes melancholy. My soul is faint and impotent; m vain I prick the spur of pleasure into its flank, its strength is gone, it rises no more to the royal leap. I have lost my illusions. Vainly I seek to plunge myself into the boundless sea of joy; it cannot sustain me, or rather, I cannot sustain myiself. Once pleasure had but to beckon me, and I rose, light of foot, sound, and unafraid. When I rode slowly through the woods, it was as if I flew; now when the horse is covered with lather and ready to drop, it seems to me that I do not move. I am solitary as always; for- saken, not by men, which could not hurt me, but by the happy fairies of joy, who used to encircle me in countless multitudes, who met ac- quaintances everywhere, everywhere showed me an opportunity for pleasure. As an intoxicated man gathers a wild crowd of youths about him, so they flocked about me, the fairies of joy, and I greeted them with a smile. My soul has lost its potentiality. If I were to wish for anything, I should not wish for wealth and power, but for the passionate sense of the potential, for the eye, which ever young and ardent, sees the possible. Pleasure disappoints, possibility never. And what wine is so foaming, what so fragrant, what so intoxicating, as possibility!

Music finds its way where the rays of the sun cannot penetrate. My room is dark and dismal, a high wall almost excludes the light of day. The sounds must come from a neighboring yard; it is probably some wandering musician. What is the instrument.'* A flute .i* . . . What do I hear — ^the minuet from Don JuanI Carry me then away once more, O tones so rich and powerful, to the company of the maidens, to the pleasures of the dance. — ^The apothecary pounds his mortar, the kitchen maid scours her ketde, the groom curries the horse, and strikes the comb against the flagstones; these tones appeal to me alone, they beckon only me. O! accept my thanks, whoever you are! My soul is so rich, so sound, so joy-intoxicated!

In itself, salmon is a great delicacy; but too much of it is harmful, since it taxes the digestion. At one time when a very large catch of salmon had been brought to Hamburg, the police ordered that a house- holder should give his servants only one meal a week of salmon. One could wish for a similar police order against* sentimentality.

My grief is my casde, which like an eagle’s nest, is built high up on the mountain peaks among the clouds; nothing can storm it. From it

DIAPSALMATA

I fly down into reality to seize my prey; but I do not remain down there, 1 bring it home with me, and this prey is a picture I weave into the tapestries of my palace. There I live as one dead. I immerse everything I have experienced in a baptism of forgetfulness unto an eternal remem- brance. Everything finite and accidental is forgotten and erased. Then I sit like an old man, grey-haired and thoughtful, and explain the pictures in a voice as soft as a whisper; and at my side a child sits and listens, although he remembers everything before I tell it.

The sun shines into my room bright and beautiful, the window is open in the next room; on the street all is quiet, it is a Sunday afternoon. Outside the window, I clearly hear a lark pour forth its song in a neigh- bor’s garden, where the pretty maiden lives. Far away in a distant street I hear a man crying shrimps. The air is so warm, and yet the whole town seems dead. — ^Then I think of my youth and of my first love — when the longing of desire was strong. Now I long only for my first longing. What is youth.? A dream. What is love? The substance of a dream.

^Something wonderful has happened to me. I was carried up into the seventh heaven. There all the gods sat assembled. By special grace I was granted the favor of a wish. “Will you,” said Mercury, “have youth, or heauty, or power, or a long life, or the most beautiful maiden, or any of the other glories we have in the chest? Choose, but only one thing.” For a moment I was at a loss. Then I addressed myself to the gods as follows: “Most honorable contemporaries, I choose this one thing, that I may always have the laugh on my side.” Not one of the gods said a word, on the contrary, they all began to laugh. Hence, I concluded that my request was granted, and found that the gods knew how to express themselves with taste; for it would hardly have been suitable for them to have answered gravely: “It is granted thee.”

THE IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

THE MUSICAL EROTIC

INSIGNIFICANT INTRODUCTION

F rom the moment that Mozart’s music first filled my soul with wonder, and I bowed before it in humble admiration, I have found a dear and grateful occupation in reflecting on how that happy Gr^ek view of the world which calls the world a cosmos, because it manifests itself as a harmonious whole, a transparent and tasteful adornment for the Spirit which works in and through it — ^how this happy view finds application in a higher realm, in the world of ideals, where there is again an overruling wisdom particularly admirable in joining together those things which belong together: Axel with Val- borg, Homer withythe Trojan War, Raphael with Catholicism, Mozart with Don Juan^here is a wretched unbelief abroad which seems to contain much healing power. It deems such a connection accidental, and sees in it only a lucky conjunction of the different forces in the game of life. It thinks it an accident that the lovers win one another, accidental that they love one another; there were a hundred other women with whom the hero might have been equally happy, and whom he could have loved as deeply. It thinks that there has been many a poet who might have become as immortal as Homer, iE this splendid subject had not already been appropriated by him; many a composer who might have made himself as immortal as Mozart, had the opportunity offered. This wisdom contains much solace and comfort for all mediocre minds, since it lends itself to the delusion with which they deceive themselves and other like-minded souls, that it is a confusion of fate, an error on the part of the world, that they did not become as famous as the famous. It is a very easy optimism that is thus encouraged. But for every high- minded soul, for every optimate who is not so anxious to save himself in this wretched manner as to lose himself in the contemplation of great- ness, it is naturally repugnant; while it is a delight to his soul, a sacred joy, to behold the union of those things whi^ belong together. It is this union which is fortunat^/but not as if it were merely accidental; and hence, it presupposes two distinct factors, while the accidental involves merely the inarticulate interjections of a blind fatcVit is the realization of this union which constitutes the fortunate in the historical process, the divine conjunction of its force^ th'e high tide of historic time. The accidental has but one factor; it ii Accidental that Homer found in the Trojan War the most distinguished epic subject conceivable. The for- tunate has two factors: it is fortunate that the most distinguished epic subject fell to ffie lot of Homer; here the accent falls as much on Homer

IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

as on the material. It is this profound harmony which reverberates through every work of art we cdl classic. And so it is with Mozart; it is fortunate that the subject, which is perhaps the only strictly musical subject, m the deeper sense, that life affords, fell to — ^Mozart.

With his Don fmn Mozart enters the litde immortal circle of those whose names, whose works, time will not forget, because eternity re- members them. And though it is a matter of indifference, when one has found entrance there, whether one stands highest or lowest, because in a certain sense all stand equally high, and though it is childish to dispute over the first and the last place here, as it is when children quarrel about the order assigned to them in the church at confirmation, I am still too much of a child, or rather I am like a yoimg girl in love with Mozart, and I must have him in first place, cost what it may. And I will appeal to the parish clerk, and to the clergyman and to the dean and to the bishop and to the whole consistory, and I will implore and adjure them to hear my prayer, and I will invoke the whole communion on this mat- ter, and if they refuse to hear me, if they refuse to grant my childish wish, I shall cut myself off from society, and renounce all fellowship with its modes of thought; and I will form a sect which not only gives Mozart first place, but which absolutely refuses to recognize any artist other than Mozart; and I shall beg Mozart to forgive me, because his music did not inspire me to great deeds, but turned me into a fool, who lost through him the litde reason I had, and spent most of my time in quiet sadness humming what I do not understand, haunting like a specter day and night what not permitted to enter. Immortal fMozart! Thou, to whom I owe everything; to whom I owe the loss of |my reason, the wonder that caused my soul to tremble, the fear that jgripped my inmost being; thou, to whom I owe it that I did not pass jthrough life without having been stirred by something. Thou, to whom I offer thanks that I did not die without having loved, although my love became unhappy. Is it strange then that I should be more concerned for Mozart’s glorification than for the happiest moment of my life, more jealous for his immortality than for my own existence? Aye, if he were taken away, if his name were erased from the memory of men, then would the last pillar be overthrown, which for me has kept everything from being hurled together into boundless chaos, into fearful nothing- ness.

And yet I need nor fear that any age will ever deny him his place in the kingdom of the gods, but I am prepared to find that men will con- sider it childish in me to insist that he must have the first place. And

INSIGNIFICANT INTRODUCTION

though I am by no means ashamed of my childishness, and though it will always have more significance and more value for me than any exhaustive reflection, just because it is inexhaustible, I shall nevertheless attempt to prove his lawful claim by reasoned consideration.

The happy characteristic that belongs to every classic, that which makes it classic and immortal, is the absolute harmony of the two forces, » form and content. This concord is so absolute that a later reflective age will scarcely be able to separate, even for thought, the two constituent elements here so intimately united, without running the risk of enter- taining or provoking a misunderstanding. Thus when we say that jt was Homer’s good fortune that he had the most remarkable epic sub- ject conceivable, we may forget that we always see this epic material through Homer’s eyes, and that it seems to us the most perfect subject, is clear to us only in and through the transubstantiation which we owe to Homer. But if, on the other hand, we stress Homer’s poetic energy in interpreting the material, we easily run the risk of forgetting that the poem would never have become the thing it is, if the thought with which Homer has imbued it, was not its own thought, if the form was not precisely the form that belongs to it. The poet wishes for his subject; but, as we say that wishing is no art, it is quite rightly and truthfully said about many impotent poetic wishes. To wish rightly, on the other hand, is a great art^ or, rather, it is a gift. It is the inexplicable and mysterious quality of genius, that, like a divining rod, it never ’gets the idea of wishing except when the thing wished for is present. Here wish- ing has a more profound significance than it ordinarily does, and to the abstract tmderstanding, it may even seem ridiculous, since we ordinarily think of a wish only in relation to that which is not, not in relation to that which is.

By one-sidedly emphasizing the significance of form, a certain school of aestheticians has been responsible for promoting the corresponding opposite misunderstanding also. It has often seemed strange to me that these aestheticians attached themselves without question to the Hegelian philosophy, since a general knowledge of Hegel, as well as a special acquaintance with his aesthetics, makes it clear that he strongly empha- sizes, with regard to the aesthetic, the significance of the content. Both parts belong essentially together, and a single consideration will be sufficient to confirm this, since otherwise such a phenomeson^ the following would be unthinkable. It is ordinarily only a singlewP||[k, or a single suite of works, which stamps the individual artist as 4 classic poet, artist, and so on. The same individual may have produced a great

IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

many different things, none of which stand in any relation to the classic. Homer has, for example, written a BcOrachomyomachia, but this poem has not made him classic or immortal. To say that this is due to the insignificance of the subject is foolish, since the classic depends on the perfect balance. If everything that determines a production as classic, were to be found solely in the creative artist, then everything produced by him would have to be classic, in a similar though higher sense than that in which bees always produce a uniform kind of cells. To explain this by saying that he was more successful in the one case than the other, would be to explain exacdy nothing. For, pardy, it would be only a pretentious tautology, which only too often in life enjoys the honor of being regarded as an answer; pardy, considered as an answer, it lies in another relativity than the one concerning which our question was asked. For it tells us nothing about the relation between form and con- tent, and at best could be taken into account in connection with an inquiry into the formative activity alone.

In Mozart’s case it also happens that there is one work, and only one, which makes him a classical composer, and absolutely immortal. That work is Don Juan. The other things which Mozart has produced may give us pleasure and delight, awaken the admiration, enrich the soul, satisfy the ear, delight the heart; but it does him and his immortal fame no service to lump them all together, and make them all equally great. Don Juan is his reception piece. Through Don Juan he is introduced into that eternity which does not lie outside of time but in the midst of it, which is not veiled from the eyes of men, where the immortals are intro- duced, not once for all, but constantly, again and again, as the genera- tions pass and turn their gaze upon them, find happiness in beholding them, and go to the grave, and the following generation passes them again in review, and is transfigured in beholding them- Through his Don Juan, Mozart becomes one in the order of these immortals, one of these visibly transfigured ones, whom no cloud ever takes away from the sight of men; with his Don Juan he stands foremost among them. This last assertion, as I remarked above, I shall attempt to prove.

As has already been noted above, all classic productions stand equally high, because each one stands infinitely high. If, despite this fact, one were to attempt to introduce an order of rank into the classic procession, one would evidently have to choose as a basis for such a distinction, something which was not essential; for if the basis were essential, the difference itself would become an essential difference; from that it would again follow that the word “classic” was wrongly predicated of

INSIGNIFICANT INTRODUCTION

the group as a whole. A classification based upon the varying character of the subject matter would immediately involve us in a niisunder- standing, which in its wider consequences would tend to nullify entirely the very concept of the classical. The subject matter is es- sential insofar as it is one of the constitutive factors, but it is not the absolute, since it is only one of the factors. We might notice, for example, that certain species of the classic have, in a sense, no subject matter, while, on the other hand, in others the content plays a very significant role. The first holds true of those works which we admire as classic in the realms of architecture, sculpture, music and painting, especially the first three, and even in the case of painting, insofar as there is a story in the piece, we usually regard this as an occasion. The second holds true of poetry, taken in its broadest sense, including all artistic produc- tions based upon language and the historical consciousness. This remark is quite correct in itself; but if we made it the basis of a classification, treating the absence or the presence of a subject as a help or a hindrance to the artist’s creative energy, we should fall into error. Strictly speak- ing, we should actually be urging the opposite of what we had actually intended to, as always happens when dealing abstractiy with dialectical concepts; it is not only true that we say one thing and mean another, but that we say the other; we do not say what we think we say, but we say the opposite. This is true where we make the subject valid as the principle of classification. In speaking about the subject matterj it turns' out that we really speak about something quite different, namely, the formative process. On the other hand, if we were to start from the formative process and stress it exclusively, the same thing would hap- pen. In the attempt to make a valid distinction here by stressing the fact that in some respects the formative process is creative, in that it creates the subject matter, while in others it receives it, the result would be that while one believed that one was speaking about the formative process, one would really be speaking of the subject matter, and would actually base the classification upon the division of the subject matter. Consequently, that which is valid for the formative process as a point of departure for such a classification is also true for the subject matter. Therefore, neither can ever be used alone for the purpose of establishing a distinction in rank; for it is always too essential to be accidental, too accidental to be an adequate basis for an essential distinction.

But this absolutely reciprocal interpenetration, which makes it clearly as proper to say that the subject matter penetrates the form, as that the form penetrates the subject matter; this mutual interpenetration, this

IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

like for like in the immortal friendship of the classic, may also serve to throw a light upon the classic from a new angle, and to limit it so that it does not become too ample. The aestheticians particularly, who have one-sidedly emphasized poetic activity, have so enlarged this concept, that this pantheon became so enriched, aye, so overloaded with classical gimcracks and bagatelles, that the natural conception of a cool hall containing individually distinguished and imposing figures completely disappeared, and this pantheon became rather a lumber-room. Every neat little bit of perfect artistry is, according to the aesthetic verdict, a classical work, assured of absolute immortality; indeed, in that hocus- pocus, such litde trifles were granted most of all. Although otherwise one hated paradoxes, still one did not fear the paradox that the smallest was really the greatest art. The falsity lay in one-sidedly emphasizing the formal. Such an aesthetic could therefore flourish only temporarily, only so long as no one noticed that time made it and its classic works absurd*. This tendency in the aesthetic sphere was a form of that radical- ism, which, in a corresponding manner, has expressed itself in so many different spheres, it was an expression of the undisciplined subject in its equally undisciplined emptiness.

This endeavor, however, found its master in Hegel. It is, on the whole, a sad fact regarding the Hegelian philosophy that it has by no means received the significance which it should have had, either for the pre- ceding generation or for the present, if the preceding generation had not been so busy intimidating people into it, as to give them little quiet for its appropriation, and if the present generation were not so untiringly active in pushing people beyond it. Hegel reinstated the content, the idea, in its just rights, and thereby banished all these transitory classics, these flimsy beings the hawk-moths, from the high-arched vaults of the classic pantheon. It is by no means our intention to pronounce these works destitute of their just worth, but, here as elsewhere, it is necessary to take care that the language does not become confused, the concept emasculated. A certain kind of immortality they may well have, and this is their desert; but this immortality is only the momentary eternity which every true work of art possesses, not that eternal fullness which can withstand all the vicissitudes of time. What these productions lack is ideas, and the greater their formal perfection, the more quickly will they consume themselves; the more their technical performance approx- imates the highest degree of virtuosity, the more fugitive they become, having neither the cou^e nor the energy nor the poise to withstand the attacks of time, tWragh all the while they more and more preten-

INSIGNIFICANT INTRODUCTION

tiously daim to be the most rectified of spirits. Only when the^^ reposes with transparent dearness in a definite form, can it be called a classic work; but then it will also be able to withstand the attacks of time. This imity, this mutual intensity within itself, is a property of every classical work, and hence it is readily evident that every attempt at a classification of the different classic works, which has for its basis a separation of form and content, or idea and form, is eo hso d oomed to failure.

In still another way we might attempt a classification. We might con- sider the medium through which the idea is made manifest, as an object for contemplation, and, as we have noticed that one meditun is richer or poorer than another, make this the basis for a classification wherein the wealth or poverty of the medium would be regarded as a help or a hindrance. But the medium stands in too necessary a relation to the production as a whole, not to make it probable that a classification based upon the medium would sooner or later find itself involved in the difEculties already emphasized.

I believe, on the other hand, that the following considerations may open the way for a classification which will have validity, precisely because it is altogether accidental. The more abstract, and hence the more void of content the idea is, the more abstract and hence the more poverty-stricken the medium is, the greater the probability is that a repetition will be impossible; the greater the probability is that when the idea has once obtained its expression, then it has found it once for all. The more concrete and consequently the richer the idea, and sim- ilarly the medium, the greater is the probability for a repetition. When I now arrange the classics side by side, and without wishing to rank them relatively, find myself wondering at their lofty equality, it never- theless easily becomes apparent that there are more works in one section than another, or, if this is not the case, that some unequal representation is easily conceivable.

This point I wish to develop a little more in detail. The more abstract the idea is, the smaller the probability of a numerous representation. But how does the idea become concrete? By being permeated with the his- torical consciousness. The more concrete the idea, the greater the proba- bility. The more abstract the medium, the smaller the probability; the more concrete, the greater. But what does it mean to say that the medium is concrete, other than to say it is language, or is seen in approximation to language; for l anguage is the most concrete of all me^ . The, idea, for example, which comes to expression in sculpture is wholly abstract.

44 IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

and bears no relation to the historical; the medium through which it is expressed is likewise abstract, consequently there is a great probability that the section of the classic works which includes sculpture will con- tain only a few. In this I have the testimony of time and experience on my side. If, on the other hand, I take a concrete idea and a concrete medium, then it seems otherwise. Hojmer is indeed the classic epic poet, but just because the epic idea is a concrete idea, and because the medium is language, it so happens that in the section of the classics which con- tains the epic, there are many epics conceivable, which are all equally classic, because history constantly furnishes us with new epic material. In this, too, I have the testimony of history and the assent of exjlerience.

Now when I propose to base my subdivision wholly on the accidental, one can hardly deny its accidental character. But if, on the other hand, someone should reproach me, my answer would be that the objection is a mistake, since the principle of classification ought to be accidental. It is accidental that one section numbers, or can number, many more works than another. But since this is accidental, it is evident that one rdight just as well place the class highest which has, or can have, the greatest number. Here I might fall back upon the preceding discussion, and calmly answer that this is quite correct, but that I ought for this very reason to be all the more lauded for my consistency in accidentally setting the opposite class highest. However, I shall not do this, but, on the other hand, I shall appeal to a circumstance that speaks in my favor, the circumstance, namely, that those sections which embrace the more concrete ideas are not yet completed, and do not permit of being com- pleted. Therefore it is quite natural to place the others first, and to keep the double doors wide open for the latter. Should someone say that this is an imperfection, a defect, in the former class, then he plows a furrow outside of my field of thought, and I cannot pay attention to his words, however thorough he is otherwise; for it is my fixed point of departure, that everything is essentially equally perfect.

But which idea is the ^ost abstrac t? Here the question is naturally concerned only with sucffid^ as lend themselves to artistic representa- tion, not with ideas appropriate only for scientific treatment. And what medium is the most abstrac t ? The latter question I shall answer first. The mort abstract medium is the one farthest removed from langnage.

But before I pass on to reply to this question, I desire to r emin d the reader of a circumstance which affects the final solution of my problem. The most abstract medium is not always employed to express the most abstract idea. The medium employed by architecture is thus, for ex-

INSIGNIFICANT INTRODUCTION 45

ample, doubtless the most abstract medium, but the ideas which receive expression in architecture are by no means the most abstract. Architec- ture stands in a much closer relation to history than sculpture, for example. Here we are again confronted with a new alternative. I may place in the first class in this arrangement either those works of art which have the most abstract medium, or those whose idea is most abstract. In this respect I shall choose the idea, not the medium.

Now the media employed in architecture and sculpture and painting and music are abstract. Here is not the place to investigate this matter farther. The most abstract idea conceivable is sensual genius. But in what medium is this idea expressible? Solely in music. It cannot be expressed in sculpture, for it is a sort of inner qualification of inward- ness;' nor in painting, for it cannot be apprehended in precise outlines; it is an energy, a storm, impatience, passion, and so on, in all their lyrical quality, yet so that it does not exist in one moment but in a succession of moments, for if it existed in a single moment, it could be modeled or painted. The fact that it exists in a succession of moments expresses its epic character, but still it is not epic in the stricter sense, for it has not yet advanced to words, but moves always in an immediacy. Hence it cannot be represented in poetry. The only medium which can express it is music. Music has, namely, its moment in time, but it does not pass away in time except in an unessential sense. It cannot express the his- torical in the temporal process.

The perfect unity of this idea and the corresponding form we have in Mozart’s Don Juan. But precisely because the idea is so tremendously abstract, the medium is also abstract, so it is not probable that Mozart will ever have a rival. It was Mozart’s good fortune to have found a subject that is absolutely musical, and if some future composer should try to emulate Mozart, there would be nothing else for him to do than to compose Don Juan over again. Homer found a perfect epic subject, but many epic poems are conceivable, because history commands more epic material. This is not the case with Don Juan. What I really mean will perhaps be best understood if I show the difference in connection with a related idea. Goethe’s Faust is a genuinely classical production, but the idea is a historical idea, and hence every notable historical era will have its own Faust. Faust has language as its medium, and since this is a far more concrete medium, it follows on this grotmd also, that sev- eral works of the same kind are conceivable. Don Juan, on the other hand, will always stand alone by itself, in the same sense that the Greek sculptures are classics. But since the idea in Don Juan is even more ab-

46 IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

stract than that underlying Greek sculpture, it is easy to see that while classic sculpture includes several works, in music there can be only one. There can, of course, be a number of classical musical productions, but there will never be more than the one work of which it is possible to say that the idea is absolutely musical, so that the music does not appear as an' accompaniment, but reveals its own innermost essence in revealing the idea. It is for this reason that Mozart stands highest among the Immortals, through his Don Juan.

But I abandon this whole inquiry. It is written only for lovers. And as a little can please a child, so it is well known that lovers take pleasure iti highly inconsequential things. It is like a heated lovers’ quarrel about nothing, and yet it has its meaning — ^for the lovers.

While the preceding argument has tried in every possible manner, conceivable and inconceivable, to have it recognized that Mozart’s Don Juan takes the highest place among all classical works, it has made prac- tically no attempt to prove that this work is really a classic; for the sug- gestions found here and there, precisely as being only suggestions, show that they are not intended to furnish proof, but only to afford an oppor- tunity for enlightenment. This procedure may seem more than peculiar. The proof that Don Juan is a classic work is in the strictest sense a prob- lem for thought; while, on the contrary, the other attempt, with regard to the exact sphere of thought, is quite irrelevant The movement of thought'is satisfied with having it recognized that Don Juan is a classic, and that every classic production is equally perfect; what more one may desire to do, is for thought a thing of evil. Insofar the preceding argu- ment involves itself in a self-contradiction, and easily dissolves into nothing. This is, however, quite correct, and such a self-contradiction is deeply rooted in human nature. My admiration, my sympathy, my piety, the child in me, the woman in me, demanded more than thought could give. My thought had found repose, rested happy in its knowledge; then I came to it, and begged it yet once more to set itself in motion, to ven- ture the utmost. It knew very well that it was in vain; but since I am accustomed to living on good terms with my thought, it did not refuse me. However, its efforts accomplished nothing; incited by me it con- stantly transcended itself, and constantly fell back into itself. It con- stantly sought a foothold, but could not find it; constantly sought bot- tom, but could neither swim nor wade. It was something both to laugh at and to weep over. Hence I did both, and I was very thankful that it had not refused me this service. And although I know very well that it will accomplish nothing, I am still as likely to ask it once more to play

THE MUSICAL EROTIC

the same game, which is to me an inexhaustible source of delight. Any reader who finds the game tiresome, is, of course, naturally not of my kind; for him the game has no significance, and it is true here as else- where, that like-minded children make the best play-fellows. For him the whole preceding argument is a superfluity, while for me it has such great significance, that I say thereof with Horace: exilis domus est, ubt non et multa supersunt\ to him it is foolishness, to me wisdom; to him boring, to me a joy and delight.

Ck>nsequently such a reader will not be able to sympathize with the lyricism of my thought, which is so extreme that even the thought suffers; perhaps he will, however, be good-natured enough to say: “We will not quarrel about that; I skip that part, but now let us see how you approach the far more important problem of proving that Don Juan is a classical work; for that, I admit, would be a very suitable introduc- tion to the main inquiry.” How far it would be a suitable introduction, I shall leave tmdecided, but here again I find myself in the unformnate position of not being able to sympathize with him; for however easy it might be for me to prove it, it would never enter my mind to do so. But while I always presuppose that matter as decided, the followmg exposition will serve many times and in many ways, to shed light upon Don Juan in this respect, just as the preceding exposition has already contributed an occasional suggestion.

The task to which this inquiry is committed, is to show the signifi- cance of the musical-erotic , and as a means to this end, again to point out the different stages, which as they have this in common, that they are all immediately erotic, also agree La being essentially musical. What I have to say on this subject, I owe to Mozart alone. Hence, if one or another reader should be polite enough to agree with my exposition, but still a little doubtful as to whether it was in Mozart’s music, or whether I had not myself read it into the music, I can assure him that not only the little which I here present is found there, but uifinitely much more; aye, I can assure him that it is precisely this thought which gives me courage to attempt an explanation of certam features of Mozart’s music.

That which you have loved with youthful enthusiasm and admired with youthful ardor, that which you have secretly and mysteriously pre- served in the innermost recesses of your soul, that which you have hid- den in the heart: that you always approach with a certain shyness, with mingled emotions, when you know that the purpose is to try to under- stand it. That which you have learned to know bit by bit, like a bird

IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

gathering straws for its nest, happier over each separate little piece than over all the rest of the world; that which the loving ear has absorbed, solitary in the great multitude, unnoticed in the secret hiding-place; that which the greedy ear has snatched up, never sated, the miserly ear has hidden, never secure, whose softest echo has never disappointed the sleepless vigil of the spying ear; that which you have lived with by day, that which you have relived by night, that which has banished sleep and made it restless, that which you have dreamed about while sleeping, and have waked up to dream it again while awake, that for which you have leaped out of bed in the naiddle of the night for fear lest you for- get it; that which has been present to your soul in the highest moments of rapture, that which like a feminine occupation you have kept always at hand; that which has followed you on bright moonlight nights, in lonely forests, by the ocean’s shore, in the gloomy streets, in the dead of night, at the break of day; that which has been your companion on horseback, your fellow traveler in the carriage; that which has per- meated the home, that to which your chamber has been witness, that with which your ear has re-echoed, that which has resounded through your soul, that which the soul has spun on its finest loom — ^that now re- veals itself to thought. As those mysterious beings in ancient story rise from the ocean’s bed invested with seaweed, so it now rises from the sea of remembrance, interwoven with memories. The soul becomes sad, and the heaft softens; for it is as if you were bidding it farewell, as if you were separating yourself from it, never to meet it again either in time or eternity. It seems as if you were false to it, faithless to your trust, you feel that you are no longer the same, neither so young nor so childlike; you fear for yourself, lest you lose what has made you happy and rich and glad; you fear for the object of your love, lest it suffer in this trans- formation, lest it show itself perhaps less perfect, lest it may not be able to answer the many questions, and then, alas! everything is lost, the magic vanished, never to be evoked again. As far as Mozart’s music is concerned, my soul knows no fear, my confidence is boundless. For partly I know that what I have hitherto understood is very little, so there will always be enough left behind, hiding in the shadows of the soul’s vaguer intimations; and pardy I am convinced that if ever Mozart became wholly comprehensible to me, he would then become fully in- comprdiensible to me.

To assert that Christianity has brought sensuality into the world, may seem boldly daring. But as we say that a bold venture is half won, so also here; and my proposition may be better imderstood if we consider that

THE MUSICAL EROTIC

in positing one thing, we also indirectly posit the other which we ex- clude. Since the sensual generally is that which should be negatived, it is clearly evident that it is posited first through the act which excludes it, in that it posits the opposite positive principle. As principle, as power, as a self-contained system, sensuaUsm is first posited in Christianity; and insofar it is true that Christianity brought sensualism into the world. Rightly to understand this proposition, that Christianity has brought sensuaUsm into the world, one must apprehend it as identical with the contrary proposition, that it is Christianity which has driven sensualism ^ut, has excluded it from the world. As principle, as power, as a self- ipofitained system, sensualism was first posited by Christianity; to add still another qualification, which wiU, perhaps, show more emphati- cally what I mean: sensualism, viewed from the standpoint of the Spirit, was first posited by Christianity. This is quite natural, for Christianity is Spirit, and the Spirit is the positive principle which Christianity has brought into the world. But when sensualism is viewed from the stand- point of the spiritual, its significance is seen to be that it should be ex- cluded; but precisely because it should be excluded, it is determined as a principle, as a power; for that which the Spirit, which itself is a prin- ciple, woxold exclude, must be something which is also a principle, although it first reveals itself as a principle in the moment that it is ex- cluded. To say that sensualism was in the world before Christianity, would, of course, be a very stupid objection, since it is self-evident that that which is to be excluded always exists before that which excludes it, although in another sense of the word, it comes into existence for the first time in being excluded. It comes into existence again in mother sense, and that is why I said at once that a bold venture is only half the battle.

The sensual has consequently existed before in the world, but not as a spiritual category. How then has it existed? It has existed as a psychi- cal determination. It was in this manner that it existed in paganism, and, in its most perfect expression, in Greece. But the sensuous as a qualification of the soul, is not opposition, exclusion, but harmony and tmison. But precisely because the sensuous is posited as a harmonious qualification, it is not posited as a principle, but as a consonant enclitic.

This consideration will serve to throw light upon the different forms assumed by the erotic in the different stages of the evolution of the world-consciousness, and thereby lead us to determine the immediate- erotic as identical with the musical-erotic. In the Greek consciousness, the sensuous was imder control in the beautiful personality, or, more

IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

rightly stated, it was not controlled; for it was not an enemy to be sub- jugated, not a dangerous rebel who should be held in check; it was liberated imto life and joy in the beautiful personality. The sensuous was thus not posited as a principle; the principle of soul which consti- tuted the beautiful personality, was unthinkable without the sensuous; the erotic based upon the sensuous, was for this reason not posited as a principle. Love was present everywhere as moment, and as such it was momentarily present in the beautiful personality. The gods recognized its power no less than men; the gods, no less than men, recognized happy and unhappy love-adventures. In none of them, however, was love present as principle; insofar as it was in them, in the individual, it was there as a moment of the universal power of love, which was, however, not present anywhere, and therefore did not even exist for Greek thought, nor for the Greek consciousness. The objection might be oflEered that Eros was the god of love, and that love as principle must be conceived as present in him. But disregarding now the consideration that here again love does not rest upon the erotic insofar as this is based upon the sensuous alone, but is a qualification of the soul, there is an- other circumstance which it is necessary to note, which I shall emphasize more particularly.

Eros was the god of love, but he was not himself in love. Insofar as the other gods or men felt the power of love in themselves, they ascribed it to Eros, referred it to him, but Eros was not himself in love; and in- sofar as this happened to him once, this was an exception, and though he was the god of love, he stood far behind the other gods in the number of his love adventures, far behind men. The fact that he did once fall in love, best expresses also the fact that he, too, bowed before the universal power of love, which thus in a certain sense became a force outside of himself, and which, rejected by him, now had no place at all where it might be found. Nor is his love based upon the sensuous, but upon the qualities of soul. It is a genuine Greek thought that the god of love is not himself in love, while all others owe their love to him. If I imagined a god or goddess of longing, it would be a genuinely Greek conception, that while aU who knew the sweet unrest of pain or of longing, referred it to this being, this being itself could know no thin g of longing. I can- not characterize this remarkable relation better than to say it is the con- verse of the representative relation. In the representative relation the entire energy is concentrated in a single individual, and the particular individuals participate therein, insofar as they participate in its particu- lar movements. I might almost say that this relation is the opposite of

THE MUSICAL EROTIC

that which lies at the basis of the Incarnation. In the Incarnation, the special individual has the entire fullness of life within himself, and this fullness exists for other individuals only insofar as they behold it in the incarnated individual. The Greek consciousness gives us the converse relation. That which constitutes the power of the god is not in the god, but in all the other individuals, who refer it to him; he is himself, as it were, powerless and impotent, because he communicates his power to the whole world. The incarnated individual, as it were, absorbs the power from all the rest, and the fullness is therefore in him, and only so far in the others as they behold it in him. This consideration will be seen as important in its relation to what follows, as well as significant in itself, with respect to the categories which the universal consciousness makes use of in different periods of the world’s history.

As a principle, then, we do not find the sensuous in the Greek con- sciousness, nor do we find the erotic as principle based upon the prin- ciple of the sensuous; and even if we had found this, we still see, what is for this inquiry of the greatest importance, that the Greek conscious- ness did not have the energy to concentrate the whole in a single individual, but thought of it as emanating from a point which does not possess it, to all the other points, so that this constitutive point is almost identifiable by the fact that it is the only point which does not have that which it gives to all the others.

Hence the sensuous as principle is posited by Christianity, as is also the sensuous-erotic, as principle; the representative idea was introduced into the world by Christianity. If I now imagine the sensuous-erotic as a principle, as a power, as a kingdom qualified spiritually, that is to say, so qualified that the Spirit excludes it; if I imagine this principle con- centrated in a single individual, then I have a concept of the sensuous- erotic genius. This is an idea which the Greeks did not have, which Christianity first brought into the world, even if only in an indirect sense.

If this sensuous-erotic genius demands expression in all its immediacy, the question arises as to which medium is appropriate for the purpose. It must be specially emphasized that we demand its expression and representation in its immediacy. In its mediate and reflective character it comes under language, and becomes subject to ethical categories. In its immediacy, however, it can only be expressed in music. In this con- nection I must ask the reader to remember something which was said in the insignificant introduction. Here the significance of music is re- vealed in its full validity, and it also reveals itself in a stricter sense as a

52 IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

Christian art, or rather as the art which Christianity posits in excluding it from itself, as being a medium for that which Christianity excludes from itself, and thereby posits. In other words, music is the demoniac. In the erotic sensual genius, music has its absolute object. It is not of course intended to say by this that music cannot also express other things, but this is its proper object. In the same way the art of sculpture is also capable of producing much else than human beauty, and yet this is its absolute object; painting can express much else than the beauty which is celestially glorified, and yet this is its absolute object. In this respect it is important to be able to see the essential idea in each art, and not to permit oneself to be disturbed by what it is incidentally capable of representing. Man’s essential idea is spirit, and we must not permit ourselves to be confused by the fact that he is also able to walk on two legs. The idea in language is thought, and we must not permit ourselves to be disturbed by the opinion of certain sentimental people, that its highest significance is to produce inarticulate sounds.

Here I beg to be allowed a little unmeaning interlude; praeterea censeo, that Mozart is the greatest among classic composers, and that his Don Juan deserves the highest place among all the classic works of art.

Now regarding the nature of music as a medium, this will naturally always be a very interesting problem. Whether I am capable of saying anything satisfactory about it is another question. I know very well that I do not understand music, I freely admit that I am a layman, I do not conceal the fact that I do not belong to the chosen people who are con- noisseurs of music, that I am at most a proselyte at the gate, whom a strangely irresistible impulse carried from far regions to this point, but no farther. And yet it is perhaps possible that the little I have to say might contain some particular remark, which, if it met with a kind and indulgent reception, might be found to contain something true, even if it concealed itself under a shabby coat. I stand outside the re alm of music and contemplate it from this standpoint. That this standpoint is very imperfect, I freely admit; that I am in a position to see very little in comparison with the fortunate ones who stand inside, I do not deny; but I still continue to hope that from my standpoint I may be able to throw some light upon the subject, although the initiated could do it much better, aye, to a certain extent, even imderstand better what I say, than I can myself. If I imagined two kingdoms adjoining one another, with one of which I was fairly well acquainted, and altogether un- familiar with the other, and I was not allowed to enter the unknown

THE MUSICAL EROTIC

realm, however much I desired to do so, I should still be able to form some conception of its nature. I could go to the limits of the kingdom with which I was acquainted and follow its boundaries, and as I did so, I should in this way describe the boundaries of this unknown country, and thus without ever having set foot in it, obtain a general conception of it. And if this was a task that engrossed my energies, and if I was indefatigable in my desire to be accurate, it would doubtless sometimes happen, that as I stood sadly at my country’s boundary and looked long- ingly into the unknown country, which was so near me and yet so far away, that some little revelation might be vouchsafed to me. And though I feel that music is an art which to the highest degree requires experience to justify one in having an opinion about it, still I comfort myself again, as I have so often done before, with the paradox, that even in ignorance and mere intimations there is also a kind of experience. I comfort myself by remembering that Diana, who had not herself given birth, nevertheless came to the assistance of the child-bearing, moreover, that she had this as a native gift from childhood, so that she came to the assistance of Latona in her labor, when she herself was born.

The kingdom known to me, to whose utmost boundaries I intend to go in order to discover music, is language. If one wished to arrange the different media according to their appointed developmental process, one would have to place music and language next to one another, for which reason it has often been said that music is a language, which is some- thing more than a genial remark. If one enjoyed in indulging in clever speeches, one might almost say that sculpture and painting are each a kind of language, insofar as every expression for the idea is necessarily a language, since the language is the essence of the idea. Very clever people, therefore, talk about the language of nature, and maudlin clergymen open the book of nature for us now and then, to read some- thing to us which neither they nor their hearers understand. If the re- mark that music is a language had no better standing than this, I should not trouble about it, but let it go and be valid for what it is. But such, however, is not the case. Not until the spiritual is posited, is the language invested with its rights, but when the spiritual is posited, all that which is not spirit is thereby excluded. But this exclusion is a determination of spirit, and insofar as the excluded is to assert itself, it requires a medium which is spiritually determined, and this is music. But a medium which is spiritually determined is essentially language; since then music is spiritually determined, it has justly been called a language.

As a medium, language is the one absolutely spiritually qualified

54 IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

medium; therefore it is the proper vehicle for the idea. A more adequai development of this point is not within my competence, nor is it withi the scope of this little inquiry. Perhaps I may, however, find room fc one remark, which again brings me back to music. In language tl sensuous is as medium depressed to the level of a mere instrumentalit and absolutely negated. Such is not the case with the other medi Neither in sculpture nor in painting is the sensuous a mere instrumenta ity, but it is an integral part; nor is it constantly negated, for it is coi stantly taken into accoimt. It would be a peculiarly preposterm consideration of a statue or a painting to contemplate it in such a ws that I should take the trouble to abstract the sensuous, thereby con pletely annulling its beauty. In sculpture, architecture, painting, the id( is bound up with the medium; but this fact that the idea does n* depress the medium to the level of a mere instrumentality, nor coi stantly negate it, is, as it were, an expression of the fact that this medim cannot speak. So also with nature. Hence, we rightly say that nature dumb, and architecture and sculpture and painting; we say it correctl in spite of all the sensitive and sentimental ears that can hear tha speak. It is in truth as silly to say that Nature is a language as it is inej to say that a dumb man speaks, since it is not even a language in tl sense in which the sign-manual is a language. But it is different in tl case of language. The sensuous is reduced to a mere instrument, and thus annulled. If a man spoke in such a way that one heard the mov ment of his tongue, he would speak badly; if he heard so that he heai the air vibrations instead of the words, he would hear badly; if in rea( ing a book he constandy saw the individual letters, he would read badl Language becomes the perfect medium just at the moment when ever thing sensuous in it is negatived. So it is also with music: that whic really should be heard, constandy emancipates itself from the sensuou That music as a medium stands lower than language, has already bee pointed out, and it was, therefore, on this account that I said that only i a certain sense is music a language.

Language addresses itself to the ear. This is not the case with ar other medium. The ear is the most spiritually determined of the sense That I believe most men will admit. If anyone wishes farther inf orm; don on this point, I refer the reader to the preface of Kam\<auren di Heiligsten by Steffens. Aside from language, music is the only mi dium that addresses itself to the ear. Herein is again an analogy and testimony concerning the sense in which music is a language. There pauch in nature which addresses itself to the ear, but that which afiec

THE MUSICAL EROTIC

the ear is the purely sensuous, and for that reason nature is dumb; and it is a ridiculous delusion that one hears something because one hears a cow moo, or, that which perhaps makes greater pretensions, a nightin- gale sing; it is a delusion to think that one hears something, a delusion m think that one is worth more than the other, since it is all a case of weedledum and tweedledee.

('Language has its element in time, all the other media have theirs in pace. Only music takes place in time. But the fact that it does take place m time is again a negation of the sensuous. What the other arts produce suggests precisely their sensuousness, that it has its continuance in space. Now there is, of course, much in nature that takes place in time. Thus when a brook ripples and continues to ripple, there seems to be in it a qualification of time. However, this is not so, and insofar as one may wish to insist that we have here a qualification of time, one would have to say that the time is indeed present, but present as if spatially qualified. Music exists only in the moment of its performance, for if one were ever so skilful in reading notes and had ever so lively an imagination, it can- not be denied that it is only in an unreal sense that music exists when it is read. It really exists only in being produced. This might seem to be an imperfection in this art as compared with the others whose produc- tions remain, because they have their existence in the sensuous. But this is not so. It is rather a proof of the fact that music is a higher, a more spiritual art.

Now if I take music for my point of departure, in order by moving through it, as it were, to spy out the land of music, the result appears about as follows. If I assume that prose is the language-form that is farthest removed from music, then I notice that even in the oratorical discourse, in the sonorous structure of its periods, a hint of the musical which manifests itself more and more strongly at different levels in the poetic form, in the stru<;ture of the verse, in the rhyme, until at last the musical has been developed so strongly that language ceases, and every- thing becomes music. This is a favorite expression which the poets have used to signify that they have, so to speak, renounced the idea, which vanishes from them, and everything ends in music. This might seem to indicate that music is an even more perfect medium than language. However, this is one of those sentimental misunderstandings which originate only in emptjr heads. That it is a misunderstanding will be shown later; here I desire only to call attention to the remarkable cir- cumstance that by moving through the language in the opposite direc- tion, I again come up against music, in that I proceed from a prosie

56 IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

interpenetrated by the concept, downward until I land in interjections which are again musical, just as the child’s first babbhng syllables are musical. Here it will hardly be said that music is a more perfect medium than language, or that music is a richer medimn than language, unless one is willing to assume that saying “uh” is worth more than a com- plete thought. But what follows then from this ? Everywhere that lan- guage ceases, I meet with the musical. This is certainly the most perfect expression for the fact that music everywhere limits language. Hence it is also easy to see how that is connected with that misunder- standing which thinks music a richer medium than language. Namely, when language ceases, music begins, when, as we say, everything be- comes musical, then we do not go forward but backward.

This is the reason why I never had any sympathy, and in this perhaps even the experts will agree with me, for the more sublime music which believes it can dispense with words. As a rule it thinks itself higher than words, although it is really inferior. Now I might perhaps be confronted with the following objection: “If it is true that language is a richer me- dium than music, then it is hard to understand why it should be so hard to give an aesthetic account of the musical; inconceivable that the lan- guage in this connection should always appear as a poorer medium than music.” This is, however, neither inconceivable nor inexplicable. Music always expresses the immediate in its immediacy; it is for this reason, too, thSt music shows itself first and last in relation to language, but for this reason, also, it is clear that it is a misunderstanding to say that music is a more perfect medium. Language involves reflection, and cannot, therefore, express the immediate. Reflection destroys the immediate, and hence it is impossible to express the musical in language; but this apparent poverty of language is precisely its wealth. The immediate is really the indeterminate, and therefore language cannot apprehend it; but the fact that it is indeterminate is not its perfection, but an imperfec- tion. This is indirectly acknowledged in many ways. Thus, to cite but one example, we say: “I cannot really explain why I do this or that so and so, I do it by ear.” Here we often use about things which have no relation to music, a word that is derived from music, but we indicate it by the obscure, the unexplained, the immediate.

Now if it is the immediate, apprehended in the spiritual categories, which receives its precise expression in music we may again inquire more closely what species of the immediate it is which is essentially the subject of music. The immediate, quaUfied spiritually, may be deter- mined so as to fall within the sphere of the spiritual, and then it may

THE MUSICAL EROTIC

well find its expression in the musical, but this immediacy cannot be the absolute subject of music, for since it is determined in such a way as to be included tmder the spiritual, it is thereby indicated that music is in a foreign sphere, it constitutes a prelude which is constantly being an- nulled. But if the immediate, spiritually determiued, is such that it falls outside the realm of spirit, then music here has its absolute subject. For the first species of the immediate, it is an imessential fact that it is expressed in music, and an essential fact that it becomes spirit, and consequently , is expressed in language ; for the second, it is essentia l th at it is expressed in music, it carmot be expressed otherwise than in music, it cannot be expressed in language, since it is spiritually determined so that it falls outside of the spiritual, and consequently, outside of language. But the immediacy which is thus excluded by the spirit is sensuous immediacy. This belongs to Christianity. In music it has its absolute medium, and from this circumstance it is also possible to explain the fact that music did not really become developed in the ancient world, but belongs to the Christian era. Music is, then, the medium for that species of the im- mediate which, spiritually determined, is determined as lying outside of the spirit. Music can naturally express many other things, but this is its absolute subject. It is easy to perceive that music is a more sensuous medium than language, since it stresses the sensuous much more strongly than language does.

The genius of sensuality is hence the absolute subject of music. The sensual genius is absolutely lyrical, and it comes to expression in music in all its lyrical impatience. It is, namely, spiritually determined, and therefore, it is force, life, movement, constant unrest, perpetual succes- sion; but this imrest, this succession, does not enrich it, it remains always the same, it does not unfold itself, but it storms uninterruptedly forward as if in a single breath. If I desired to characterize this lyrical quality by a single predicate, I should say: it sounds; and this brings me back again to the sensual genius as the one that appears immediately musical.

That I might be able to say considerably more in connection with this point, I know; that it would be an easy matter for the experts to clear the matter up quite differently, of that I am convinced. But since no one, as far as I know, has attempted, or even pretended to do so, since they all continue to reiterate that Mozart’s Don Juan is the crown of all operas, but without explaining what they mean by that, although they all say it in a manner which clearly demonstrates that by this statement they intend to say something more than that Don Juan is the best opera, that there is a qualitative difference between it and all other operas,

58 IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

which cannot well be sought in anything other than in the absolute relationship between idea, form, subject and medium; since, I say, this is so, it is for this reason that I have broken silence. Perhaps I have been a little too hasty, perhaps I should have been able to say it better had I waited a little longer, perhaps— I do not know; but this I know, I have not hurried in order to enjoy the pleasure of speaking, I have not hur- ried because I feared someone more capable than myself might antici- pate me, but because I feared that if I kept silent, even the stones would cry out in Mozart’s honor, and cry shame to every human being to whom it has been given to speak.

What has been said in the preceding will, I assume, be enough with respect to this little inquiry, since it will essentially serve to clear the way for a discussion of the immediate-erotic stages as we learn to know them through Mozart. Before passing on to that, however, I wish to cite a fact, which, from another side, can direct the thought to the absolute relationship between the sensual and the musical genius. It is well known that music has always been the object of suspicion from the standpoint of religious enthusiasm. Whether this is justifiable or not does not concern us here, since it has only a religious interest; on the other hand, it is not unimportant to consider that which may qualify that view. If I trace back the history of religious fervor in regard to this, then I can generally determine the time of the movement in this way: the stronger the religiosity, the more one renounces music and stresses the importance of words. The different stages in this respect are repre- sented in the periods of the world history. The last stage entirely ex- cludes miusic and insists solely upon speech. I could illustrate this state- ment in many ways from personal observations; however I shall not do that, but cite only a word or two from a Presbyterian who figures in a story by Achim v. Arnim: “We Presbyterians regard the organ as the devil’s bagpipe, by which serious reflection is not only lulled to sleep, but its devil’s dance bewilders the good intention.” This must be regarded as a speech instar omnium. What reason can one have for excluding music and making the spoken word the only prevalent means of expression? That the spoken word when wrongly med can arouse the emotions equally with music, all intelligent sects will certainly admit. Hence there must be a qualitative diflference between them. But that which re- ligious enthusiasm wishes to have expressed is spirit, therrfore it requires language, which is the proper medium of the spirit, and rejects music which is a sensual medium, and, as such, is always an imperfect medium for expressing Ac spiritual. WhcAcr, Acn, religious zeal is really right

the musical E&OtIC

in rejecting music, is, as was said, another question; on the other hand, the consideration of the relation of music to language may be rightfully completed. Music need not, therefore, be excluded, but we must recog- nize that in the realm of the spirit it is an imperfect medium, and, hence, that it cannot have its absolute object in the immediately spiritual, de- termined as spirit. From this it by no means follows that one needs to regard music as the work of the devil, even if our age does ofier many horrible proofs of the demoniac power with which music may lay hold upon an individual, and this individual in turn, excite and catch many, especially women, in the seductive snare of fear, by means of the all- disturbing power of sensuality. It by no means follows that one needs to regard music as the work of the devil, even though one notices with a certain secret horror that this art, more than any other, frequently harrows its votaries in a terrible manner, a phenomenon which strangely enough seems to have escaped the attention of psychologists and the multitude, except at the single moment when they are startled by the wild shriek of some despairing individual. However, it is noticeable enough that in legends, hence in the popular consciousness which finds its expression in legends, the musical is again the demoniacal. As an example I may mention the Insh March of the Elves.

Now with respect to the immediate-erotic stage, I owe everything I can say about it exclusively to Mozart, to whom, above all, I ovve every- thing. Since, however, the comparison I here attempt^ can only be referred to him indirectly, through a combination of other circum- stances, I have, before setting about it seriously, tested myself and the comparison to see whether I might in some way have disturbed my own pleasure or that of some other reader, in admiring the immortal works of Mozart. He who woxild see Mozart in his true immortal greatness must witness his Don Juan; in comparison with that every other work is trivial and xinimportant. But if we now look at Don Juan so that we see individual things from Mozart’s other operas from this same point of view, then I am convinced that we shall neither disparage him, nor injure ourselves or our neighbor. Then we shall have the opportunity to rejoice over the fact that all the essential potency of music is poured out in the music of Mozart.

As for the rest, when in the preceding I used, and in what follows I continue to use the expression “stage,” it must not be insisted upon as implying that each stage existed independently, the one wholly separate from the other. I might, perhaps, more pertinently have used the word “metamorphosis.” The different stages taken together constitute the

IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

i m mediate stage, and from this we may perceive that the individual stages are rather a revelation of a predicate, so that all the predicates rush down into the wealth of the last stage, since this is the real stage. The other stages have no independent existence; they serve only as an introduction, and from this one may see their accidental character as over against the last stage. Since, however, they have found separate expression in Mozart’s music, I shall discuss them separately. Above all, however, one must avoid considering them as different degrees of con- sciousness, since even the last stage has not yet arrived at consciousness; I have always to do only with the immediate in its perfected immediacy.

The difficulties which are always met with when one would make music the subject for aesthetic consideration, naturally do not fail to appear here. Tlie difficulty in the preceding lay chiefly in the fact that while I wish to prove by means of thought, that sensual genius is essen- tially the object of music, this can actually only be proved by means of music, just as I, too, can only come to an appreciation of music through the music itself. The difficulty which that which follows has to contend with, is chiefly that that which music expresses, which is here the subject imder discussion, is essentially the exact object of music, and so it expresses it far more perfectly than language is able to do, which does it very poorly in comparison with music. Moreover, if I had to do with the different degrees of consciousness, then the advantage would natu- rally be’ on the side of language, but here that is not the case. Hence that which remains to be explained here, can only have significance for him who has heard the music, and who constantly continues to hear it. For him it may perhaps contain a single suggestion which may influence him to hear it again.

First Stage

The first stage is suggested by the Page in Figaro. It is naturally not fair here to see in the Page a single individual, which we are so easily tempted to do, when in imagination or reality we see a character pre- sented on the stage. Then it becomes difficult to avoid, as is also partly the case with the Page in the play, having something accidental, some irrelevant idea enter, so that he becomes more than he should be; for in a certain sense he becomes this the moment he becomes an individual. But in becoming more, he becomes less, he ceases to be the idea. Therefore, we cannot grant him speech, but music becomes his only adequate means of expression, and for that reason it is noticeable that Figaro as

FIRST STAGE

well as Don Juan, as they issue from the hand of Mozart, belong to opera seria. Now if we regard the Page only as a mythical figure, we shall find the characteristic of this first stage expressed in music.

The sensual awakens, not yet to movement, but to a hushed tran- quillity; not to joy and gladness, but to a deep melancholy. Desire is not yet awake, it is only a gloomy foreboding. In desire there is always present the object of desire, which rises up and manifests itself in a bewildered twilight. This condition progresses for the sensual, as clouds and mists dissipate, and reflection on these matters draws nearer. Desire possesses what will become its object, but possesses it without having desired it, and so does not possess it. This is the painful, but also in its sweetness, the delightful and fascinating contradiction which in its sadness and its melancholy, resounds throughout this stage. Its pain lies not in there being too little, but rather m there being too much. The de- sire is quiet desire, the longing quiet longing, the ecstasy quiet ecstasy, wherein the object of desire is dawning, and is so near that it is within the desire. The object of desire hovers over the desire, sinks down in it, still without this movement happening through the attractive power of desire, or because it is desired. The object of desire does not fade away, nor does it elude the embrace of desire, for then would desire really awaken; but it is, without being desired by the desire, which just because of this, becomes melancholy because it cannot beget desire. As soon as desire awakens, or rather in and with its awakening, the desire and its object are separated; now desire breathes freely and soundly, whereas earlier it could not breathe because of the desired. When the desire is not awake, then its object charms and inveigles iQ aye, almost frightens it. Desire must have air, it must burst forth; thereby it happens that they part company. The object of desire flees shyly, modest as a woman, and they are separated, the object of desire vanishes et apparet sublimis, or in any case outside of desire. If one paints the ceiling of a room all over with figures from one side to the other, then such a ceding depresses one, as the painters say; if one paints only one light and graceful figure, then the room seems higher. Such is the relation between desire and its object at a first and later stage.

Hence the desire, which in this stage is present only as a presentiment about itself, is without movement, without disquiet, only gendy rocked by an unclarified inner emotion. As the life of the plant is bound to the earth, so is desire lost in a present quiet longing, buried in contem- plation, and yet cannot evacuate its object, because essentially in a deeper sense, there is no object. And yet this lack of an object is not its

62 IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

object, for then it would immediately be in motion, would be deter- mined, if not in another way, then in sorrow and pain, but sorrow and pain have not the contradiction in them which is characteristic of melan- choly and heaviness, not the ambiguity which is the sweetness in the melancholy. Although the desire in this stage is not qualified as desire, although this suspected desire with reference to its object is entirely undefined, still it has its own determination which is indeed infinitely deep. It sucks, like Thor, through a horn whose point is buried in the sea; yet the reason why it cannot draw its object to it, is not that it is infinite, but that the infinite cannot become its object. Its sucking, there- fore, does not indicate a relation to the object, but is identical with its sigh, and this is infinitely deep.

“Tn harmony with the description of the first stage given here, we shall End it very significant that the Page’s part is so arranged musically that it always lies within the range of a female voice. The contradictory in

his stage is, as it were, suggested by this contradiction, the desire is so

indefinite, its object so little separated from it, that the object of desire rests androgynously within the desire, just as in plant life the male and female parts are both present in one blossom. Desire and its object are joined in this unity, and both are neuter gender.

Although speech does not belong to the mythical Page but to the Page in the play, the poetic figure Cherubino, and although because of this we cannot in this connection pay attention to him, partly because he docs not belong to Mozart, partly because he expresses something quite different from that which we are speaking about here, I shall still farther emphasize a particular speech, because it gives me occasion to describe this stage in its analogy to a later one. Susanne mocks Cheru- bino because he is in a way in love with Marcellina, and the Page has no answer ready other than this: she is a woman. With respect to the Page in the play, it is essential that he should be in love with the Countess, unessential that he should fall in love with Marcellina, and it is only an indirect and paradoxical expression for the intensity of the passion which binds him to the Countess. With respect to the mythical Page, it is equally essential that he should be in love with the Countess and with Marcellina; the eternal feminine is his object, and both the’Count- ess and Marcellina have this in common. Hence, when we later hear about Don Juan:

Coquettes sixty years have kissed,

Joyous he puts on his list,

64 IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

tends toward the unmusical, and therefore, it is, in spite of individually perfect concert numbers and individually deeply moving, pathetic expres- sions, by no means a classic opera. Still all this cannot occupy us in the present little inquiry. We have only to do with Papageno. This is a great advantage to us, if for no other reason, then because we are thereby ex- cused from every attempt to explain the significance of Papageno’s rela- tion to Tamino, a relationship which with regard to the plan, looks so profoxmd and meditative, that it almost becomes inconceivable for pure reflection.

Such a treatment of The Magic Flute might perhaps seem arbitrary to one and another reader, both because it sees too much in Papageno and too little in the rest of the opera; he will, perhaps, not approve of our procedure. The reason for this is that he does not agree with us as to the point of departure for every consideration of Mozart’s music. In our opinion, this is, of course, Don Juan, and it is also qur conviction that when one sees several of the other operas along with this one, one shows the highest devotion to Mcxzart, except that I deny the importance of making each individual opera the object of separate consideration.

Desire awakens, and as it always happens that one first realizes he has dreamed in the moment of awakening, so likewise here, the dream is over. This impulse with which desire awakens, this trembling, separates the desire and its object, affords desire an object. This is a dialectical qualification which must be kept sharply in mind — only when the ob- ject exists does the desire exist, only when the desire exists docs the object exist; desire and its object are twins, neither of which is born a fraction of an instant before the other. But though they are thus born at exactly the same instant, and with no time interval between, as is the case with other twins, the importance of their thus coming into ex- istence is not that they are united, but, on the contrary, that they are separated. But this movement of the sensual, this earthquake, splits the desire and its object infinitely asunder for the moment; but as the mov- ing principle appears a moment separating, so it again reveals itself as wishing to unite the separated. The result of this separation is that desire is pulled out of its substantial rest in itself, and consequently the object no longer falls under the qualifications of substantiality, but dis- perses itself in a manifold.

As the life of the plant is bound to earth, so is the first stage held cap- tive in substantial longing. Desire awakens, the object flees, manifold in its revelation; the longing breaks away from the earth and starts out wandering; the flower gets wings and flits inconstant and unwearied

SECOND STAGE

here and there. Desire is directed toward the object, it is also moved within itself, the heart beats soundly and joyously, the objects swiftly vanish and reappear; but still before every disappearance is a present enjoyment, a moment of contact, short but sweet, evanescent as the gleam of a glow worm, inconstant and fleeting as the touch of a butter- fly, and as harmless; impatient kisses, but so swiftly enjoyed, that it is as if there were only taken from one object what is given to the next. Only momentarily is a deeper desire suspected, but this suspicion is for- gotten. In Papageno the desire aims at discoveries. This craving for dis- covery is the throbbing in it, is its sprighdiness. It does not find the precise object of this discovery, but it discovers the manifold, as it seeks therein the object it would discover. The desire is thus awakened, but it is not yet qualified as desire. If you remember that desire is present in all three stages, then you can say that in the first stage, desire is defined as dreaming, in the second as seeking, in the third as desiring. The seek- ing desire is not yet the desiring one; it only seeks that which it can desire, but it does not desire it. Therefore this predicate will perhaps be most significant for it: it discovers. If we thus compare Papageno with Don Juan, then is his journey through the world something more than a journey of discovery; he enjoys not only the adventures of the journey of discovery, but he is a knight who aims at conquest (yeni, vidi, vict). Discovery and victory arc here identical; indeed, in a certain sense one may say that he forgets the discovery in the victory, or that the discovery lies behind him, and he therefore leaves it to his servant and secretary Leporello, who keeps the list in quite a difierent sense than if I imagined Papageno keeping books. Papageno selects, Don Juan enjoys, Leporello inspects.

The characteristic of this, as of every stage, I can indeed represent to the thought, but always only in the moment that it has ceased to be. For even if I could perfectly describe its characteristic, and explain the reason for this, there would still always be something left behind, which I cannot express, and which would still be heard. It is too immediate to be fixed in words. So here with Papageno, it is the same song, the same melody; as soon as he finishes, he begins anew from the beginning, and so continuously. Someone may now offer the objection that it is wholly impossible to predicate anything immediately. In a certain sense this is also quite true, but the immediacy of the spirit has in the first place its immediate expression in language, and next, insofar as thought enters into it, a change takes place thereby, so that it becomes essentially the same, just because it is a qualification of the spirit. Here, however, it is

66 IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

the immediacy of the sensual which, as such, has quite another medium, where consequendy the disproportion between the media makes the impossibility absolute.

If I should now attempt by means of a single predicate, to indicate the characteristics of the Mozart music in the part of this play in which we are interested, I should say: it is cheerfully chirping, vigorous, senti- mental. What I would especially emphasize are the first aria and the chimes; the duet with Tamino and later with Papageno falls entirely outside the category of the immediate-musical. If, on the other hand, one considers the first aria, then one will approve of the predicate I have chosen; and if one pays closer attention, there will be an opportunity to see what significance the musical has, how it appears as the absolute expression of the idea, and how this, as a consequence, is the immediate- musical. As you know, Papageno accompanies his light-hearted cheer- fulness on the flute. Every ear has certainly felt itself moved in a strange manner by this accompaniment But the more one considers it, the more one secs in Papageno the mythical Papageno, the more significant and characteristic one will find it; one does not tire of hearing it again and again, because it is an absolutely adequate expression of Papageno’s life, whose whole life is such an incessant twittering; who, always carefree, chirps on in idleness, and who is happy and satisfied because this is his life-content, happy in his work and happy in his song. As you know, it is so very profoundly arranged in the opera, that the flutes of Tamino and Papageno harmonize with one another. And yet, what a difference! Tamino’s flute, from which the opera takes its name, fails altogether in its effect. And why.? Because Tamino is simply not a musical figure. This is due to the mistaken plan of the opera as a whole. Ta min o be- comes exceedingly tiresome and sentimental on his flute, and when one considers all the rest of his development, his state of consciousness every time he takes up his flute and begins to play on it, makes one think of the farmer in Horace (rusticus exspectat, dum defttua amnis), except that Horace did not give his farmer a flute for an unprofitable pastime. Tamino as a dramatic figure is entirely outside of the musical just as the intellectual development the play would realize is on the whole, a totally unmusical idea. As far as that goes, Tamino is really brought in to stop the music; therefore his flute-playing is only a time-killer, brought in to drive away thought. Music can effectively banish thoughts, even evil thoughts, just as we say about David that his playing exorcised Saul’s evil spirit. On the other hand, there is a great delusion in this idea, for it is true only insofar as it carries consciousness back into immediacy, and lulls it

SECOND STAGE

therein. The individual may therefore feel happy in the moment of in- toxication, but he only becomes the more unhappy. Quite in parenthesis I shall now permit myself an observation. We have used music to heal mental aberrations; we have also in a certain sense achieved our pur- pose, and yet it is an illusion. That is, when madness has a mental cause, it is always the result of the induration of one or another part of the brain. This induration must be overcome, but in order to overcome it, one must always go the opposite way from that which leads to music. If one employs music, one uses entirely the wrong method, and makes the patient even more unbalanced, even if he seems to be better.

What I have said here about Tamino’s flute-playing, I can readily let stand without fear of seeing it misunderstood. It is by no means my intention to deny what has certainly many times been admitted, that music as an accompaniment can have its own significance, when it then enters into an alien sphere — ^that of language. The fault in The Magic Flute is, however, that the whole opera tends toward consciousness, and consequently its whole trend is to do away with music, while still re- maining an opera; and not even this thought is brought out clearly in the play. The ethically determined love, or married love, is posited as a measure of the evolution, and therein lies the radical fault of the play; for let it be what it may otherwise, considered either ecclesiastically or secularly, one thing it is not, it is not musical; moreover, it is absolutely unmusical.

The first aria considered musically has, consequently, great signifi- cance as the immediate-musical expression for the whole life history of Papageno, which, in the same degree as music, is the absolutely adequate expression for this, and only in a figxirative sense is history. The chime of bells, on the other hand, is the musical expression for his activity, of which one can only get an imderstanding through music; it is charm- ing, tempting, entrancing, alluring, like the playing of the man who caused the fish to pause and listen.

The speeches, for which either Schikaneder or the Danish translator is responsible, are in general so crazy and stupid that it is almost incon- ceivable how Mozart has brought as much out of them as he has. To let Papageno say of himself, “I am a child of Nature,” and so in that very moment make himself a liar, may be regarded as an example insteo' omnium. One might make an exception of the words of the text in the first aria, that he puts the maidens he catches in his cage. That is, if one will put a little more into this than the author himself has presumably

IMMEDIATE STAGES OF THE EROTIC

done, then it will precisely indicate the inoffensive character of Papa- geno’s activity, as we have indicated it above.

We leave now the mythical Papageno. The fate of the actual Papa- geno need not concern us. We wish him happiness with his little Papagena, and we willingly permit him to seek his happiness in popu- lating a primitive forest or an entire continent with nothing but Papagenos.

Third Stage

This stage is indicated by Don Juan. Here I am not under the neces- sity, as in the preceding, of having to pick out a single portion of an opera. Here it is not necessary to separate but to sum up, since the entire opera is essentially an expression of the idea, and with the exception of one or two numbers, is based essentially upon this idea, with the dra- matic necessity gravitating toward this as its center. Hence one will again have opportunity to see in what sense I may call the preceding stages by those names, when I call the third stage Don Juan. I earlier reminded you that they do not have any separate existence, and when one understands this third stage, which is precisely the whole stage, then one cannot so easily regard them as one-sided abstractions, or pro- visional anticipations, but rather as presentiments about Don Juan, except that something always constantly remains behind, which more or less justifies me in using the expression, stage, in that they are one- sided presentiments, each of them suggesting only one phase.

The contradiction in the first stage lay in the fact that the desire could acquire no object, but without having desired was in possession of its object, and therefore could not develop a desire. In the second stage, the object appears in its manifold, but as the desire seeks its object in this manifold, it still has, in a deeper sense, no desire, it is not yet posited as desire. In Don Juan, on the other hand, desire is absolutely determined as desire, it is, in an intensive and extensive sense, the immediate syn- thesis of the two preceding stages. The first stage desired the one ideally, the second stage desired the individual under the qualification of the manifold; the third stage is a synthesis of these two. Desire has its ab- solute object in the individual, it desires the individual absolutely. Herein lies the seductiveness of which we shall later speak. Hence, de- sire in this stage is absolutely sound, victorious, triumphant, irresistible and demoniac. We must, therefore, naturally not overlook the fact that we are not here talking about desire in a particular individual, but about

THIRD STAGE

desire as principle, spiritually determined as that which the spirit ex- cludes. This is the idea of the sensual genius, as we also indicated above. Don Juan is the expression for this idea, and the expression for Don Juan is again exclusively musical. It is particularly these two considera- tions which will be continually emphasized from different points of view in what follows, from which also the proof of the significance of the classic operas will be indirectly demonstrated. Meantime, to make it easier for the reader to maintain a general viewpoint, I shall attempt to collect the scattered considerations under particular headings.

It is not my intention to say something individual about this music, and I shall, with the assistance of all good spirits, especially guard against scaring together a multitude of insignificant but very noisy predicates, or in a linguistic orgy, betraying the impotence of language, and that so much the more, since I do not regard it as an imperfection in the language, but as a high power. But therefore I am the more will- ing to recognize music within its own limits. Furthermore, I wish to do this, partly to illuminate the idea from as many sides as possible, and its relation to language, thereby always circumscribing more and more closely the region where music has its home, anxious, as it were, to break forth, yet without my being able to say more than something like this: listen! I mean by this that I have tried to do the best of which the aesthetic is capable; whether I succeeded in doing so is. another mat- ter. Only in a single place will a predicate, Uke a warrant for arrest, fur- nish the description, without forgetting, or allowing the reader to forget, that he who holds the warrant in his hand has by no means on that ac- count, apprehended the one it names. Farther, the whole foundation of the opera, its inner structure, will in its place become the subject for separate discussion, but again once more so that I shall not undertake to shout loud enough for two: “O! bravo schwere Noth Gotts Blitz bravissimo,” but only so that I shall always tempt the musical forth, and thereby indicate that I have wished to do the utmost that one in the purely aesthetic sense is capable of doing with the musical.

What I shall give, consequendy, is not a running commentary on the music, which cannot essentially contain other than subjective coinci- dences and idiosyncrasies, and can only appeal to something correspond- ing in the reader. Even so able a commentator as Dr. Hotho, so rich in reflection, so manifold in expression, has still not been able to avoid, on the one hand, his exposition degenerating into mere verbosity, which must form a counterbalance for Mozart’s harmony, or sound like a weak echo, a pale impression of Mozart’s full-toned, exuberant vigor; or, on

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the other hand, Don Juan’s becoming at times something more than he is in the opera, a reflective individual, and at times becoming less. This last is naturally due to the fact that the profound, absolute significance of Don Juan has escaped Hotho; to him Don Juan is still only the best of operas, but not qualitatively different from all other operas. But if one has not perceived this with the omnipresent certainty of the specu- lative eye, then one cannot worthily and correcdy discuss Don Juan, even though, if one had perceived it, one might be able to speak more gloriously, more correctly, and above all, more truthfully, than he who here ventures to be the spokesman.

On the other hand, I shall constantly ferret out the musical in the idea, the situation, and so on, learn by listening to it, and then when I have made the reader to a certain degree musically receptive, so that he seems to hear the music, although he hears nothing, then I shall have com- pleted my task, then I become mute, then I say to the reader as to myself: listen. You friendly genii, who protect all innocent love, to you I direct my prayers with my whole soul; guard the questing thoughts that they may find a worthy object; fashion my soul into a harmonious instrument, let the soft breezes of eloquence blow over it, send the re- freshment and blessings of fruitful moods! You righteous spirits, who guard the boundaries in the realms of the beautiful, watch over me, that I do not in a moment of vmclarified enthusiasm and a blind zeal to exalt Don Juan above all, do it wrong, disparage it, make it some- thing other than what it is, which is the highest! You powerful spirits, you who know and understand the hearts of men, stand by me that I may catch the reader, not in the net of passion, nor by the artfulness of eloquence, but by the eternal truth of conviction.

I. Sensual Genius Qualified as Seduction

When the idea in Don Juan originated is not known; only so much is known, that it belongs to the Christian era, and through Christianity it also belongs to the Middle Ages. Even if one could not with some degree of certainty trace the idea back in the human consciousness to that period of the world’s history, still a consideration of the inner nature of the idea would immediately remove every doubt. The Middle Ages, on the whole, suggest the idea of representation, pardy conscious, pardy unconscious; the total is represented in a single individual, yet in such a way that it is only a single aspect which is determined as totality, and which now appears in a single individual, who is because of this, both more and less than an individual. By the side of this individual

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there stands another, who, likewise, totally represents another aspect of life’s content, such as knighthood and scholasticism, the ecclesiastical and the medical. The grand dialectic of life is here always illustrated by representative individuals, who, more often than not, stand in pairs over against each other; life is constantly only approaching sub una specie, and the great dialectic unity which life possesses in unity sub utmque specie, is not suspected. The contrasts, therefore, stand most frequently, indifferently outside of one another. This the Middle Ages knew noth- ing about. Thus they themselves instinctively realize the representative idea, before a later reflection sees the idea contained in it. If the Middle Ages posit for their own consciousness an individual as representative of the idea, then they usually posit another individual by the side of the first, having a certain relation to that one. This relationship is generally a comic one, where the one individual, as it were, supplies a comic re- lief for the disproportionate greatness of the other in actual life. Thus the king has his fool by his side, Faust has his Wagner, Don Quisote Sancho Panza, Don Juan Leporello. This arrangement, too, belongs essentially to the Middle Ages, not, however, as the creation of some one individual poet; it is one of those primitive conceptions which spring forth spontaneously out of the popular world consciousness. The con- flict between flesh and spirit which Christianity has brought into the world, must make the Middle Ages the subject for its consideration, and to that end, make the contending forces individually the subject of reflection. Don Juan is, then, if I dare say so, flesh incarnate, or the in- spiration of the flesh by the spirit of the flesh. This has already been suf&ciently stressed in the preceding; what I would here call attention to, however, is whether one ought to refer Don Juan to the earlier or later period of the Middle Ages. That he stands in an essential relation to this era is evident to everyone. Either he is, then, the contentious, mis- understood anticipation of the erotic, which appeared in the days of knighthood, or chivalry is yet only in a relative opposition to the spiri- tual, and only when this contradiction digs itself in deeper, does Don Juan then appear as the sensual which opposes the spiritual to the death. The erotic in the time of chivalry had a certain resemblance to that of the Greeks, namely, the psychical, determined as such, but the difference is tbis, that the psychical determination lay within a general spiritual qualification, or in the qualification as totality. The idea of the feminine is constantly in movement in many ways, which was not the case among the Greeks, where everyone was only the beautiful individuality, but the feminine was not anticipated. The erotic element of knighthood was

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therefore also present in the consciousness of the Middle Ages in an attitude somewhat conciliatory toward the spiritual, even if the spiritual in its zealous austerity held it suspect.

If we now assume that the spiritual principle is posited in the world, we may either imagine that the most glaring contrasts come first, the most atrocious disjunctions, and that afterward they gradually become milder. Under such an assumption, Don Juan belongs to the earlier Middle Ages. If, on the contrary, we assume that the relationship gradu- ally developed into this absolute contradiction, as is also more natural, as the spiritual withdraws more and more its shares from the united firm, in order to act alone, by which the precise offense appears, then Don Juan belongs to the later Middle Ages. We come, then, to that point in time where the Middle Ages are about to become important, where we then meet a related idea, namely, Faust, except that Don Juan must be placed a little earlier. As the spiritual, qualified as spirit, re- nounces the world, it not only feels that this is not its home, but that it is not even its sphere of action; it draws itself up into the higher regions, and so leaves the worldly behind as the field of activity for the power with whom it has always been at strife, and to which it now gives place. As the spirit then frees itself from the earth, the sensuous appears in all its power, it offers no objection to the change, it, too, sees the advantage in being separated, and rejoices that the church is not able to keep them together, but cuts the bond which united them.

Stronger than ever before, the sensuous now awakens in all its rich- ness, in all its joy and enthusiasm; and like that hermit of nature, the reticent echo, who never speaks first to anyone, nor speaks without be- ing questioned, it finds great satisfaction in the hunting horn of the knights, in their love ballads, in the baying of the hounds, the snorting of the horses, so that it never becomes tired of repeating it again and again, and at last, as it were, of saying it to itself, so as not to forget it, so that the whole world becomes a mammoth sounding-board for the worldly spirit of the sensuous, while the spiritual has abandoned the world.

The Middle Ages had much to say about a mountain, not found on any map, which was called the mountain of Venus. There the sensual had its home, there it had its own wild pleasures, for it was a kingdom, a state. In this kingdom language had no place, nor sober-minded thought, nor the toilsome business of reflection. There sounded only the voice of elemental passion, the play of appetites, the wild shouts of in- toxication, those things which are enjoyed only in eternal tumult. The

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first-born of this kingdom is Don Juan. That it is the kingdom of sin is not even mentioned, for it must be fixed in the moment that it ap- pears in aesthetic indifference. Not until reflection enters does it appear as the kingdom of sin, but by that time Don Juan is slain, the music is silent; one sees only the despairing defiance which impotent protests, but which can find no consistency, not even in sounds. When the sensual appears as that which must be excluded, as that which the spirit can have nothing to do with, yet without passing judgment upon it or con- demning it, then the sensual assumes the form of the demotuac in aesthetic indifference. It is only the matter of a moment; soon everything is changed, the music, too, is over. Faust and Don Juan are the Titans and giants of the Middle Ages, who in the supercilious haughtiness of their endeavors are not different from those of olden times, except that they stand alone, they do not form a union of forces with which to storm the heavens, but here all the power is concentrated in the single individual.

Don Juan, consequently, is the expression for the demoniac deter- mined as the sensual, Faust, its expression determined as the intellectual, which the Christian spirit excludes. These ideas stand in an essential relation to one another, and have much in common; hence, one might expect to find them both incorporated in sagas. That this is true for Faust^is well known. There is a folk-book whose title is familiar enough, although the book itself is little known; this is especially strange in our time, when men are so busy with the ideas of Faust. But so it goes. While every future privat-docent, every professor intellectually mature hopes to establish his reputation among the reading public by publishing a book on Faust, wherein he faithfully repeats what all the other licen- tiates and candidates for scientific degrees have already said, he dares to ignore such an insignificant litde folk-book. It never occurs to him, al- though it is so, that a peasant goes to Tribler’s widow, or to a ballad seller in Halmtorvet, and reads half aloud to himself, about the period of which Goethe writes in Faust. And indeed this folk-book merits attention, for it has what one appreciates above all as an honorable quality in wine, it has bouquet, it is an excellent bottling from the Middle Ages, and as one opens it, it bubbles forth so spicy, so sparkling, so characteristically fragrant, that one is quite strangely affected. Still, enough of this. I would only call attention to the fact that no such leg- end is to be found concerning Don Juan. No folk-book, no ballad issued every year, has preserved his memory. Probably a tradition has existed, but this in all likelihood restricted itself to a fairly solitary suggestion.

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which perhaps was even shorter than the few stanzas which form the basis of Burger’s Lenore. Perhaps it had contained but one figure; for I am greatly mistaken if the present number, 1,003, belong to a

legend. A legend which docs not contain any other number seems some- what poverty stricken, and insofar, gives evidence that it is not embodied in writing; but still this number is an excellent point, a lyrical fool- hardiness, which many perhaps do not notice because they are so accustomed to seeing it. Although this idea has not found expression in a legend, it has been preserved in another manner. It is well kno'tvn that Don Juan existed in very early times in the form of a farce; this is exactly its first existence. But here the idea is conceived comically, which makes it on the whole quite as remarkable that the Middle Ages were able to furnish ideals, as that they were certainly able to see the comic which lay in the distorted size of the ideal. To make Don Juan a braggart who imagined that he had seduced every girl he met, to let Leporello believe his lies, was not at all an unfortunate basis for the comic. And had this not been the case, had this not even been the conception, still the comic turn could not have failed to appear, since it lies in the contrast between the hero and his scene of action. So one may permit the Middle Ages to describe a hero so powerfully built that his eyes were a foot apart, but if a common man had come on the stage and pretended to have eyes a foot apart, then would the comic have betn in full swing.

What has been said here regarding the tradition about Don Juan, would not have found a place here, if it did not have some closer relation to the subject of the investigation, if it did not serve to direct thought to the one definite goal. The reason that this idea, as compared with that of Faust, has so poor a past, lay in the fact, I suppose, that there was something mysterious in it, as long as no one noticed that music was its proper medium. Faust is idea, but an idea which is also essentially indi- vidual. To imagine the intellectually-demoniac concentrated in a single individual, is the peculiar office of thought, while to imagine the sensual thus concentrated, is unthinkable. Don Juan constantly hovers between being the idea, that is to say, energy, life— and being the individual. But this hovering is the musical trembling. When the sea tosses tempestu- ously, then the swirling billows form images of strange creatures in this wild upheaval. It is as if these creatures set the waves in motion, and yet it is the conflict of the opposing billows which creates them. So Don Juan is a symbol who constantly appears, but who does not gain form and substance, an individual who is constantly being formed, but who

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is never finished, whose life history one is no more sensible of, than one is of listening to the tumult of the waves. When we insist on considering Don Juan in this manner, then there is a meaning and a profound sig- nificance in everything. If I imagine a particular individual, if I see him or hear him speak, then it becomes comic to imagine that he has seduced 1,003 women; for as soon as he is regarded as a particular indmdual, the accent falls in quite another place; it stresses, ia fact, those whom he has seduced, and how. The naivete of ballads and legends can success- fully express such things without suspecting the comical; for reflection, that is impossible. When, on the contrary, he is interpreted in music, then I do not have a particular individual, but I have the power of na- ture, the demoniac, which tires as little of seducing or of having done with seducing as the wind of blowing, the sea of its waves, or a water- fall of tumbling downward from the heights. In that respect, the num- ber of the seduced can just as well be any other number far greater. It is often not an easy task, if one wishes to translate the text of an opera, to make it so exact that the translation will not only be singable, but will also harmonize fairly well with the meaning of the text, and also with the music. As an illustration that this may sometimes be very carelessly done, I shall cite the number in the list in Don Juan, without taking the matter as thoughtlessly as people generally do, thinking that such things do not matter. On the contrary, I consider the matter aesthetically seri- ous to a high degree, and therefore I think the number is unimportant. I shall only commend one single characteristic of this number 1,003, that it is odd and accidental, which is by no means unimportant, smce it gives the impression that the list is by no means closed, but that, on the contrary, Don Juan is in a hurry. One almost begins to pity Leporello, who must not only, as he himself says, stand watch outside the door, but along with that, carry on so complicated a system of book-keeping that it could well keep a registered accountant busy.

As the sensual is thus understood in Don Juan — as a principle — ^it has never been understood in the world; hence the erotic is here also deter- mined by another predicate: the erotic here is seduction. Strangely enough, the idea of a seducer was entirely wanting among the Greeks. It is by no means my intention, because of this, to wish to praise the Greeks, for, as is generally known, gods as well as men were indiscreet in their love affairs; nor do I censure Christianity, for it had, indeed, its only idea outside of itself. The reason that the Greeks lacked this ‘idea lay m the fact that the whole of the Greek life was posited as individual- ity. The psychical is thus the predominant, or is always in harmony with

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the sensuous. Greek love, therefore, was always psychical, not sensual, and it is this which inspires the modesty which rests over all Greek love. They fell in love with a girl, they set heaven and earth by the ears to get her; when they succeeded, then they perhaps tired of her, and sought a new love. In this instability they may, indeed, have had a certain re- semblance to Don Juan. To mention only one instance, Hercules him- self might surely produce a goodly list, when one considers that he sometimes took his whole family, which numbered some fifty daughters, and like a family son-in-law, according to some reports, had his way with all of them in a single night. On the other hand, he is still essen- tially different from a Don Juan, he is no seducer. When one considers Greek love, it is, according to its own ideas, essentially faithful, just be- cause it is psychical; and it is accidental in the certain individual that he loves many, and with regard to the many he loves, it is again acci- dental every time he loves a new one; when he is in love with one, he does not think of the next one. Don Juan, on the contrary, is a seducer from the ground up. His love is not psychical but sensual, and sensual love, acc6rding to his conception, is not faithful, but absolutely faithless; he loves not one but all, that is to say, he seduces all. He exists only in the moment, but the moment is in its conception considered the sum of the moments, and so we have the seducer.

Chivalrous love is also qualified as soul, and therefore, according to its own idea, is essentially faithful; only sensual love, according to its own concept, is essentially faithless. But this, its faithlessness, appears also in another way; it becomes in fact only a constant repetition. Psychical love has the dialectic in it in a double sense. For partly it has the doubt and unrest in it, as to whether it will also be happy, see its desire fulfilled, and be loved. This anxiety, sensual love does not have. Even a Jupiter is doubtful about his victory, and this cannot be otherwise, moreover, he himself cannot desire it otherwise. With Don Juan this is not the case, he makes short work of it, and must always be regarded as abso- lutely victorious. This might seem an advantage to him, but it is pre- cisely poverty. On the other hand, psychical love has also another dialec- tic, it is in fact different in its relation to every single individual who is the object of love. Therein lies its richness, its perfected content. But such is not the case with Don Juan. For this, indeed, he has not timje; everything for him is a matter of the moment only. To see her and to love her, that was one and the same. One may say this in a certain sense about psychical love, but in that there is only suggested a begi nning . With regard to Don Juan it is valid in another way. To see her and to

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love her is the same thing; it is in the moment, in the same moment is everything over, and the same thing repeats itself endlessly. If one imagines a psychical love in Don Juan, it becomes at once ridiculous and a self-contradiction, which is not even in accord with the idea of positing 1,003 Spain. It becomes an over-emphasis which acts disturbingly, even if one imagined oneself considering him ideally. Now if we had no other medium for describing this love than language, we should be embarrassed, for as soon as we have abandoned the naivete which in all simplicity can insist that there were 1,003 Spain, then we require something more, namely, the psychical individualization. The aesthetic is by no means satisfied that everything should thus be lumped together, and is astonished at the number. Psychical love does not exactly move in the rich manifold of the individual life, where the nuances are really significant. Sensual love, on the other hand, can lump everything to- gether. The essential for it is woman in the abstract, and at most is a more sensual difference. Psychical love is a continuance in time, sensual love a disappearance in time, but the medium which exactly expresses this is music. Music is excellently fitted to accomplish this, since it is far more abstract than language, and therefore does not express the indi- vidual but the general in all its generality, and yet it expresses the gen- eral not in reflective abstraction, but in the immediate concrete.

As an example of what I mean, I shall discuss a little more carefully, the second tenor aria: the List of the Seduced. This number may be regarded as the real epic of Don Juan. Consequently, make this experi- ment, if you are sceptical about the truth of my assertion! Imagine a poet more happily endowed by nature than anyone before him; give him vigor of expression, give him mastery and authority over the power of language, let everything wherein there is the breath of life be obedient unto him, let his slightest suggestion be deferred to, let everything wait, ready and prepared for his word of command; let him be surrounded by a numerous band of light skirmishers, swift-footed messengers who overtake thought in its most hurried flight; let nothing escape him, not the least movement; let nothing secret, nothing unutterable be left be- hind him in the whole world — give him after all this, the task of singing Don Juan as an epic, of unrolling the list of the seduced. What will the result be? He will never finish! The epic has this fault, if one wishes to call it that, it can go on as long as you will. His hero, the improviser, Don Juan, can go on indefinitely. The poet may now enter into the manifold, there will always be enough there v^hich will give pleasure, but he will never obtain the effect which Mozart has ob-

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tained. For even if he finally finishes, he will still not have said half of what Mozart has expressed in this one number. Mozart has not even entered the manifold, where certainly great formations are set in motion. This finds its sufiScient explanation in the medium itself, in the music which is too abstract to express the differences. The musical epic thus becomes something comparatively short, and yet it has in an inimitable manner the epic quality that it can go on as long as it will, since one can constantly let it begin again from the beginning, and hear it over and over again, just because it expresses the general in the concreteness of immediacy. Here we do not hear Don Juan as a particular individual, nor his speech, but we hear a voice, the voice of sensuality, and we hear it through the longing of womanhood. Only in this manner can Don Juan become epic, in that he constantly finishes, and constantly begins again from the beginning, for his life is the sum of repellent moments which have no coherence, his life as moment is the sum of the moments, as the sum of the moments is the moment.

In this generality, in this floating between being an individual and being a force of nature, lies Don Juan; as soon as he becomes individual the aesthetic acquires quite other categories. Therefore it is entirely proper, and it has a profound inner significance, that in the seduction which takes place in the play, Zerlina, the girl, should be a common peasant^ girl. Hypocritical aestheticists who, under the show of under- standing poets and composers, contribute everything to these misunder- standings, will perhaps tell us that Zerlina is an unusual girl. Anyone who believes this, shows that he has totally misunderstood Mozart, and that he is using wrong categories. That he misunderstands Mozart is evident enough; for Mozart has purposely made Zerlina as insignificant as possible; something Hotho has also called attention to, yet without seeing the real reason for it. If, for instance, Don Juan’s love were quali- fied other than as sensual, if he were a seducer in an intellectual sense, something which would later become the object of reflection, then it would have been a radical fault in the play for the heroine of the seduc- tion which dramatically engages our attention, to be only a litde peas- ant girl. Then the aesthetic would require that Don Juan should have been set a more difl&cult task. To Don Juan, however, these differences mean nothing. If I could imagine him making such a speech about him- self, he might perhaps say: “You are wrong. I am no husband who re- quires an unusual girl to make me happy; every girl has that which makes me happy, and therefore I take them all.” The saying I earlier referred to: “even sixty-year coquettes” — or in other words : pur chi porti

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la gonella, voi sapete quel che fh. To Don Juan every girl is woman in general, every love aflEair an everyday story. Zerlina is young and pretty, and she is a woman; this is the uncommon which she has in common with hundreds of others; but it is not the uncommon that Don Juan desires, but the common, and this she has in common with every woman. If this is not the case, then Don Juan ceases to be absolutely musical, and requires aesthetic expression, speech, while now, since it is the case, Don Juan is absolutely musical.

From another point of view I may throw some additional light upon the inner structure of the play. Elvira is Don Juan’s mortal enemy; in the dialogue for which the Danish translator is responsible, this is fre- quently emphasized. That it is an error for Don Juan to make a speech is certainly true, but because of this it does not follow that the speech might not contain an occasionally good observation. Consequently, Don Juan fears Elvira. Now probably some aestheticist or other believes that he can profoundly explain this by coming forward with a long talk about Elvira’s being a very unusual girl and so on. This altogether misses the mark. She is dangerous to him because she has been seduced. In the same sense, exacdy in the same sense, Zerlina becomes dangerous to him when she is seduced. As soon as she is seduced, she is elevated to a higher sphere, to a consciousness which Don Juan does not have. Therefore, she is dangerous to him. Hence, it is not in the accidental but in the general sense that she is dangerous to him.

Don Juan is consequendy a seducer, his seduction erotic. Here much is well said when it is rightly understood, litde when it is understood with a general lack of clarity. We have already noted that the concept, a seducer, is essentially modified with respect to Don Juan, as the object of his desire is the sensual, and that alone. This is of importance in order to show the musical in Don Juan. In ancient times the sensuous found its expression in the silent stillness of the plastic art; in the Chris- tian world the sensuous must burst forth in all its impatient passion. Although one may say vtith truth that Don Juan is a seducer, this ex- pression which can work so disturbingly upon the weak brains of cer- tain aestheticians, has often given rise to misunderstandings, as they have scraped this and that together that could be said about such a one, and have at once applied it to Don Juan. At times they employ all their cunning day after day, in tracking down Don Juan, at times they talk themselves hoarse in explaining his intrigues and his subdety; in short, the word, seducer, has given occasion for everyone to be against him as best he may, has contributed its small portion to the total

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misunderstanding. We must use the word seducer about Don Juan with great caution, that is if it is more important to say something right than to say anything at all. This is not because Don Juan is too good, but because he simply does not fall under ethical categories. Hence I should rather not call him a deceiver, since there is always something more ambiguous in that word. To be a seducer requires a certain amount of reflection and consciousness, and as soon as this is present, then it is proper to speak of cunning and intrigues and crafty plans. This con- sciousness is lacking in Don Juan. Therefore, he does not seduce. He desires, and this desire acts seductively. To that extent he seduces. He enjoys the satisfaction of desire; as soon as he has enjoyed it, he seeks a new object, and so on endlessly. Therefore, I suppose he is a deceiver, but yet not so that he plans his deceptions in advance; it is the inherent power of sensuality which deceives the seduced, and it is rather a kind of Nemesis. He desires, and is constantly desiring, and he always enjoys the satisfaction of the desire. To be a seducer, he needs time in advance in which to lay his plans, and time afterward in which to become con- scious of his act. A seducer, therefore, ought to be possessed of a power Don Juan does not have, however well equipped he may otherwise be — the power of eloquence. As soon as we grant him eloquence he ceases to be musical, and the aesthetic interest becomes an entirely different matter.

Achim V. Amim tells somewhere of a seducer of a very different style, a seducer who falls under the category of the ethical. About him he uses an expression which in truth, boldness, and conciseness are almost equal to Mozart’s stroke of the bow. He says he could so talk with a woman, that if the devil caught him he could wheedle himself out of it if he had a chance to talk with the devil’s grandmother. This is the real seducer; the aesthetic interest here is also different, namely: how, the method. There is evidently something very profound here, which has perhaps escaped the attention of most people, in that Faust, who reproduces Don Juan, seduces only one girl, while Don Juan se- duces hundreds; but this one girl is also, in an intensive sense, seduced and crushed quite differently from all those Don Juan has deceived, simply because Faust, as reproduction, falls under the category of the intellectual. A few days ago I heard one soldier tal kin g to another about a third who had betrayed a girl; he did not give a long-winded descrip- tion, and yet his expression was very pithy: “He could such with lies and such.” Such a seducer is of quite a different sort from Don Juan, is essentially different from him, as one can see from the fact that he and

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his activities are extremely unmusical, and from the aesthetic standpoint come within the category of the interesting. The object of his desire is accordingly, when one rightly considers him aesthetically, something more than the merely sensual.

But what is this force then by which Don Juan seduces? It is the power of desire, the energy of the sensual desire. He desires in every woman the whole of womanhood, and therein lies the sensually ideal- izing power with which he at once embellishes and overcomes his prey. The reflex of this gigantic passion beautifies and develops its object, who flushes in enhanced beauty by its reflection. As the fire of ecstasy with its seductive splendor illumines even the stranger who happens to have some relation to him, so he transfigures in a far deeper sense every girl, since his relation to her is an essential one. Therefore all finite differ- ences fade away before him in comparison with what is there the main thing: the being a woman. He rejuvenates the older woman into the beautiful middle age of womanhood; he matures the child almost in- stantly; everything which is woman is his prey {pur chh porti la gonella, voi sapete qtiel chi fh). On the other hand, we must by no means under- stand this as if his sensuality were blind; instinctively he knows very well how to discriminate, and above all, he idealizes. If for a moment I here think back to the Page in a preceding stage, the reader will perhaps remember that once when we spoke of the Page, I compared a speech of his with one of Don Juan’s. The mythical Page I left standing, the real one I sent away to the army. If I now imagined that the mythical Page had liberated himself, was free to move about, then I would recall here a speech of the Page which is appropriate to Don Juan. As Cheru- bino, light as a bird and daring, springs out of the window, it makes so strong an impression upon Susanne that she almost swoons, and when she recovers, she exclaims: “See how he runs! Well, he can never get around the girls.” This is quite correctly said by Susanne, and the reason for her swoon is not only the idea of the daring leap, but rather that he had already “got around her.” The Page is really the future Don Juan, without this being understood in a ridiculous way, as if the Page by becoming older became Don Juan. Now Don Juan can not only get around the girls, but he makes them happy— and unhappy, but, curiously enough, so that they consider her a foolish girl who would not choose to be unhappy for the sake of having once been happy with Don Juan. If I still continue, therefore, to call him a seducer, I by no means imagine him slyly formulating his plans, craftily calculating the effect of his intrigues. His power to deceive lies in the ingenuity of the sensualism

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whose incarnation he really is. Shrewd sober-mindedness is lacking in him; his life is as effervescent as the wine with which he stimulates himself; his life is dramatic like the sounds which accompany his joyous feast; always he is triumphant. He requires no preparation, no plan, no time; for he is always prepared. Energy is always in him and also desire, and only when he desires is he rightly in his element. He sits feasting, joyous as a god he swings his cup — ^he rises with his napkin in his hand, ready for attack. If Leporello rouses him in the middle of the night, he awakens, always certain of his victory. But this energy, this power, can- not be expressed in words, only music can give us a conception of it. It is inexpressible for reflection and thought. The cunning of an ethically determined seducer I can clearly set forth in words, and music will try in vain to solve this problem. With Don Juan, the converse holds true. What is this power? — ^No one can say. Even if I question Zerlina about it before she goes to the dance: “What is this power by which he cap- tivates you?” — she would answer: “No one knows,” and I would say: “Well said, my child, you speak more wisely than the Wise Men from the East, rightly, das weiss man nicht\ and the unfortunate thing is that neither can I tell you.”

This force in Don Juan, this omnipotence, this animation, only music can express, and I know no other predicate to describe it than this: it is the exuberant joy of life. When, therefore, Kruse lets his Don Juan say, as he comes upon the scene at Zerlina’s wedding: “Cheer up, children, you arc all of you dressed as for a wedding,” he says something that is quite proper, and also perhaps something more than he thinks. He himself brings the gaiety with him, and no matter whose wedding it is, it is not unimportant that everyone be dressed as for a wedding; for Don Juan is not only husband to Zerlina, but he celebrates with sport and song the wedding of all the young girls in the parish. What won- der, then, that they crowd about him, the happy maidens! Nor are they disappointed, for he has enough for them all. Flattery, sighs, daring glances, soft handclasps, secret whispers, dangerous proximity, alluring withdrawal— and yet these arc only the lesser mysteries, the gifts before the wedding. It is a pleasure to Don Juan to look out over so rich a harvest; he takes charge of the whole parish, and yet perhaps it does not cost him as much time as Leporello spends in his office.

By this explanation the thought is again suggested, which is the pre- cise object of this inquiry, that Don Juan is the absolutely musical idea. He desires sensually, he seduces with the demoniac power of sensuality, he seduces everyone. The word, the speech, are not for him, for then he

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becomes a reflective individual. Thus he does not have existence at all, but he hurries in a perpetual vanishing, precisely like music, about which it is true that it is over as soon as it has ceased to sound, and only comes into being again, when it again sounds.

Were I to raise the question now as to how Don Juan looks — ^is he handsome, young or old, or about how old — then it is only an accommo- dation on my part, and anything I may say about it, can only expect to find a place here in the same way that a tolerated sect finds a place in the established church. He is handsome, not very young; were I to ven- ture a guess, I should suggest thirty-three, that being the length of a generation. The hesitation in attempting such an inquiry is due to the fact that one easily loses sight of the total in dwelling on the details, as if it were by means of his good looks, or other things one might men- tion, that Don Juan seduced. Then one sees him, but no longer hears him, and in that way he is lost. Therefore, if it were possible for me to help the reader to see Don Juan, I should say“ See, there he stands, see how his eyes blaze, his lips curve in a smile, so sure he is of his victory. Observe his royal glance, which demands whatever is imperial; see how gracefully he moves in the dance, how proudly he stretches out his hand; who is the fortunate girl he is inviting?” — Or I might say: “There he stands in the shadow of the forest, he leans against a tree, he accom- panies himself on a guitar, and look! yonder a young girl, timid as a startled fawn, disappears among the trees, but he does not hurry, he knows that she is seeking him.” — Or I might say: “There he rests on the shore of a lake in the pale night, so beautiful that the moon pauses and lives over again its first young love, so beautiful that the young girls of the village would give much to dare to steal upon him, and taking advantage of a moment of darkness while the moon mounted heaven- ward, bestow a kiss upon him.” If I did this the observant reader would say: “See, now he has spoiled everything, he has himself forgotten that Don Juan should not be seen but heard.” Therefore I shall not do it, but I shall say: “Hear Don Juan, that is to say, if you cannot get a con- ception about him by hearing him, then you will never get it. Hear the beginning of his life; as the lightning flashes forth from the murk of the thunderclouds, so he bursts forth from the depths of earnestness, swifter than the lightning’s flash, more inconstant and yet as constant; hear how he rushes down into the manifold of life, how he dashes him- self against its solid dam; hear those light dancing tones of the violin, hear the signal of gladness, the exultation of lust, hear the festive happi- ness of enjoyment; hear his wild flight, he hurries by himself, ever

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swifter, ever more impetuously; hear the unbridled demands of passion, hear the sighing of love, hear the whisper of temptation, hear the whirlpool of seduction, hear the stillness of the moment — hear, hear, hear Mozart’s Don Juanl”

2. Other Adaptations of Don Juan, Considered in Relation to THE Musical Interpretation

It is well known that the idea in Faust has been the object of a variety of interpretations; this, however, has by no means been the case with Don Juan. This may seem strange, especially as the idea in the latter suggests a far more universal phase in the development of the individual than does the first. However, this is readily explained by the fact that Faust posits such an intellectual maturity as to make an interpretation far more natural. Moreover, as I had already reminded you in the pre- ceding section, with reference to the fact that no such legend exists about Don Juan, the difficulty with respect to the medium had been vaguely felt before Mozart discovered the medium and the idea. From that moment the idea first attained its true dignity, and has more than ever supplemented a period in the individual life, but so satisfactorily that the need of disengaging it poetically in the imaginative experience has not become a poetic necessity.

This is again an indirect proof of the absolute classic value of Mozart’s opera. The ideal in this direction has already found its perfect artistic expression, to the degree that it might indeed act temptingly, but it could not tempt to poetic productivity. Mozart’s music has certainly been tempting; for where can a young man be found who has not had moments in his life when he would have given half, or perhaps all of his possessions to be a Don Juan; when he would have given half a lifetime, aye, perhaps his whole life, for the sake of being Don Juan for a single year. But so it goes. The deepest natures, those which were affected by the idea, found everything, even the softest breeze, ex- pressed in Mozart’s music; they found in its grandiose passion a full- toned expression for whatever stirred their own hearts, they felt how every mood strained forward, responsive to this music, as the brook hastens on to lose itself in the infinitude of the sea. These natures found in Mozart’s Don Jtum as much text as commentary, and while they were thus borne along and down in its music, they enjoyed the delight of losing themselves, and gained in addition the richness of wonder. The music of Mozart was in no sense too restricted; on the contrary, their own moods were expanded, assumed a supernatural greatness, as they

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found them again in Mozart. The lower natures, who have no idea of infinity, get no infinity; the dabblers, who imagined themselves to be Don Juans because they had pinched the cheek of a peasant girl, flung their arms about a waitress, or made a little maiden blush, they natu- rally understand neither the idea nor Mozart; nor do they know how to produce a Don Juan, other than a ridiculous deformity, a family idol, who perhaps to the dim, sentimental eyes of some cousins, seems a true Don Juan, the essence of all attractiveness. Faust has never yet found expression in this sense, and, as above noted, can never find it, because the idea in Faust is far more concrete. An mterpretation of Faust may deserve to be called perfect, and yet the following generation will produce a new Faust, while Don Juan, on account of the abstract character of the idea, will live to all eternity, and to hope to produce a new Don Juan after Mozart’s, is like wishing to write an Iliad after Homer’s, in an even more profound sense than is true about Homer.

If now this explanation is correct, it by no means follows from this that some particularly gifted nature might not have attempted to inter- pret Don Juan in another way. Everyone knows that this is so, but every- one may not have noticed that the pattern for all the other interpreta- tions is essentially MoHmc’s Don Juan; but again, this is much older than Mozart’s, and is also a comedy. It is to Mozart’s Don Juan as the interpretation of an adventure story by Musaeus is to an adaptation of Tieck’s. For that reason I can really restrict myself to mentioning the Don Juan of Moli^re, and as I seek to appraise him aesthetically, I shall also indirectly appraise the other interpretations. Still, I shall make an exception of Heiberg’s Don Juan. He himself explains in the title that it is “partly after Moline.” Although this is also well known, still Heiberg’s play has a great advantage over Moli^re’s. This is due to the certain aesthetic feeluig with which Heiberg always interpreted his task, his taste in discriminating; but it is not impossible that in the pres- ent case Professor Heiberg was indirectly influenced by Mozart’s inter- pretation to see how Don Juan might be interpreted, when he is not expressed musically, or when he is introduced under very different aesthetic categories. Professor Hauch has also produced a Don Juan which almost falls imder the category of the interesting. Consequently, as I proceed to mention the other types of adaptations of Don Juan, I do not need to remind the reader that this present little inquiry is not carried on for its own sake, but only for a more complete understanding than was possible in the preceding, in order to illumine the importance of the musical interpretation.

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The crucial point in the interpretation of Don Juan has already been indicated above: as soon as he acquires speech, everything is altered. The reflection which motivates the speech, reflects him out of the ob- scurity wherein he is only musically audible. Insofar it might seem that Don Juan was perhaps best interpreted through the ballet. Everyone knows that he has been interpreted in this way. However, one must praise this form of interpretation for having recognized its own powers, and it has therefore restricted itself to the last scene, where the passion in Don Juan might most easily become visible in the pantomimic dis- play of muscle. Here again the result is that Don Juan is not presented in his essential passion, but only in the accidental, and the playbills for such a performance always contain more than the play itself; they tell, for instance, that it is Don Juan, the seducer Don Juan, while the ballet at most can only represent the pangs of despair, whose expression, since it can only be in pantomime, he can have in common with many other despairing individuals. The essential in Don Juan cannot be brought out in the ballet, and everyone feels instinctively how ridiculous it would be to see him beguile a girl by his dancing-steps and ingenious gestures. Don Juan is in a category by himself, and so cannot become visible nor reveal himself through the physical form and its movements, or in plastic harmony.

Even if we are unwilling to grant Don Juan speech, yet we must con- sider an interpretation which, notwithstanding this, uses words as the medium. Such an interpretation actually exists in Byron. That Byron was in many ways suitably equipped to produce a Don Jmn is clear enough, and one can therefore be certain that when the project mis- carried, the reason for this was not in Byron, but in something more profound. Byron had ventured to bring Don Juan into existence for us, to describe for us his childhood and youth, to reconstruct him from the sum of his finite relationships. But by this Don Juan became a reflective personality, who lost the ideality he had in the traditional conception. I shall at once explain the change which took place in the idea. When Don Juan is interpreted musically, then I hear in him the whole infini- tude of passion, but also its infinite power which nothing can with- stand; I hear the wild craving of desire, but also the absolute victory of this desire, agamst which it would be futile for anyone to offer resist- ance. If the thought dwells a single moment on the obstacle, then this becomes more important in arousing passion than if it really opposed it, enjoyment is increased, victory is certain, and the obstacle only a stimu- lus. Such a primitively controlled life, powerfully and irresistibly de-

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moniac, I find in Don Juan. This is his ideality, and this I can unper- turbed enjoy, because the music does not represent him as person or as individual, but only as power. If Don Juan is interpreted as individual, then is he, eo ipso, in conflict with his environment; as an individual he feels the pressure and restraint of his surroundings; as a great individual he perhaps overcomes them, but we feel immediately that the difficulties caused by these obstacles here play a different role. The interest essen- tially occupies itself with these. But thereby Don Juan is brought under the category of the interesting. If we would present him here as abso- lutely victorious through the aid of bombast, we feel at once that this is not satisfactory, since an individual, essentially as such, should not be victorious, and we demand a crisis in the conflict.

The opposition which the individual has to encounter, can in part be an external opposition, which lies not so much in the object as in its environment; in part it can lie in the object itself. The former is the one which has occupied most of the interpretations of Don Juan, because one has retained that element of the idea, that as erotic he must be vic- torious. Not imtil the other side is emphasized, do I believe that there is a prospect of a significant interpretation of Don Juan, which will fur- nish a contrast to the musical one, while any interpretation which lies between these two will always contain imperfections. In the musical Don Juan we would then have the general seducer, in the other the selective one. This latter Don Juan is shown then, not as by a’ single stroke coming into possession of his object, he is not the seducer imme- diately determined, he is the reflective seducer. That which we are inter- ested in here, is the craftiness, the cunning with which he knows how to insinuate himself into a maiden’s heart, the mastery he knows how to establish over it, the beguiling, systematic, continuous seduction. Here the number he has seduced becomes a matter of indifference, what con- cerns us is the art, the thoroughness, the profound cunning, with which he seduces. At last the enjoyment itself becomes so reflective that in com- parison with the musical Don Juan, the enjoyment becomes a secondary matter. The musical Don Juan enjoys the satisfaction of desire; the re- flective Don Juan enjoys the deception, enjoys the desire. The immediate enjoyment is over, and it is enjoyed more in its later contemplation. On this point there is found a single suggestion in Moli^re’s interpretation, except that this by no means does him credit, because all the rest of the interpretation is confused. Desire awakens in Don Juan because he sees a girl happy in her relation to her beloved; he begins to be jealous. This is an interesting situation, which in the opera would not wholly engage

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US, just because Don Juan is not a reflective individual. As soon as he is interpreted as being such, "we can only achieve the corresponding mu- sical ideality by transferring the matter to the psychological sphere. There one attains the ideality of the intensive. For this reason Byron’s Don Juan must be stamped as a failure, because the epic is too diffuse. The immediate Don Juan must seduce 1,003, the reflective need only seduce one, and what interests us is how he did it. The reflective Don Juan’s seduction is a sleight-of-hand performance, wherein every single little trick has its special importance; the musical Don Juan’s seduction is a handspring, a matter of an instant, swifter done than said. I am reminded of a tableau I once saw. A handsome young man, rightly a ladies’ man. He played about with a good many young girls, who were all in the dangerous age, since they were neither grown-up nor children. Among other things they amused themselves by jumping over a ditch. The young man stood on the edge of the ditch, and if they needed help in leaping it, he would take them around the waist, swing them easily into the air, and set them down on the other side. It was a pleasant sight; I enjoyed him as much as I did the young girls. Then I thought about Don Juan. The young girls fling themselves into his arms, swiftly he catches them, and as swiftly sets them down on the other side of the ditch of life.

The musical Don Juan is absolutely victorious, and therefore he is naturadly in possession of every means that can contribute to this victory, or rather, he is such absolute possession of the medium that it is as if he did not need to use it, that is, he does not use it as a means. As soon as he becomes a reflective individual, it appears that there is something called the means. If the poet grants him this means, but does it in the face of such serious opposition and obstacles that the victory becomes doubtful, then Don Juan comes under the category of the interesting, and many of the interpretations may be regarded as coming under this category, until we approach what we have earlier called the intensive, or selective, seduction. If the poet denies hkn this means, then the interpre- tation falls under the category of the comic. I have never yet seen a per- fect interpretation which brings him under the category of the in- teresting; on the other hand, it is true about most of the interpretations of Don Juan, that they approach the comic. This is easily explained by the fact that they follow Moliere, in whose interpretation the comic is implicit, and it is Heiberg’s merit that he was clearly conscious of this, and that he therefore not only called his play a puppet show, but that in many other ways he let the comic shine through. As soon as

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passion as represented is denied the means for its satisfaction, then it can either produce a tragic or a comic turn. A tragic note cannot well be evoked where the idea appears as wholly unwarranted, and therefore the comic lies very near. If I arouse the love of gambling in some individual, and then give him five dollars to bet with, the effect becomes comic. Such is not quite the case with Moliere’s Don Juan, but yet there is a similarity. If I allow Don Juan to be in finan- cial straits, harassed by creditors, he at once loses the ideality he has in the opera, and the effect becomes comic. The famous comedy scene in Moli^re, which as comedy has great value, and also fits very well into the whole, ought naturally, therefore, never to be introduced into opera, where it always works confusion.

That Moliere’s interpretation strives to achieve the comic, the scene mentioned above would not show, taken by itself; if it stood entirely isolated, it would show nothing at all, but the whole layout is character- ized by this. Sganarelle’s first and last speeches, the beginning and end of the play, afford more than sufficient evidence concerning this. Sgana- relle begins with a eulogy over a rare snuff, from which one learns among other things, that he has not devoted himself exclusively to the service of Don Juan; he ends by complaining that he is the only one in the whole world who has been wronged. When one considers now that Moli^re had allowed the statue to come and fetch Don Juan, and that, although Sganarelle had been a witness to this frightfulness, he still puts these words into his mouth, as if Sganarelle would say that since the statue otherwise meddled with exercising justice on earth and punish- ing vice, it ought to have been prepared to pay Sganarelle the wages due him for long and faithful service to Don Juan, which his master, because of his sudden departure, had not been able to do — ^when one considers this, then everyone must feel the power of the comic in Moline’s Don Juan. (Heiberg’s adaptation, which has the great advantage over Mo- li^re’s, of being more correct, has also evoked a comic effect in a number of ways, by putting a casual learning into Sganarelle’s mouth, which lets us ke him as a smatterer, who after having tried many things, finally ends up as Don Juan’s servant.) The hero in the piece, Don Juan, is something less than a hero, he is an unsuccessful individual who has probably failed in his examinations, and now has chosen another means of livelihood. One indeed learns that he is the son of a very distinguished man, who has also attempted to inspire his son to virtue and immortal deeds, by giving him an idea of the great reputation his forefathers enjoyed, but this is so improbable in connection with all the rest of his

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deportment, that one begins to wonder if the whole matter is not a lie, fabricated by Don Juan himself. His conduct is not very chivalrous; one does not see him with sword in hand, clearing his way through the difficulties of life; he deals out a box on the ear as readily to one as to the other; indeed, he all but beats up the betrothed of one girl. Hence, if Moliere’s Don Juan is really a knight, the poet knows excellendy how to make us forget it, and strives to show us a bully, a general rake, who is not afraid to use his fists. Whoever has had occasion to make what we call a bully the object of his observations, knows, too, that this class of men has a great predilection for the sea, and he will therefore find it quite natural that Don Juan, having got his eye on a pair of skirts, should inomediately put out after them in a boat on the Kallebrodstrand, a Sunday adventtire upon the sea, and that they should capsize the boat. Don Juan and Sganarelle are almost drowned, and at last are saved by Pedro and the tall Lucas, who at first were betting on whether it really ' was a man or a stone, a wager that cost Lucas two bits, which was almost too much for Lucas and for Don Juan. Now if one finds all this quite proper, the impression becomes confused the next moment, as one comes to know that Don Juan is also the fellow who had seduced Elvira, mur- dered the Commandant, and so on. One finds it highly absurd to have to explain it was a lie in order to reconcile the situation. If Sganarelle is supposed to give us an idea of the passion which rages in Don Juan, then his exjJlanation is such a travesty that it is impossible to keep from laughing at it, as when Sganarelle says to Gusman: “In order to get what he wants, Don Juan would gladly marry her dog or cat, aye, even worse, he would even marry you.” Or as when he remarks that his master not only disbelieves in love but also in medicine.

If, now, Moli&re’s interpretation of Don Juan, considered as a comic adaptation, were correct, then I should say nothing more about it here, since in this inquiry I have only to do with the ideal interpretation and its musical significance. I might then be content to notice the remarkable circumstance that only in music has anyone interpreted Don Juan ideally in the ideality he had in the traditional conception of the Middle Ages. The absence of an ideal interpretation through the medium of words might furnish an indirect proof for the soundness of my position. Here, however, I can do more, precisely because Moline is not correct, and that which kept him from being so is that he has retained something of the ideal in Don Juan, as if this belonged to the traditional conception. As I there pointed out, it will again appear that this could only be essentially c:q)ressed in music, and so I return to my proper thesis.

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In tlie first act of Moline’s Don Juan, Sganarelle immediately makes a very long speech in which he gives us a conception of his master’s boundless passion, and the multiplicity of his love affairs. This speech corresponds exactly to the second tenor aria in the opera. The speech produces simply no effect other than the comic, and here again, Hei- berg’s interpretation has the advantage of the comic being more unal- loyed than in Moli^re. This speech makes an attempt to give us an idea of his power, but the effect fails to appear; only music can reconcile it, because at the same time it describes Don Juan’s behavior the music lets us hear the power of his seduction, as the Hst of the seduced is unrolled before us.

In Moliere, -the statue comes in the last act to fetch Don Juan. Even if the poet has attempted to motivate the approach of the statue by sending a warning in advance, this stone would still always constitute a dramatic stumbling block. If Don Juan is interpreted ideally as force, as passion, then must even heaven itself be set in motion. If this is not the case, it is ill-advised to use so strong a medium. The Commandant need not in truth have troubled himself, since the time was drawing nearer when Mr. Paaske would throw Don Juan into a debtor’s prison. This would be quite in the spirit of modern comedy which does not require so great a power of destruction, precisely because the moving force itself is not so grandiose. It would be quite consistent with the spirit pf mod- ern comedy for Don Juan to learn to know the tedious barriers of actu- ality. In the opera it is quite right that the Commandant should return, but there his appearance also has an ideal truth. The music immediately makes the Commandant something more than a particular individual, his voice is expanded to the voice of a spirit. As Don Juan is therefore interpreted in the opera with aesthetic seriousness, so also is the Com- mandant. In Moline he comes with an ethical solemnity and heaviness which almost makes him ridiculous; in the opera he comes vvith aes- thetic lightness, metaphysical truth. No power in the play, no power on earth, has been able to coerce Don Juan, only a spirit, a ghost, can do that. When one finally understands this correctly, then this will again throw light upon the interpretation of Don Juan. A spirit, a ghost, is a reincarnation; this is the mystery which lies m the return, but Don Juan can do everything, can withstand everything, except the spiritual rein- carnation of life, precisely because he is the immediate sensual life, whose negation the spirit is. Likewise Sganarelle, as interpreted by MoU^re, becomes an inexphcable person, whose character is extremely perplex- ing. What here causes the confusion is that Moliere has again retained

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something of the traditional. As Don Juan is above all a force, so this also appears in his relation to Leporello. Leporello feels himself drawn to him, overwhelmed by him, sinking into him, and he becomes only an instrument for carrying out his master’s will. This obscure, imdefined sympathy is exactly what makes Leporello into a musical personality, and we find it quite in order that he should not be able to disengage himself from Don Juan. With Sganarelle it is another matter. In Mo- li^re, Don Juan is a particular individual, and Sganarelle consequently appears in relation to him as to an individual. If Sganarelle feels himself indissolubly bound to Don Juan, this is still no more than an aesthetic craving to share the spotlight, whatever the explanation given. It is of no use for Moliere to let him say that he cannot tear himself loose from Don Juan, for neither reader nor spectator can see any rational argu- ment for this, even if a rational argument were here the point in ques- tion. The instability in Leporello is well motivated in the opera because in his relation to Don Juan he is nearer to becoming an individual con- sciousness, and the Don Juanesque life therefore reflects itself differently in him, still without his being able to penetrate it. In Moline, Sganarelle is sometimes better, sometimes worse than Don Juan, but it is incon- ceivable that he should not desert him when he does not even get his wages. If someone perhaps imagines a unity in Sganarelle corresponding to the sympathetic musical obscurity Leporello has in the opera, then there is nothing to do except to leave such a one alone in his prejudiced folly. Then one secs again an illustration of how the musical must pro- gress in order for Don Juan to be interpreted in his true ideality. The fault in Moliere is not in his having interpreted him comically, but in his not having interpreted him correctly. .

Moliere’s Don Juan is also a seducer, but the play gives us only a poor conception of his being so. That in Moline Elvira should be Don Juan’s wife is undoubtedly rightly planned, especially with respect to the comic effect. We see at once that we are dealing with a common person who uses the promise of marriage in order to deceive a girl. Through this Elvira entirely loses the ideal bearing she has in the opera, where she appears with no other weapon than her affronted womanhood, while here one expects her to come with her marriage certificate; and Don Juan loses the seductive ambiguity of being a young man and an experienced husband, that is, experienced in every chance attempt. How he had seduced Elvira, by what means he had enticed her out of the convent— only a single speech of Sganarelle’s enlightens us concerning this; but ance the seduction scene which takes place in the play gives

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US no opportunity to admire Don Juan’s art, our confidence in Sgana- relle’s account is naturally weakened. Insofar as Moliere’s Don Juan is comic, this is indeed not necessary; but since he still wishes us to under- stand that his Don Juan is actually the hero Don Juan, who has deceived Elvira and murdered the Commandant, we readily see the error in Moli^re, but we are then forced to consider whether this was not really because Don Juan can never be presented as a seducer except in a musical setting, unless as suggested in the preceding, one wishes to go into the psychological phase, which, again, cannot so easily arouse the dramatic interest.

In Mol&e, one does not hear him deceiving the two young girls, Mathurine and Charlotte. The deception takes place outside the play, and Moline again gives us to understand that Don Juan has given them promises of marriage, so here again we get a poor idea of his talent. To deceive a yoimg girl by a promise of marriage is indeed very poor art, and because one is low enough to do this, it by no means follows that he is worthy of being called a Don Juan. The only scene which seems to show us Don Juan in his seducing, although with little seductive reality, is the scene with Charlotte. But to tell a young peasant girl that she is pretty, that she has sparkling eyes, to beg her to turn around in order to observe her form, does not betray something tmeommon in Don Juan, but a lewd fellow who looks over a girl as a dealer does q horse. One may freely concede the scene a comic effect, and if it only had it I should not mention it here. But since this, his famous attempt, stands in no relation to the many affairs he must have had, this scene contrib- utes, directly or indirectly, to show the imperfection in the comedy. Moli^re seems to have wished to do something more for Don Juan, seems to have wished to retain the ideal in him, but he lacks the medium, and therefore everything fails; what actually happens is something in- significant. On the whole we can say that in Moline’s Don Juan we get to know only historically that he is a seducer; dramatically we do not see it. The scene where he shows the greatest activity is the scene with Charlotte and Mathurine, when he puts them both off by flattery, and constantly makes each one believe that it is she he has promised to marry. But what engages our attention here is not his seductive art, but a very common theatrical device.

In conclusion, I can perhaps elucidate what has been developed here by considering a remark that is often made, that Moli^re’s Don Juan is more moral than Mozart’s. However, when this is rightly understood, it is an encomium on the opera. In the opera there is not only talk about

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a seducer, but Don Juan is a seducer, and we cannot deny that in its details music can often be very seductive. This, however, is as it should be; this is exactly its strength. Therefore to say that an opera is immoral is a foolishness which only originates with people who do not under- stand interpreting an opera in its totaUty, but who only grasp at its details. The definitive endeavor in the opera is highly moral, and the impression it produces absolutely salutary, because everything is big, everything has genuine unaffected pathos, the passion of pleasure not less than the passion of seriousness, the passion of enjoyment not less than the passion of anger.

3. The Inner Musical Structure of the Opera

Although the title of this section may be regarded as sufl&ciently illuminating, yet for the sake of assurance I shall point out that it is naturally not my intention to give an aesthetic appraisal of the play Don Juan, or a demonstration of its dramatic structure. To discriminate thus requires much caution, especially in the case of a classic production. That which I have so frequently emphasized in the preceding, I shall once again repeat: that Don Juan can only be expressed musically. I have learned this myself essentially through music, and I ought there- fore to guard in every way against giving the impression that the music can be understood except through the music. If you propose to treat the matter as something outside of music, then you may, for all of me, ad- mire the music in this opera as much as you wish, you will not have grasped its absolute significance. Hotho has not kept himself free from such a false abstraction, and therefore it follows that his production cannot be regarded as satisfactory, however distinguished it otherwise is. His style, his presentation, his reproduction are lively and moving; his categories are undetermined and vague; his interpretation of Don Juan is not impregnated by one thought, but dispersed in many. To him Don Juan is a seducer. But even this category is indefinite, and it must still be decided in what sense he is a seducer, as I, too, have tried to do. Many things true in themselves are said about this seducer, but since the ordinary interpretations allow far too much freedom of interpretation, such a seducer easily becomes so reflective that he ceases to be the abso- lutely musical. He goes through the play, scene after scene; his acting is freely saturated by his personality, occasionally perhaps a little too much so. If this happens, then the sympathetic audience often gushes over how beautifully, how correctly, how variously, Mozart has ex- pressed all this. But this lyric pleasure in Mozart’s music is too little.

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and however well it becomes the man, and however beautifully it is expressed, Mozart’s Don Juan through this interpretation becomes im- recognizable in its absolute validity. This is the recognition I am work- ing for, because such recognition is identical with the right insight into that which is here the object of this inquiry. Therefore, it is not my in- tention to analyze the whole opera, but to mention the opera as a whole, not its particular parts separately, but -incorporating these as far as pos- sible in my observations, so as not to see them outside of their connection with the whole, but within it.

In a drama the chief interest quite naturally centers around what one calls the hero of the play; the other characters in relation to him have only a subordinate and relative importance. The more the inward reflec- tion penetrates the drama with its divisive power, however, the more the subordinate characters tend to assume a certain relative absoluteness, iE I may say so. This is by no means a fault, but rather a virtue, just as the contemplation of the world which sees only the few eminent individuals and their importance in the world development, but is unaware of the common man, in a certain sense stands higher but is lower than the con- templation which views the lesser man in his equally great validity. The dramatist will succeed only to the degree in which nothing of the in- commensurable remains, nothing of the mood from which the drama originates, that is to say, nothing of the mood qua mood, but in which everything is converted into the sacred dramatic coin: action and situa- tion. In the same degree as the dramatist is successful in this, to that degree the general impression his works produce will be less that of a mood than of a thought and idea. The more the general impression of a drama is that of a mood, the more certain one can be that the poet himself has anticipated it in the mood, and continually allowed it to become that, instead of seizing upon an idea, and letting this dramati- cally iinfold itself. Such a drama then suffers from an abnormal excess of the lyric. This is a fault in a drama, but by no means such in an opera. That which preserves the unity in the opera is the keynote which dominates the whole production.

What has been said here about the general dramatic effect also applies to the individual parts of the drama. If I were to characterize in a single word the effect of the drama, insofar as this is different from the effect which every other kind of poetry produces, then I should say: the drama operates in the contemporary. In the drama I see the factors standing outside one another, together in the situation, a unity of action. The more, then, the individual factors are separated, the more profotmdly

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the dramatic situation is self-reflective, the less will the dramatic unity manifest itself as a mood, the more it will become a definite idea. But as the totality of the ppera cannot be thus self-reflective, as in the case of drama proper, so this is also the case with the musical situation, which is indeed dramatic, but which still has its unity in the mood. The musical situation has the contemporary quality like every dramatic situ- ation, but the activity of the forces is a concord, a harmony, an agree- ment, and the impression made by the musical situation is the unity achieved by hearing together what soxmds together. The more the drama is self-reflective, the more the mood is explained in the action. The less the action, the more the lyrical moment dominates. This is quite proper in the opera. The opera does not have so much character delineation and action for its inherent object; it is not reflective enough for that. On the other hand, passion, unreflective and substantial, finds its expression in opera. The musical situation depends on maintaining the unity of mood in the unorganized majority. This is exactly the char- acteristic of the music that it can preserve the majority in the unity of the mood. When in ordinary conversation one uses the word majority, one commonly means by that a unity which is the final result; this is not the case in music.

The dramatic interest requires a swift forward movement, a quick- step, what one might call the inherent, increasing tempo of the event. The more the drama is interpenetrated by reflection, the more impetu- ously it hurries forward. On the other hand, if the lyric or the epic mo- ment is one-sidedly predominant, this expresses itself in a kind of lethargy which allows the situation to fall asleep, and makes the dramatic proc- ess and progress slow and laborious. This haste is not inherent in the nature of the opera, for this is characterized by a certain lingering movement, a certain diffusion in time and space. The action has not the swiftness of cadence, or its direction, but it moves more horizontally. The mood is not sublimated in character and action. As a result, the action in an opera can only be immediate action.

If we apply this explanation to the opera Don Juan, we shall have an opportunity to see it in its true classic validity. Don Juan is the hero of the opera, the chief interest centers about him; not only so, but he lends interest to all the other characters. This must not be tmderstood, how- ever, in a merely superficial sense, for this constitutes the mysterious in this opera, that the hero is also the animating force in the other char- acters. Don Juan’s life is the life-principle within them. His passion sets the passion of all the others in motion; his passion resounds everywhere;

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it sounds in and sustains the earnestness of the Commandant, Elvira’s anger, and Anna’s hate, Ottavio’s conceit, Zerlina’s anxiety, Mazetto’s exasperation, and Leporello’s confusion. As hero in the play, he gives it his name, as is generally true in the case of the hero, but he is more than a name, he is, so to speak, the common den omin ator. The existence of all the others is, compared with his, only a derived existence. If we now require of an opera that its unity provide the keynote, then we shall easily see that one could not imagine a more perfect subject for an opera than Don Juan. The keynote can really be, in relation to the forces in the play, a third force which sustains these. As an illustration of such an opera, I might mention The White Lady, but such a unity is, with rela- tion to the opera, a more extreme determination of the lyric. In Don Juan the keynote is nothing other than the prunitive power in the opera itself j this is Don Juan, but again — ^just because he is not character but essentially life — he is absolutely musical. Nor are the other persons iu the opera characters, but essentially passions, who are posited with Don Juan, and insofar again become musical. That is, as Don Juan encircles them all, so do they in turn encircle Don Juan; they are the external consequences his life constandy posits. It is this musical life of Don Juan, absolutely centralized in the opera, which enables it to create a power of illusion such as no other is able to do, so that its life transports one into the life of the play. Because the musical is omnipresent, one may enjoy in this music a single litde part of it, and immediately be transported by it. One may enter in the middle of the play and instandy be in the center of it, because this center, which is Don Juan’s life, is everywhere.

We know from experience that it is not pleasant to strain two senses at the same time, and it is often very confusing if we have to use our eyes hard when our ears are already occupied. Therefore we have a tendency to close our eyes when hearing music. This is true about all music more or less, about Don Juan in sensu eminentiori. As soon as the eyes are engaged, the impression becomes confused; for the dramatic unity which is seen is always subordinate and diffuse in comparison with the musical unity which is heard at the same time. This, at least, has been my own experience. I have sat close up, I have sat farther and farther away, I have tried a corner in the theater where I could completely lose myself in the music. The better I understood it, or believed that I under- stood it, the farther I was away from it, not from coldness, but from love, for it is better understood at a distance. This has had for my life something strangely mysterious in it. There have been times when I

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would have given anything for a ticket. Now I need no longer spend a single penny for one. I stand outside in the corridor; I lean up against the partition which divides me from the auditorium, and then the im- pression is most powerful; it is a world by itself, separated from me; I can see nothing, but I am near enough to hear, and yet so infinitely far away.

Since the characters appearing in the opera do not need to be so self- reflective that as characters they become transparent, it also follows from this, as I earlier emphasized, that the situation cannot be perfectly developed or expanded, but to a certain extent is a matter of mood. This is legitimate iu the action of an opera. What one in a stricter sense calls action, in the sense of an object instituting this action, cannot find its expression in music, but only in what we might call immediate action. Both are the case in Don Juan. The action is immediate; concerning this I must refer to a previous statement, where I explained in what sense Don Juan could be called a seducer. Because the action is immediate action, it is quite proper that irony should so dominate this piece; for irony is and becomes the immediate chastener of life. Thus, to cite only one example, the Commandant’s return is prodigious irony; for Don Juan can overcome every obstacle, but a ghost, you know, cannot be killed. The situation throughout is born of the mood; regarding this, I must jremind you of Don Juan’s significance to the whole, and the relative existence of the other characters in relation to him. I shall, by citing a smgle situation, show what I mean. I choose for this Elvira’s first aria. The orchestra plays the prelude, Elvira enters. The passion which rages in her bosom must find relief, and she finds it in her song. This, however, would be too lyrical really to create a situation; her aria then would be of the same namre as the monologue m the play. The difference would be only this, that the monologue more nearly expresses the imiversal individually, the aria the individual universally. But, as was said, this would be too little for the situation. Therefore, it is not that way. In the background we see Don Juan and Leporello await- ing in tense expectation the approach of the lady they have already seen iu the window. Now if this were a drama, the situation would not con- sist in Elvira standing in the foreground and Don Juan in the back- ground, but the situation would he in the unexpected encounter. The interest would hinge upon how Don Juan would escape from it. In the opera the encounter also has its importance, but a very subordinate one. The encotmter is seen, the musical situation is heard. The unity in the situation is effected by the harmony wherein Elvira and Don Juan

THE INNER MUSICAL STRUCTURE

arc heard together. It is therefore quite right for Don Juan to remain as far in the background as possible; for he should not be seen, not only not by Elvira, but not even by the audience. Elvira’s aria begins. I do not know how to characterize her passion other than as love’s hatred, a mingled, but still sonorous, full-toned passion. Her inmost being is stirred by turbulent emotions, she catches her breath, she grows faint, as every passionate outbreak becomes weaker; there follows a pause in the music. But her emotion shows clearly that her passion has not reached its full expression; the diaphragm of wrath must yet vibrate more intensely. But what is to call forth this agitation, this incitement? There is but one thing that can do this — ^Don Juan’s mockery. Mozart has, therefore — ^would I were a Greek, for then I would say, quite divinely — ^made use of this pause in the music to fling in Don Juan’s jeering laughter. Now passion blazes stronger, breaks more violently •within her, and bursts forth in sound. Once again it repeats itself; then her emotion shakes her to the depths of her soul, and wrath and pain pour forth, like a lava stream down its familiar course, and with this the aria ends.

We see here, then, that what I mean when I say that Don Juan echoes through Elvira is something more than phrase-making. The spectator should not see Don Juan, should not see him with Elvira in the unity of the situation; he should hear him in Elvira, through Elvira, for it is indeed Don Juan who sings, but he sings in such a way that the more the listener’s ear is developed, the more it seems to him as if it came from Elvira herself. As love transforms its object, so also does indigna- tion. She is possessed by Don Juan. That pause and Don Juan’s voice make the situation dramatic, but the unity in Elvira’s passion wherein Don Juan echoes, while her passion is still engaged with him, makes the situation musical.* The situation conceived as a musical situation is

In my opinion, Elvira’s aria and the situation should be interpreted thus: Don Juan’s incom-

parable irony ought not to be something external, but should be concealed in Elvira’s essential passion. They must be heard simultaneously. As the speculative eye sees things together, so the speculative ear should hear things together; I shall take an example from pure physics. When a man from a high point of vantage looks out over a flat plain and sees vanous highways running parallel with one another, then if he lacks mtuition, he will see only the highways, and the fields lying between will be practically invisible; or he will see only the fields, and the highways will disappear; he who has the intuitive eye will sec them collectively, will see the whole range intersected by the highways. This is also true of the car. What I have said here applies naturally to the musical situation; the dramatic situation makes it more probable that the spectator knew it was Don Juan standing in the background and Elvira in the foreground. If I assume now that the spectator is conscious of their earlier relationship (something' the spectator could not at first have known about), then the situation gains much, but one will also see that if the accent Ms on this relationship, then it is wrong to keep them apart for so long.

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matchless. If, however, Don Juan is a personality, and Elvira equally so, then the situation falls short, then it is a mistake to permit Elvira to unburden herself in the foreground while Don Juan jeers in the back- ground; for then it becomes necessary that I should hear them together without the mediation being given for this, and although both are characters, it is impossible that they should thus be heard together. If they are characters, then the encounter forms the situation.

It has been noted above that the same dramatic haste, the accelerated speeding-up is not demanded in the opera as in the drama, that the situation here must have a chance to spread out a little. This must not, however, degenerate into perpetual retardation. As an example of the happy medium, I may emphasize the situation I just now mentioned, not as if this were the only situation in Don Juan, or the most perfect; on the contrary there are many such, and all perfect, but because the reader will best remember this one. And yet I here approach a pre- carious point; for I admit that there are two arias that must go, that however perfect they are in themselves, they still cause an interruption, retard the action. I would willingly keep this a secret, but that wotdd not help, the truth must out. If one takes these two away, then all the rest is perfect. One of these is Ottavio’s, the other Anna’s, and both are really concert numbers rather than dramatic music, since, on the whole, Ottavio and Anna are far too insignificant to justify their retarding the action. When one takes these two away, then the rest of the opera has a perfect musical-dramatic swiftness, perfect as no other is.

It would well repay the trouble to go through each individual situa- tion piecemeal, not to exclaim over it, but to show its significance, its validity as a musical situation. However, this really lies outside the scope of this little investigation. It was of importance to emphasize Don Juan’s centrality in the opera. Something similar recurs with reference to the individual situations.

I shall elucidate that previously mentioned centrality of Don Juan’s inj the opera a little more clearly by considering the rest of the persons in the play in their relationship to him. As in a solar system the dark bodies which receive their light from a central sun are never more than half illuminated, namely, on the side which is turned toward the sun, so is this the case with the persons in this play — only that moment in their lives, that side which is turned toward Don Juan, is illuminated, the rest is dark and obscure. This must not be understood in a restricted sense, as if each of these characters were only an abstract passion, as if Anna, for example, represented hate, Zcrlina frivolity. Such a lack of

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that as soon as Leporello makes a speech, he becomes transparent to us. There is also something erotic in L^porello’s relationship to Don Juan; there is a power by which he captivates him, even against his will. But in this ambiguity he is musical, and Don Juan constantly echoes through him; later I shall suggest something to show that this is more than a phrase.

With the exception of the Commandant, everyone stands in a kind of erotic relation to Don Juan. Over the Commandant he can exercise no power, he is consciousness; the others are in his power. Elvira loves him, her love puts her in his power; Anna hates him, so she is in his power; Zerlina fears him, which puts her in his power; Ottavio and Mazetto go along for the sake of relationship, for the blood bond is strong.

If for a moment we now glance back over the development, the reader will perhaps see how it has been developed from many sides, in what relation the Don Juan idea stands to the musical, how this relation- ship really constitutes the whole opera, how it repeats itself in the in- dividual parts. I might readily pause here, but I shall for the sake of ’ complete understanding, explain this by running through some of the individual parts of the opera. The selection will not be arbitrary. I choose for this the overture, which most nearly gives the keynote of the opera in a condensed concentration. I choose next the most epic and the most lyric moments in the production, in order to show how the per-, fection of the opera is preserved even to its utmost limits, how the musical-dramatic is maintained, how it is Don Juan who musically sustains the opera.

This is not the place to explain what significance the overture upon the whole has for the opera. Only so much can here be emphasized, that the fact that an opera requires an overture sufficiently proves the preponderance of the lyrical, and that the effect aimed at is the evocation of a mood, something which the drama cannot undertake to do, since there everything must be made transparent. It is therefore proper that the overture should be the last part composed, so that the composer him- self may be completely permeated with the music. The overture, there- fore, generally affords an opportunity to get a deep insight into the composer and his spiritual relation to his music. If he is not successful in apprehending the central idea in it, iE he is not in the most profound sympathetic contact with the keynote of the opera, then this will in- evitably betray itself in the overture; it then becomes, by virtue of a loose association of ideas, an aggregate shot through with salient points, but

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103

with no totality, which, as it essentially ought to do, contains the most profound illumination on the content of the opera. Such an overture is therefore generally entirely arbitrary, that is, it can be as long or as short as it will, and the cohesive element, the continuity, since it is only an association of ideas, can stretch out as long as it will. Therefore, the overture is often a dangerous temptation to minor composers; they are easily seduced into plagiarizing themselves, filching from their own pockets, something which produces much confusion. While it is clear from this that the overture should not have the same content as the opera, neither should it, naturally, contain anything absolutely differ- ent. It should, in other words, have the same ideas as the opera, but ar- ranged differently; it should contain the central idea, and grip the listener with the whole intensity of this central idea.

In this respect the ever admirable overture to Don Juan is and remains a perfect masterpiece, so that if no other proof was forthcoming for Don Juan’s classicity, this would still be sufficient to emphasize this one thing, the absurdity of thinking that he who had the center, should not also have the periphery. This overture is not a difference of themes, it is not a labyrinth interpenetrated by associated ideas, it is concise, definite, strongly constructed, and above all, it is impregnated with the essence of the whole opera. It is powerful as the thought of a god, moving as a world’s life, trembling in its earnestness, quivering in its passion, crush- ing in its terrible wrath, inspiring in its joy of life; it is faithful in its judgment, strident in its lust, it is deliberately solemn in its imposing dignity, it is stirring, flaming, dancing in its joy. And it has not attained this by sucking the blood of the opera, on the contrary, with regard to that it is prophetic. In the overture the music unfolds its entire compass; with a few mighty wing-strokes it hovers over itself, as it were, over the place where it will sink down. It is a conflict, but a conflict m the loftier regions of the air. He who after having made a closer acquaintance with the opera, hears the overture, to him it will perhaps seem as if he had been pushed forward into that secret workshop where the wild forces he has learned to know in the opera, move in their primitive energy, where all the powers of nature break themselves against one another. Still, the struggle is too imequal, already one power is victorious before the blow, it (the other) flees and escapes, but this flight is just its passion, its burning unrest in its brief moment of the joy of life, the quickened pulse ip. its passionate heat. By its flight it sets the other power in motion, and carries it along with itself. That which at first seemed so firmly fixed as to be almost immovable, must now be ofi, and soon the movement be-

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comes so swift that it seems like actual combat. It is impossible to follow this farther. Here it is worth while to hear the music, for the conflict is not a mere debate, but a raging of elemental forces. I shall only note what I earlier explained, that the interest of the opera centers in Don Juan, not in Don Juan and the Commandant. This is everywhere appar- ent in the overture. Mozart seems purposely to have planned it so that the deep voice of the Commandant, so resonant in the beginning, grad- ually becomes weaker and weaker, almost loses, as it were, its majestic firmness, must hurry to keep pace with the demoniac haste which eludes him, and which almost has the power to degrade him by project- ing him into a race in an instant. After that, the transition is patterned more and more after the piece itself. As a consequence, one must con- sider the finale in a close relation to the first part of the overture. In the finale, earnestness again comes to itself, while in the progress of the overture, it was as if it were beside itself. Now there is no question about running a race with passion; earnestness returns, and thereby has cut away every possibility for a new race.

While the overture therefore is in one sense independent, in another sense it may be regarded as a running start toward the opera. I have tried in the preceding passages to remind the reader of this by recalling the successive diminutions in which the one power approaches the be- ginning of the play. The same thing is apparent when one observes the other power growing in an increasing progression; it begins in the over- ture, it waxes and increases. This, its beginning, is particularly admir- ably expressed. One hears it so faintly, so mysteriously shadowed forth, one hears it, but it is so swiftly over, that one gets the impression of hav- ing heard something one has not heard. There must be an attentive, an erotic ear, watching the first time one gets a hint in the overture about the light play of this passion, which one comes to know later in all its prodigal abundance. I cannot indicate to the dot where this place is, since I am not conversant with music, but then I only write for lovers, and these will readily understand me, some of them better than I under- stand myself. Hence, I am satisfied with my appointed task, and though otherwise I always thank the gods that I was born a man and not a woman, still Mozart’s music has taught me that it is beautiful and re- freshing and rich to love like a woman.

I am no friend of figures of speech; modern literature has given me a great distaste for them; it will soon go so far that every time I meet a metaphor, I shall be seized by such an involimtary fright that its true meaning will be lost in the obscurity of the thought. I shall not, there-

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fore, venture on an indiscreet and fruidess attempt to translate the en- ergetic and pithy brevity of the overture into a long-winded and mean- ingless figure of speech. I shall emphasize only a single point in the overture, and in order to call the reader’s attention to this, I shall employ a figme of speech, the only way I have to put myself in touch with him. This point is naturally no other than Don Juan’s &st outburst, the premo- nition about him, about the power, with which he later breaks forth again. The overture begins with a single deep, earnest, uniform note that at first sounds infinitely far away, a hint which yet, as if it had come too early, is instantiy recalled, until later one hears it again and again, bolder and bolder, louder and louder, that voice, which first subdy and coyly, and not without anxiety slipped in, but could not force its way through. Sometimes in nature one sees the sky thus heavy and lowering; too heavy to support itself, it rests upon the earth, and hides everything in the blackness of night; a single hollow rumble is heard, not yet in movement, but a deep muttering within itself— -then one sees at the farthest limit of the heavens, remote on the horizon, a flash; swiftly it runs along the earth, and is instantly gone. But soon it comes again, it grows stronger; for a moment it lights up the whole heaven with its flame, in the next the horizon seems darker than ever, but more swiftly, even more fiery it blazes up; it is as if the darkness itself had lost its tranquillity and was coming into movement. As the eye in this first flash suspects a conflagration, so the ear in that dying strain of the violin, has a foreboding of the whole intensity of passion. There is ap- prehension in that flash, it is as if it were born in anxiety in the deep darkness — such is Don Juan’s life. There is a dread in him, but this dread is his energy. It is not a subjectively reflected dread, it is a sub- stantial dread. We do not have in the overture — ^what we commonly say without realizing what we say — despair. Don Juan’s life is not despair; but it is the whole power of sensuality, which is born in dread, and Don Juan himself is this dread, but this dread is precisely the de- moniac joy of life. When Mozart has thus brought Don Juan into ex- istence, then his life is developed for us in the dancing tones of the violin in which he lightly, casually hastens forward over the abyss. When one skims a stone over the surface of the water, it skips lightly for a time, but as soon as it ceases to skip, it instantly sinks down into the depths; so Don Juan dances over the abyss, jubilant in his brief respite.

But if, as noted above, the overture is to be regarded as a running start for the opera; if in the overture one comes down from that higher re-

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gion, then it may be asked where one lands best in the opera, or how does one get the opera to begin? Here Mozart has perceived the only right thing to do, to begin with Leporello. Perhaps it might seem that there was not such great merit in this, inasmuch as nearly all the adapta- tions of Don Juan begin with a monologue by Sganarelle. On the con- trary, there is a great difference, and we have again occasion to admire Mozart’s mastery. He has placed the first tenor aria in immediate con- junction with the overture. This is something which is rarely done; here it is entirely proper, and it gives us a new light on the construction of the overture. The overture is trying to settle down, to secure a footing in the theatrical effect. The Commandant and Don Juan we have already heard in the overture, next to them Leporello is the most impor- tant character. However, he cannot be lifted up to that conflict in the re- gions of the air, and yet he has a better right than any other. Therefore the play begins with him so that he st'ands in immediate connection with the overture. One is absolutely correct, therefore, in including Leporello’s first aria with the overture. This aria corresponds to the not inglorious monologue of Sganarelle in Moli&re. Let us examine the situation a little more closely. Sganarelle’s monologue is far from being unwitty, and when we read it in Professor Heiberg’s graceful and fluent verse, it is very entertaining. On the other hand, the situation itself is deficient. I say this with particular reference to Moli^re, for with Heiberg it is an- other rdatter, and I say it not to disparage Moliere, but to show Mozart’s talent. A monologue is always more or less of a breach in the dramatic situation, and when the poet for the sake of an effect, attempts to ac- complish this by the humor of the monologue itself, instead of through the character, then he has condemned himself, and has surrendered the dramatic interest. It is otherwise in the opera. Here the situation is abso- lutely musical. I have previously called attention to the difference that exists between a dramatic and a musically dramatic situation. In the drama no nonsense is tolerated, there plot and situation are demanded. In opera there is an easing of the situation. But what establishes this as a musical situation? It was earlier stressed that Leporello is a musical fig- ure, and yet he is not the one who sustains the situation. If he were, then his aria would be analogous to Sganarelle’s monologue, even though it is well known that such a quasi-situation belongs to opera rather than to drama. That which makes the situation musical is Don Juan, who is within it. The gist of the situation does not lie in Leporello who is near, but in Don Juan, whom we do not see— -but do hear. Now some- one may object that we do not hear Don Juan. To this I would reply:

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“One does indeed hear him, for he is heard through Leporello.” To this end, I shall call attention to the transition (vuol star dentro colla belld), where Leporello evidendy reproduces Don Juan. But even if this were not the case, still the situation is so motivated that one involuntarily brings Don Juan into it, forgetting Leporello, who stands outside as over against Don Juan who is within. Mozart has, then, with true mu- sical genius, permitted Leporello to reproduce Don Juan, and has thereby accomplished two things, the musical effect, so that one always hears Don Juan everywhere when Leporello is alone, and the burlesque effect, so that when Don Juan is present, one hears Leporello repeat him, and thereby unconsciously parody him. As an example of this I may cite the conclusion of the ballet.

If anyone asks which is the most epic moment in the opera, the answer is easily and immistakably that it is the List in Leporello’s sec- ond aria. It has been previously emphasized by comparing this aria with the corresponding monologue in Moline, what absolute significance the music has, precisely because it lets us hear Don Juan, lets us hear the variations in him, evokes the effect which the spoken word or the dia- logue is not able to do. Here it is important to emphasize both the situ- ation and the musical in it. Let us now take a look at the stage; there the scenic ensemble consists of Leporello, Elvira, and the faithful serv- ants. The faithless lover, on the contrary, is not present; as Leporello pertinently expresses it, “he is away.” This is a virtuosity possessed by Don Juan, he is — ^and so he is away, and he is (that is, for himself) just as opportunely away, as a Jeronimus comes opportunely. Since it is now generally known that he is away, so it might seem queer that I mention him, and in a way, draw him into the situation; on second thought we might find this quite proper and see here an example of Jiow literally the statement must be taken that Don Juan is omnipresent in the opera. For .this can hardly be more strongly indicated than by calling atten- tion to the fact that even when he is away, he is present. However, we shall allow him to be away, and later we shall come to see in what sig- nificance he is present.

Meantime we shall observe the three persons in the scene. That Elvira is present naturally contributes to producing the situation; for it would not do to let Leporello imroll the list just to kill time. But her position also tends to make the situation painful. It certainly cannot be denied that the mockery which is sometimes aroused by Elvira’s love is almost cruel. Thus, in the second act, where in the decisive moment when Ottavio has at last got the courage in his heart and his sword out of the

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sheath, to murder Don Juan, she throws herself between them, and then discovers it is not Don Juan but Leporello, a difference Mozart has so strikingly indicated by a certain whimpering bleat. Thus there is some- thing painful in our situation, in that she should be present to learn that the list of Spanish women seduced stands at 1,003, what is more, she is told that on the German list, she is one of them. This is a German improvement which is as foolishly indecent as the German translation in a no less foolish manner, is ridiculously decent, and a total failure.

Leporello gives Elvira an epic survey of his master’s life, and we cannot deny that it is entirely proper that Leporello should recite it, and that Elvira should listen to him, for they are both intensely interested in the matter. As we therefore always hear Don Juan in the whole aria, so in some places we hear Elvira, who is now visibly present in the scene as a witness instar omnium, not because of some accidental ad- vantage she has, but because, since the method is essentially the same, one example does for all. If Leporello were character, or a self-reflective personality, then it would be difficult to imagine such a monologue, but precisely because he is a musical figure who is submerged in Don Juan, this aria has so much meaning. He is a reproduction of Don Juan’s whole life. Leporello is the epic narrator. Such a one should not be cold or indifferent toward what he tells, but still he ought to maintain an objective attitude toward it. This is not the case with Leporello. Conse- quently he is fascinated by the life he describes, he forgets himself in telling about Don Juan. Thus I have another example of what I mean when I say that Don Juan echoes through everything. The situation, therefore, does not lie in the conversation between Leporello and Elvira about Don Juan, but in the mood that sustains the whole, in Don Juan’s invisible, spiritual presence. To explain more particularly the transition in this aria, how it begins quietly with a slow movement, but is always enkindled more and more, as Don Juan’s life increasingly resounds through it; how Leporello is more and more transported by it, carried away and rocked by these erotic breezes; how the nuances, all as dis- similar as were the women who came within Don Juan’s range, all became audible in it — this is not the place for that.

If we ask which is the most lyric moment in the opera, the answer might be more doubtful. It can hardly be open to question, however, that the most lyric moment must be conceded to Don Juan, that it would be a breach of the dramatic discipline, were a subordinate char- acter allowed to engage our attention in this way. Mozart has realized this. The choice is thus considerably restricted, and on closer inspection,

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it is apparent that it can only be the speech cither at the banquet in the first part of the grand finale, or the familiar champagne aria. As far as the banquet scene is concerned, this may indeed be regarded as a lyric moment, and the feast’s intoxicating cordials, the foaming wine, the festal strains of distant music, everything combines to intensify Don Juan’s mood, as his own festivity casts an enhanced illumination over the whole enjoyment, an enjoyment which reacts so strongly that even Leporello is transfigured in this rich moment which marks the last smile of gladness, the last farewell to pleasure. On the other hand, there is more in the situation than a mere lyrical moment. This, naturally, is not because there is eating and dri nkin g in the scene, for that in itself is very inadequate, regarded as a situation. The situation lies in the fact that Don Juan is keyed up to life’s highest tension. Pursued by the whole world, this victorious Don Juan has now no place of abode other than a little secluded room. It is at the highest point of life’s seesaw that he even now for lack of lusty passion, excites every lust of life in his own breast. If Don Juan were a drama, then this inner unrest in the situation would need to be made as brief as possible. On the other hand, it is right that the situation here should be prolonged, glorified by every possible exuberance, which only sounds the wilder, because for the spectators it reverberates from the abyss over which Don Juan is hover- ing.

It is otherwise with the champagne aria. I believe one will look in vain for a dramatic situation here, but it has the more significance as a lyric efiusion. Don Juan is wearied by the many intercrossing intrigues; on the other hand, he is by no means spent, he is still as vigorous as ever, he does not stimulate a lively passion, either by seeing and hearing the foaming of the wine, or by fortifying himself with it; the inner vitality breaks forth in him, stronger and richer than ever. He is always ideally interpreted by Mozart as life, as power, but ideally as over against actuality. He is here, as it were, ideally intoxicated in himself. If every girl in the world surrounded him in this moment, he would not be a source of danger to them, for he is, as it were, too strong to wish to deceive them; even the manifold enjoyments of actuality are too little for him in comparison with what he enjoys in himself. Here rightly appears what we have said, that the essence of Don Juan is music. He reveals himself to us in music, he expands in a world of sound. Someone has called this the champagne aria, and this is undeniably very descrip- tive. But that which especially needs to be noted is that it does not stand in an accidental relationship to Don Juan. His life is like this, efier-

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vesccnt as champagne. And just as the bubbles in this wine ascend and continue to ascend, while it seethes in its own heat, harmonious in its own melody, so the lust for enjoyment sounds through the primitive seething which is his life. Therefore, that which gives this aria dramatic significance, is not the situation, but the fact that the keynote of the opera here sounds and resounds in itself.

Insignificant Postlude

If now this explanation proves to be correct, then I again return to my favorite theme, that among all classic works Mozart’s Don Jttan ought to stand highest; then I shall again rejoice over Mozart’s happi- ness, a happiness which is in truth enviable, both in itself, and because it makes all of those happy who only moderately understand his hap- piness. I, at least, feel myself indescribably happy in having even remotely understood Mozart and m haviug suspected his happiness. How much more, then, those who have perfectly understood him, how much more must they not feel themselves happy with the happy.

THE ANCIENT TRAGICAL MOTIVE AS REFLECTED IN THE MODERN

An Essay in the Fragmentary Read before a Meeting of the

Symparanekromenoi

S HOULD anyone feel called upon to say that the tragic always re- mains the tragic, I should in a sense have no objection to make, insofar as every historical evolution always remains within the sphere of the concept. Supposing, namely, that the word had a meaning, and that the two-fold repetition of the word tragic should not be re- garded as constituting a meaningless parenthesis about a contendess nothing, then the meaning must be this, that the content of a concept does not dethrone the concept, but enriches it. On the other hand, it can scarcely have escaped the attention of any observer, and it is something that the reading and theater-going public already believes itself to be in lawful possession of, as its share dividend in the labors of the experts, that there is an essential difference between the ancient and modern tragedy. If one were again to emphasize this distinction absolutely, and by its aid, first stealthily, then perhaps forcibly, separate the conceptions of the ancient and modern tragical, his procedure would be no less absurd than that of the first, since he would forget that the foothold necessary for him was the tragic itself, and that this again was so far from being able to separate, that it really bound the ancient and modern together. And it must be regarded as a warning against every such prejudiced attempt to separate them, that aestheticians still constantly turn back to established Aristotelian determinations and requdrements in connection with the tragical, as being exhaustive of the concept; and the warning is needed so much the moi;-e, as no one can escape a feeling of sadness in observing that however much the world has changed, the conception of the tragic is still essentially unchanged, just as weeping is still natural to all men alike.

Reassuring as this may seem to him who desires no such separation, least of all a breach, the same diflSculty which has just been rejected reappears in another and almost more dangerous form. That we still constantiy go back to the Aristotelian aesthetics, not merely from a dutiful sense of respect, or because of old habits, no one will deny who has any knowledge of modern aesthetics, and thus perceives how exactly this latter follows Aristotle in all the main points. But as soon as we view these a little more in detail, the difl&culties immediately become evident. The qualifications are very general, and one may in one sense be quite in agreement with Aristotle, and in another sense wholly dis- agree with him. In order not to anticipate the following essay by men- tioning at once the subject which will constitute its content, I prefer to illustrate my meaning by citing the corresponding observation with

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respect to comedy. If an old aesthetician had said that comedy presup- poses character and situation, and has for its purpose the arousal of laughter, one might indeed turn back to this again and again; but when one reflects upon how widely different are the things which can make a human being laugh, then one soon becomes convinced of how tre- mendously inclusive this requirement was. Whoever has at any time made his own laughter and that of others the subject of his observation; whoever, as in this study, has had his eye not so much on the accidental as on the general; whoever has observed with psychological interest how different are the things which in each generation arouse laughter, will readily be convinced that the invariable requirement that comedy ought to arouse laughter contains a high degree of variability relative to the different conceptions of the ridiculous entertained in the world con- sciousness, without the variability becoming so diffuse that the corre- sponding somatic expression would be that the laughter expressed itself in tears. So also in relation to the tragic.

That which will here constitute the principal content of this little inquiry, is not so much the relation between ancient and modern trag- edy, as it will be an attempt to show how the characteristic of ancient tragedy is embodied within the modern, so that the true tragedy appears therein. But however much I may endeavor to make this evident, I shall still refrain from every prophecy about this being what the age demands, so that its appearance becomes entirely without result, more especially so as the entire tendency of the age is in the direction of the comic. Existence is more or less undermined by doubt on the part of the sub- jects, isolation constantly gets more and more the upper hand, some- thing one can best be convinced of by giving attention to the multi- tudinous social exertions. These movements show just as much about the isolated endeavors of the age that they seek to counteract, as they show that they are trying to counteract it in an irrational manner. The isolationist idea consists in one stressing oneself as number; when one will stress himself as one, then this is isolation; in this may all the friends of the Association grant me leave, even if unable or unwilling to see that there is quite the same isolation, if hundreds stress themselves exclusively as hundreds. The number is always a matter of indifference, whether it be one or a thousand, or the population of the whole world numerically determined. This spirit of the Association that stresses number, is, therefore, just as revolutionary as the spirit it would counter- act When David would rightly savor his power and glory, he took a census of the people; in our age, on the other hand, one might say

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that the people, in order to feel their importance in comparison with a higher power, count themselves. Hence, all these associations bearing the stamp of the arbitrary are most frequently created for some acci- dental purpose, naturally governed by the associations.

The many associations thus prove the disorganization of the age, and themselves contribute toward hastening that dissolution; they are the infusoria in the organism of the state, which indicate that it is disor- ganized. When was it that political clubs began to be general in Greece, if not at the very moment when the state was in process of dissolution? And has not our own age a remarkable similarity to that one, which not even Aristophanes could make more ludicrous than it actually was ? Is not the invisible and spiritual bond which held the state together politically, lost; is not the power of religion which held fast to the in- visible, weakened and annihilated; have not the statesmen and clergy this in common, that they, like the augurs of old, can scarcely look at one another without smiling? One characteristic our age certainly has to a greater degree than Greece, this, namely, that it is more melan- choly, and hence it is more profoundly in despair. Thus, our age is melancholy enough to realize that there is something which is called responsibility, and this indicates something significant. While, therefore, everyone wishes to rule, no one wishes to accept responsibility. There is even yet a story fresh in our memories, that a French statesman, when a portfolio was offered to him for a second time, declared that he' would accept it, but only on the condition that the secretary of the council should become responsible. It is well known that the king of France is not responsible, while his ministers are; the minister does not wish to be responsible, but will be minister on condition that the secretary of state become responsible; it finally results naturally in the watchmen or street commissioners becoming responsible. Would not this story of shifted responsibility really be a proper subject for Aristophanes ! And on the other hand, why are the government and rulers so afraid of accepting responsibility, tmless because they fear an attack from an opposition, which equally seeks to evade responsibility? When, then, one considers these two powers in opposition to one another, but not able to come to grips with each other, because the one constantly vanishes from the other, the one only a duplicate of the other, then such a lay-out is cer- tainly not without its comic effect. This is sufficient to show that the bond which essentially holds the state together is disorganized, but that it should thereby result in isolation is naturally comic, and the comic lies in trying to stress the subjective as mere form. Every isolated individual

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always becomes comic by stressing his own accidental individuality over against necessary development. It would undoubtedly be most deeply comic for some accidental individual to get the universal idea of wish- ing to be the savior of the world. On the other hand, the appearance of Christ is in a certain sense (in another sense it is infinitely more) the deepest tragedy, because Christ came in the fullness of time, and, what I must later particularly emphasize. He bore the sins of the world.

It is well known' that Aristotle mentions two things, thought and character, as the source of action in tragedy, but he notes also that the main thing is the plot, and the indivi4uals do not act in order to present characters, but the characters are included for the sake of the action. Here one readily notices a divergence from modern tragedy. The pecu- liarity of ancient tragedy is that the action is not only the result of the character, that the action is not reflected sufficiendy into the subject, but that the action itself has a relative addition of suffering. Hence the ancient tragedy has not developed the dialogue to the point of exhaustive reflection, so that everything is absorbed in it; it has in the monologue and the chorus exaedy the factors supplemental to the dialogue. Whether the chorus approaches nearer the epic substantiality or the lyric exaltation, it thus still indicates, as it were, the more which will not be absorbed in the individuality; the monologue again is more the lyric concentration and has the more which will not be absorbed in action and situation. In ancient tragedy the action itself has an epic mo- ment in it, it is as much event as action. The reason for this naturally lies in the fact that the ancient world did not have the subjectivity reflected in it. Even if the individual moved freely, he still rested in the substantial categories of state, family, and destiny. This substan- tial category is exactly the fatalistic element in Greek tragedy, and its exact peculiarity. The hero’s destruction is, therefore, not only a result of his own deeds, but is also a suffering, whereas in modem tragedy, the hero’s destruction is really not suffering, but is action. In modern times, therefore, situation and character are really predominant. The tragic hero is subjectively reflected in himself, and this reflection has not only reflected him out of every immediate relation to state, race, and destiny, but has often even reflected him out of his own preceding life. We are interested in a certain definite moment of his life, considered as his own deed. Because of this the tragedy can be exhaustively represented in situation and dialogue, since nothing of the more immediate is left behind. Hence, modem tragedy has no epic foregroxmd, no epic heri- tage. The hero stands and falls entirely on his own acts.

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This brief but adequate analysis may be useful in illuminating the difference between ancient and modern tragedy, which I regard as hav- ing great significance, the difference, namely, in the nature of tragic guilt. It is well known that Aristotle requires the tragic hero to have guilt. But just as the action in Greek tragedy is intermediate between activity and passivity (action and suffering), so is also the hero’s guilt, and therein lies the tragic collision. On the other hand, the more the subjectivity becomes reflected, the 'more one sees the individual left Pelagianally to himself, the more his guilt becomes ethical. The tragedy lies between these two extremes. If the individual is entirely without guilt, then is the tragic interest nullified, for the tragic collision is thereby enervated; if, on the other hand, he is absolutely guilty, then he can no longer interest us tragically. Hence, it is certainly a misunder- standing of the tragic, when our age strives to let the whole tragic des- tiny become transubstantiated in individuality and subjectivity. One would know nothing to say about the hero’s past life, one would throw his whole life upon his own shoulders, as being the result of his own acts, would make him accountable for everything, but in so doing, one would also transform his aesthetic guilt into an ethical one. The tragic hero thus becomes bad, the evil becomes precisely the tragic subject, but evil has no aesthetic interest, and sin is not an aesthetic element. This mistaken endeavor certainly has its cause in the whole tendency of our age toward the comic. The comic lies exactly in isolation; when one wotdd maintain the tragic within this isolation, then one gets evil in all its baseness, not the truly tragic guilt in its ambiguous innocence. It is not di£Ecult when one looks about in modern literature, to find exam- ples. Thus, the very ingenius work of Grabbe, Faust and Don Juan, is precisely constructed around this evil. However, in order not to argUe from a single work, I prefer to show it in the whole general conscious- ness of the age. If one wished to represent an individual whom an im- happy childhood had influenced so disturbingly that this impression occasioned his downfall, such a defense would simply not appeal to the present age, and this naturally not because it was wrongly handled, for I have a right to assume that it would be handled with distinction, but because our age employs another standard. It would know nothing about such coddling; without knowing, it holds every individual respon- sible for his own life. Hence, if he goes to the dogs, it is not tragic, but it is bad. One mi g ht now believe that this must be a kingdom of the gods, this generation in which I have the honor to live. On the con- trary, this is by no means the case; the energy, the courage, which would *

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thus be the creator of its own destiny, aye, its own creator, is an illusion, and when the age loses the tragic, it gains despair. There lies a sadness and a healing power in the tragic, which one truly should not despise, and when a man in the extraordinary manner our age affects, would gain himself, he loses himself and becomes comical. Every individual, however primitive he may be, is still a child of God, of his age, of his family and friends, herein lies its truth; if in this relativity he tries to be the absolute, then he becomes ridiculous.

One sometimes finds in the language a word which, because of its form, has been used so often in a certain case that at last it is used independently, like an adverb perhaps. Then for the experts such a word acquires an emphasis and a weakness that it never loses. If, in spite of this, it should attempt to change into a substantive and to be inflected in all five cases, it would be truly comic. And so it is, too, with the individual, when perhaps with great difl&culty he issues from the womb of time, he will in this tremendous relativity be absolute. If, however, he renounces this claim of the absolute in order to become relati'vje, then he has eo ipso, the tragic, even if he was the happiest of individuals; indeed I might say that an iudividual does not become happy tmtil he has the tragic. The tragic has in it an infinite gentleness; it is really in the aesthetic sense with regard to human life, what the divine love and mercy are; it is even milder, and hence I may say that it is like a mother’s love, soothing the troubled. The ethical is strict and harsh. If a criminal should therefore plead before the judge that his mother had a propen- sity for stealing, especially at the time she was carrying him, then the judge might secure the opinion of the health commissioner about his mental condition, and decide that he was dealing with a thief, and not with a thief’s mother. Since we are talking about a criminal, the sinner can hardly flee to the temple of aesthetics, but yet the aesthetic will provide an extenuating phrase for him. However, it would be wrong for him to resort to this, for his path leads him not to the aesthetic but to the religious. The aesthetic lies behind him, and it would be a new sin for him now to grasp at the aesthetic. The religious is the expression of a paternal love, since it contains the ethical, but it is softened, and so without being just the same, it gives mildness to the tragic through its continuity. But while the aesthetic gives this rest of continuity before the contrast of sin is stressed, the religious does not give it until this contrast is seen in all its frightfulness. Just at the moment when the sinner almost faints tmder the tmiversal sin that he has taken upon himself, because he felt that only by becoming more guilty would the

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prospect of salvation be greater— in that same moment of terror, the consolation shows him that it is a universal sin which has also manifested itself in him. But this consolation is a religious consolation, and he who thinks to gain this in some other way, e.g., by aesthetic vaporings, has accepted this consolation in vain, and has not really gained it. In a cer- tain sense, therefore, it is quite properly tactful of the age to hold the individual responsible for everything, but the unfortunate thing is that it does not do it deeply and intensively enough, and hence its vacillation. It is self-complacent enough to reject the tears of tragedy, but it is also self-complacent enough to dispense with the divine mercy. But what is human life when we take these two things away, what is the human race ? Either the sadness of the tragic, or the profound sorrow and joy of the religious. Or is that not the characteristic of everything that proceeds from that happy people — z heaviness, a sadness, in its art, in its poetry, in its life, and in its joy?

In the preceding I have principally attempted to emphasize the differ- ence between ancient and modern tragedy, insofar as this is illustrated in the gxiilt of the tragic hero. This is precisely the focus from which everything radiates in its peculiar difference. If the hero is unambigu- ously guilty, the monologue disappears and there is no destiny; the thought is transparent in the dialogue, and the action in the situation. The same thing may also be explained from another side, wit^ regard to the mood which the tragedy evokes in the spectator. It may be re- membered that Aristotle requires that tragedy should arouse fear and compassion in the spectator. I recall that Hegel in his Aesthetics adopted this view, and indulged in a double reflection about each of the points, which was not, however, particularly exhaustive. When Aristotle sep- arates fear and compassion, then one might interpret fear as the mood which accompanies the individual idea, compassion as the mood which is the definitive impression. This latter mood is the one that appeals to me most, because it is the one which corresponds to the tragic guilt, and therefore, it has the same dialectic as this concept of guilt. Hegel ob- serves that there are two kinds of sympathy, the ordinary kind which is concerned with the finite aspect of suffering, and the true tragic pity. This observation is indeed quite correct, but to me it is of less impor- tance, since this common emotion is a misunderstanding which can just as well apply to ancient as to modern tragedy. True and powerful, however, is what Hegel adds regarding true compassion: “True com- passion is, on the contrary, a synthesis of sympathy and the moral justi- fication of the sufferer.” While Hegel rather coixsiders sympathy in

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general and its differences in the variations of the individualities, I pre- fer to emphasize the different kinds of sympathy in relation to the different kinds of tragic guilt. Before proceeding to indicate this im- mediately, I shall allow the word sympathy to split itself into the suffer- ing (passion, pathi\os'), and add particularly the sympathetic which lies in the word sym, and yet in such a manner that I do not seem to assert something about the spectator’s mood, which might show his arbitrari- ness, but in such a way that when I explain the difference in his mood, I also express the difference of the tragic guilt.

In ancient tragedy the sorrow is deeper, the pain less; in modern, the pain is greater, the sorrow less. Sorrow always contains something more substantial than pain. Pain always implies a reflection over suffering which sorrow does not know. From a psychological standpoint it is always interesting to watch a child when it sees an older person suffer. The child is not reflective enough to feel grief, and yet its sorrow is infinitely deep. It is not reflective enough to have any conception about sin and guilt; when it sees an older person suffer, it does not occur to it to reflect upon it, and yet when the cause of the suffering is concealed from it, there is a dim suspicion about it in its sorrow. Such, but in com- plete and profound harmony, is the Greek sorrow, and therefore it is at one and the same time so gentle and so deep. When an older person sees a child suffer, his pain is greater, his sorrow less. The more clearly the conception of guilt stands out, the greater is the pain, the less profound the sorrow. If one now applies this to the relation between ancient and modern tragedy, then must one say: in the ancient tragedy, the sorrow is deeper, and in the consciousness which corresponds to this, the sorrow is deeper. It must in fact be constantly remembered that the sorrow does not lie in myself, but it lies in the tragedy, and that I, in order to imder- stand the deep sorrow of the Greek tragedy, must myself live in the Greek consciousness. Hence, it is certainly often only an affectation when so many profess to admire the Greek tragedies; for it is very evi- dent that our age, at least, has little sympathy for that which precisely constitutes Greek sorrow. The sorrow is deeper because the guilt has the aesthetic ambiguity. In modern times, the pain is greater. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God. One might say this about Greek tragedy. The wrath of the gods is terrible, but the pain is not so great as in modem tragedy where the hero bears the whole weight of his guilt, is himself transparent in his suffering of his guilt Here it is rele- vant in conformity with the tragic guilt, to show which sorrow is the true aesthetic sorrow, and which the true aesthetic pain. The bitterest

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pain is manifesdy remorse, but remorse has ethical not aesthetic reality. It is the bitterest pain because it has the total transparency of the entire guilt, but just because of this transparency, it does not interest us aesthet- ically. Remorse has a sacredness which obscures the aesthetic, it may not be seen, least of all by the spectator, and it requires quite a different kind of self-activity. Modern comedy has sometimes presented remorse on the stage, but this only shows a lack of judgment on the part of the author. One may indeed be reminded of the psychological interest it can have to see remorse delineated on the stage, but again the psycho- logical interest is not the aesthetic. This is part of the confusion which in our age asserts itself in so many ways: we look for a thing where we ought not to look for it, and what is worse, we find it where we ought not to find it; we wish to be edified in the theater, aesthetically impressed in church, we would be converted by novels, get enjoyment out of books of devotion, we want philosophy in the pulpit, and the preacher in the professorial chair. This pain of remorse is consequendy not the aesthetic pain, and yet it is apparendy this which the modern age tends toward as the highest tragic interest. This is also true with regard to the tragic guilt. Our age has lost all the substantial categories of family, state, and race. It must leave the individual entirely to himself, so that in a stricter sense he becomes his own creator, his guilt is consequendy sin, his pain remorse; but this nullifies the tragedy. Also, in a stricter sense, the trag- edy of suffering has exaedy lost its tragic interest, for the power from which the suffering comes has lost its significance, and the spectators cry: “Help yourself, and heaven will help you!” or, in other words, the spectator has lost his compassion, but compassion is in a subjective as well as an objective sense, the precise expression for the tragic.

For the sake of clarity I shall now, before carrying this explanation farther, define a litde more carefully the true aesthetic sorrow. Sorrow has the opposite movement from that which pain has; when one does not spoil this by means of a wretched consistency— something I, too, shall avoid in another way — one may say: the more innocent, the more profotmd the sorrow. If one insists on that, then one destroys the tragic. An element of guilt always remains, but this clement is never really subjectively reflected; hence the sorrow in the Greek tragedy is so deep. In order to prevent ill-timed consequences, I shall only note that all the exaggerations only succeed in carrying the matter over into another sphere. The synthesis of absolute innocence and absolute guilt is not an aesthetic category, but a metaphysical one. This is the real reason why one has always been ashamed to call the life of Christ a tragedy, be-

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cause one instinctively feels that aesthetic categories do not exhaust the matter. Then, too, it shows in another way, that Christ’s life is something more than can be exhausted in aesthetic categories; that is, that these neutralize themselves in this phenomenon, and are hushed in indifiEer- ence.

The tragic action always has an element of suffering in it, and the tragic suffering an element of action, the aesthetic lies in the rela- tivity of these. The identity of an absolute action and an absolute suf- fering is beyond the powers of aesthetics, and belongs to metaphysics. This identity is exemplified in the life of Christ, for His suffering is absolute because the action is absolutely free, and his action is absolute suffering because it is absolute obedience. Hence the element of guilt which remains in the tragic consciousness is not subjectively reflected, and this makes the sorrow profound. The tragic guilt is something more than merely subjective guilt, it is an inherited guilt; but inherited guilt, like inherited sin, is a substantial category, and it is exactly this sub- stantiality which makes the sorrow deeper. The ever admired tragic trilogy of Sophocles, Oedipus Coloneus, Oedipus Rex, and Antigone, essentially centers about this true tragic interest. But inherited guilt con- tains the self-contradiction of being guilt, and yet not being guilt. The bond which makes the individual guilty is precisely piety, but the guilt which he thus draws down upon himself, has every possible aesthetic ambiguity. One might readily conclude that the people who developed profound tragedy must have been the Jews. Thus, when they say about Jehovah that He is a jealous God who visits the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generations, or when one hears those terrible imprecations in the Old Testament, then one might easily be tempted to seek here for tragic material. But Judaism is too ethically developed for this; Jehovah’s curses are, even though terrible, still also righteous punishment. This was not the case in Greece; the wrath of the gods had no ethical character, but only aesthetic ambiguity.

In Greek tragedy a transition is found from sorrow to pain, and as an example of this I might mention Rhiloctetes. This, in the stricter sense, is a tragedy of suffering. But, too, a high degree of objectivity ob- tains here. The Greek hero rests in his fate, it is imchangeablc, there is nothing farther to be said about it This element furnishes the precise moment of sorrow in the pain. The first doubt with which pain really begins is this: why has this befallen me, why can it not be otherwise? There is, indeed, in Philoctetes a high degree of reflection, which has always seemed remarkable to me, and which essentially separates him

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from that immortal trilogy: there is the masterly depicting of the self- contradiction in his pain, which contains so deep a human truth, but there is still an objectivity which sustains the whole. Philoctetes’ re- flection is not absorbed in itself, and it is genuinely Greek when he complains that no one knows about his pain. There is an extraordinary truth in this, and there also appears here the precise difference between his pain and the precise reflective pain which always wants to be alone with its pain, which seeks a new pain in this solitude of pain.

The true tragic sorrow consequently requires an element of guilt, the true tragic pain an element of innocence; the true tragic sorrow requires an element of transparency, the true tragic pain an element of obscurity. This I believe best indicates the dialectic wherein there is a synthesis of the categories of sorrow and pain, as well as also the dialectic which lies in the concept of tragic guilt.

Since it is contrary to the spirit of our organization to produce closely coherent works or greater wholes, since it is not our purpose to labor upon a Tower of Babel, which God in His righteousness can descend upon and destroy, since we are conscious of the fact that this confusion of tongues happened justly, recognizing it as a characteristic of all hu- man striving in its truth, that it is fragmentary, and that it is precisely this which separates it from Nature’s infinite coherence; that the wealth of an individual consists precisely in the energy he shows in producing the fragmentary, and that that which brings enjoyment to thfi produc- ing individual also brings enjoyment to the receiving individual, not the troublesome and meticulous execution, nor the tedious apprehension of this execution, but the production and enjoyment of the gleaming tran- sitoriness, which for the producer contains something more than the thorough execution, since it is the appearance of the Idea, and for the recipient, it contains something more, since its fulguration awakens his own productivity — since, I say, all this is contrary to the purpose of our Association, moreover, since the period just read must be regarded as a serious attempt in the interjectory style, wherein the ideas break out without, breaking through, which in our society has an official status: then I shall, after having called attention to the fact that my procedure still cannot be called rebellious, since the bonds which hold the sentence together are so loose that the intermediary clauses stand out aphoris- tically and arbitrarily enough, merely call to mind that my style has made an attempt apparently to be what it is not— revolutionary.

Our society needs in every way a renewal and rebirth, to the end that its inner activity may be renewed by a new description of its productiv-

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ity. Let us then describe our purpose as an attempt in fragmentary pur- suits, or in the art of writing posthumous papers. A completely finished work has no relation to the poetic personality ; in the case of posthumous papers one constantly feels, because of the interruption, the desultori- ness, a need to romance about the personality. Posthumous papers are like a ruin, and what haunted place could be more natural for the in- terred The art, then, is artistically to produce the same effect, the same appearance of carelessness and the accidental, the same anacoluthonic flight of thought; it consists in producing an enjoyment which naturally never actually becomes present, but always has an element of the past in it, so that it is present in the past. This has already been expressed in the word: posthumous. In a certain sense, everything which a poet has produced is posthumous; but one would never think of calling a com- pleted work posthumous, even though it had the accidental quality of not having been published in the poet’s lifetime. Also, I assume that this is the true characteristic of all human productivity, as we have appre- hended it, that it is a heritage, since men are not permitted to live eter- nally in the sight of the gods. Hence, I shall call the effects that are produced among us an artistic heritage; the negligence and the indo- lence, I shall call the genius we appreciate; the vis inertia the natural law that we worship. By this explanation I have now complied with our sacred customs and rules.

So draw nearer to me, dear brothers of Symparanekromenoi; close around me as I send my tragic heroine out into the world, as I give the daughter of sorrow a dowry of pain as a wedding gift. She is my cre- ation, but still her oudine is so vague, her form so nebulous, that each one of you is free to imagine her as you will, and each one of you can love her in your own way. She is my creation, her thoughts are my thoughts, and yet it is as if I had rested with her in a night of love, as if she had entrusted me with her deep secret, breathed it and her soul out in my embrace, and as if in the same moment she changed before me, vanished, so that her actuality could only be traced in the mood that re- mained, instead of the converse being true, that my mood brought her forth to a greater and greater actuality. I place the words in her mouth, and yet it is as if I abused her confidence; to me, it is as if she stood reproachfully behind me, and yet, conversely, it is in her mystery that she becomes ever more and more visible. She is my possession, my law- ful possession, and yet sometimes it is as if I had slyly insiauated myself into her confidence, as if I must constantly see myself standing back of her; and yet, conversely, she lies constantly before me, she constantly

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comes into existence only as I bring her forth. She is called Antigone. This name I retain from the ancient tragedy, as I connect the whole development with that, although, from another point of view, every- thing is modern. First, however, a remark. I use a feminine figure be- cause I firmly believe that a feminine nature will be most successful in showing the difference. As woman she will have substantiality enough to show sorrow, but as belonging in a reflective world, she will have reflection enough to feel pain. In order to experience sorrow, the tragic guilt must vacillate between guilt and innocence; that whereby the guilt passes over into her consciousness must always be a determination of substantiality. But since in order to experience sorrow, the tragic guilt must have this vagueness, so reflection must not be present in its infini- tude, for then it would reflect her out of her guilt, in that the reflection in its infinite subjectivity cannot let the element of inherited guilt re- main, which causes the sorrow. Since, however, her reflection is awake, it will not reflect her out of her sorrow, but into it, each moment trans- forming her sorrow into pain.

Labdakos’ family is, then, the object of the indignation of the angry gods. Oedipus has slain the sphinx, liberated Thebes; he has murdered his father, married his mother, and Antigone is the daughter of this marriage. Thus goes the Greek tragedy. Here I diverge from the Greek. Everything is contained in mine, and yet everything is different. That he has slain the sphinx and liberated Thebes is known to everyone, and Oedipus lives honored and admired, happy in his marriage with Jo- casta. The rest is concealed from the eyes of men, and no suspicion has ever called this horrible nightmare into actuality. Only Antigone knows it. How she has come to know it lies outside the tragic interest, and everyone is free to work out his own explanation in regard to it. At an early age, before she was fully developed, dim suspicions of this horrible secret had at times gripped her soul, until certainty with a single blow cast her into the arms of anxiety. Here we have at once a category of modern tragedy. Anxiety is, namicly, a reflection, and insofar is essen- tially different from sorrow. Anxiety is the means by which the subject appropriates his sorrow and assimilates it. Anxiety is the energy of the movement by which sorrow burrows into one’s heart. But the movement is not swift like the thrust of a dart, which is continuous, it is not once for all, but it is constantly continuing. As a passionate, erotic glance de- sires its object, so anxiety looks upon sorrow to desire it. As the quiet, incorruptible glance of love is preoccupied with the beloved object, so anxiety occupies itself with sorrow. But anxiety has another element in

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it which makes it cling even more strongly to its object, for it both loves and fears it. Anxiety has a two-fold function, partly it is the detective instinct which constantly touches, and by means of this key, discovers sorrow, as it goes round about the sorrow. Or anxiety is sudden, posits the whole sorrow in the present moment, yet so that this present mo- ment instantly dissolves in succession. Anxiety is in this sense a truly tragic category, and the old saying: quern deus vidt pardere, primum dementat,va. truth rightfully applies here. The language itself proves that anxiety is a reflective determination; for I always say: my anxiety, about something in which I separate the anxiety from that for which I am anxious, and I can never use anxiety in an objective sense; whereas when I say: my sorrow, it can just as well express that which I sorrow over, as my sorrow over it. In addition, anxiety always contains a reflection in time, for I cannot be anxious about the present, but only about the past or the future; but the past and the future so resisting one another that the present vanishes, are reflective determinations. The Greek sorrow, on the contrary, like the whole of Greek life, is a present thing, and therefore, the sorrow is deeper, but the pain less. Anxiety therefore be- longs essentially to the tragic. Hence, Hamlet is deeply tragic because he suspects his mother’s guUt. Robert, the devil, asks how it could hap- pen that he caused so much evil. H0gne, whom his mother had begotten by a troll, happens accidentally to see his image in the water, and asks his mother how his body had acquired such a shape.

The difference is now easily perceptible. In the Greek tragedy An- tigone is not at all concerned about her father’s unhappy destiny. This rests like an impenetrable sorrow over the whole family. Antigone lives as carefree as any other young Grecian maiden, indeed the chorus pities her, since her death is foreordained, because she must quit this life at so early an age, quit it without having tasted its most beautiful joys, evi- dendy forgetting the family’s own deep sorrow. However, it shotfld by no means be said that it is thoughtlessness, or that the particular indi- vidual stands alone by himself, without worrying about his relationship to the family. But that is genuinely Greek. The life-relationships when once assigned to them are like the heaven londer which they live. If this is dark and cloudy, it is also unchangeable. This furnishes the keynote of the Greek soul, and this is sorrow, not pain. In Antigone the tragic guilt concentrates itself about one definite point, that she had buried her brother in defiance of the king’s prohibition. If this is seen as an isolated fact, as a collision between sisterly affection and piety and an arbitrary human prohibition, then Antigone would cease to be a Greek tragedy.

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it would be an entirely modern tragic subject. That which in the Greek sense afEords the tragic interest, is that Oedipus’ sorrowful destiny re- echoes in the brother’s imhappy destiny, in the sister’s collision with a simple human prohibition; the tragic fate of Oedipus is, as it were, the after e£Fects which ramify from a single branch of his family. This is the totality which makes the sorrow of the spectator so infinitely deep. It is not an individual who goes down, it is a small world, it is the ob- jective sorrow, which, released, now advances in its own terrible con- sistency, like a force of nature, and Antigone’s unhappy fate is but an echo of her father’s, an intensified sorrow. When, therefore, Antigone in defiance of the king’s prohibition resolves to bury her brother, we do not see in this so much a free action on her part as a predestined neces- sity, which visits the father’s crime upon the children. There is indeed enough freedom of action to make us love Antigone for her sisterly af- fection, but in the necessity of fate there is also, as it were, a higher refrain which not only includes Oedipus, but also his family.

While, then, the Greek Antigone lives so carefree that were it not for the disclosure of this new fact, we might imagine her life as very happy in its gradual unfolding, our Antigone’s life, on the contrary, is essen- tially over. I have not endowed her stingily, and as we say that a good word is like apples of gold in pictures of silver, so I have placed the fruit of her sorrow in a cup of pain. Her dowry is not a vain magnifi- cence which moth and rust can corrupt, it is an eternal treasure. Tbieves cannot break in and steal it; she will herself be too vigilant for that. Her life does not unfold like that of the Greek Antigone, it is not turned outward but inward, the scene is not external but internal, it is an in- visible scene. Should it not make me happy, dear Symparanekromenoi, to arouse your interest in such a maiden, or shall I resort to a captatio benevolentiae} Then, too, she does not belong to the world she lives in; even though her life is flower-strewn and healthy, it is still really a secret life. Although she is living, she is in another sense dead; quiet is her life and secretive, the world does not even hear her sigh, for her sigh is buried in the depths of her soul. I do not need to remind you that she is by no means a weak and sickly woman, rather she is proud and vigor- ous. There is nothing, perhaps, which ennobles a human being so much as keeping a secret. It gives a man’s whole life a meaning which it can have only for himself. It saves him from every vain consideration about his environment, self-contained he rests, blessed in his secret — ^that one could almost say even if his secret was most reprehensible.

Such was our Antigone. She is proud of her secret, proud that she has

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been selected in a peculiar manner to be the savior of her father’s honor and renown, and of that of her family; and when the grateful people acclaim Oedipus with praise and gratitude, then she feels her own im- portance, and her secret sinks ever deeper into her soul, more inac- cessible to every living being. She feels how much responsibility is placed in her hands, and this gives her a supernatural greatness, which is necessary if she is to engage our attention as a tragic personalitjr. As an individual figure she must be able to interest us. She is more than a young girl in general, and yet she is a young girl; she is a bride, and yet she is all innocence and purity. As a bride, woman achieves her destiny, and hence a woman can ordinarily interest us only to the degree that she is brought into relation to her destiny. However, there is an analogy here. One says of a bride of God that she has the inward faith and spirit in which she rests. Our Antigone I should call a bride in a perhaps even more beautiful sense, indeed she is almost more, she is mother, she is in the purely aesthetic sense tnrgo mater, she carries her secret under her heart, hidden and concealed. She is silence, precisely because she is se- cretive, but this retrospection which lies in silence, gives her a super- natural bearing. She is proud of her sorrow, she is jealous for it, for her sorrow is her love. But still her sorrow is not a dead, immovable posses- sion; it moves constantly, it gives birth to pain, and is born in pain. When a girl resolves to dedicate her life to an idea, when she stands there with the sacrificial wreath upon her brow, she stands as a bride, for the great inspiring idea transforms her, and the votive wreath is like a bridal garland. She knows not any man, and yet she is a bride; she does not even know the idea which inspires her, for that would be un- womanly, and yet she is a bride.

Such is our Antigone, the bride of sorrow. She dedicates her life to sorrow over her father’s destiny, over her own. Such a misfortune as has overtaken her father calls for sorrow, and yet there is no one who can grieve over it, because there is no one who knows about it. And as the Greek Antigone cannot bear to have her brother’s corpse flung away without the last honors, so she feels how hard it would have been if no man had known this; it worries her that no tears should be shed; she almost thanks the gods because she is selected as this instrument. So is Antigone great in her pain. Here again I can show a difference between Greek and modern tragedy. It is genuinely Greek for Philoctetes to complain that there is no one who knows what he suffers; it is a deep human need to wish that others should realize this; reflective grief, however, does not desire this. It does not occur to Antigone to wish that

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anyone should understand her grief, but on the other hand, in relation to her father, she feels it to be as aesthetically just that she should sorrow as that a man should suffer punishment when he has done wrong. While, therefore, the very conception that it is predestined that the liv- ing should be buried alive, wrings from Antigone in the Greek tragedy, the outburst of sorrow:

0 mockery of my woe!

1 go to the strong mound of yon strange tomb All hapless, having neither part nor room With those who live or those who die,

our Antigone can say it about her whole life. The difference is extraor- dinary; there is a factual truth in her assertion which makes the pain less. If our Antigone should say the same, then it would be unreal, but this unreality is the real pain. The Greeks do not express themselves precisely, just because the reflection which goes with this was not present in their lives. So when Philoctetes complains that he lives solitary and forsaken on a desert island, his assertion has in it an external truth; when, on the other hand, our Antigone feels pain in her solitude, then is the fact that she is alone figurative, but just because of this, her pain is real pain.

As far as tragic guilt is concerned, it consists partly in the fact that she buries her brother, partly in connection with her father’s sorfy fate, which was understood from the two preceding tragedies. Here again I come to the peculiar dialectic which posits the guilt of the family in relation to the individual. This is the hereditary guilt. If one generally considers dialectics fairly abstracdy, one thinks more particularly of the logical movement. However, life will soon teach one that there are many kinds of dialectics, that almost every passion has its own. The dialectic, therefore, which posits the guilt of the race or the family in connection with a particular subject, so that he not only suffers under it — ^for this is a natural consequence against which one would vainly try to harden himself— but bears the guilt, participates in it, this dialectic is foreign to us, has nothing compelHng for the modern mind. If a man, however, were to contemplate regeneration in terms of ancient tragedy, then must every individual contemplate his own regeneration, not merely in a spir- itual sense, but in the finite sense of the rebirth of family and race. The dialectic which posits the individual in connection with family and race, is not a subjective dialectic, for this, on the contrary, raises the connec- tion and the individual out of the continuity; it is an objective dialectic.

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It is essentially piety. To preserve this cannot be regarded as something injurious to the individual. In our age one permits something in a nat- ural relation which he will not permit in a spiritual relation. Still, one would not wish to be so isolated, so unnatural, that one would not re- gard the family as a whole, of which one might say that when one member suffers, then all sufier. One does this involuntarily, otherwise why is a particular individual so afraid that another branch of the fam- ily may bring disgrace upon him, unless because he feels that he will suffer from it.? This suffering the individual must obviously take with him, whether he will or not. But since the point of departure is the indi- vidual, not the family, this forced suffering becomes maximum; he feels that a man cannot become master over his own nature, but he desires this as far as possible. On the other hand, if the individual sees nature as a factor in his truth, this expresses itself in the spiritual world so that the individual becomes a participant in the guilt. This is a result many, perhaps, fail to understand, but then neither do they apprehend the tragic. If an individual is isolated, then he is either absolutely the cre- ator of his own destiny, in which case nothing tragic remains, but only the evil — ^for it is not even tragic that an individual should be blindly engrossed in himself, it is his own fault— or the individuals are only modifications of the eternal substance of existence, and so again the tragic is lost.

With regard to the tragic guilt, the difference in the modern is readily apparent, after this has assimilated the ancient, for there something can really be said about this. The Greek Antigone participates with a filial piety in her father’s guilt, as does also our modern one; but to the Greek Antigone her father’s guilt and suffering is an external fact, a disquiet- ing fact, which her sorrow does not alter {quod non volvit in pectore ) ; and insofar as she herself personally, as a natural consequence, suffers under her father’s guilt, this is again on the whole an external fact It is otherwise with our Antigone. I assume that Oedipus is dead. Even while he lived Antigone had been aware of this secret, but she had not had courage to confide in her father. By his death she is deprived of the only way by which she could be freed from her secret. To confide it now to any living being would be to disgrace her father; her life acquires mean- ing for her, which she dedicates by her inviolable silence, daily almost hourly, in showing him the last honors. Of one thing, however, she is ignorant, whether her father himself had known this secret or not In the modern tragedy this causes the unrest in her sorrow, the ambiguity in her pain. She loves her father with all her soul, and this love trans-

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ports her out of herself and into her father’s gvdlt; as the fruit of such a love, she feels herself alienated from mankind; she feels her own guilt the more she loves her father; only with him could she find rest^ as equally guilty they would sorrow together. But while her father lived she had not been able to confide her sorrow to him, for she did not know whether he knew about it, and consequently there was a possibil- ity of depressing him in a similar pain. And yet, was his guilt less if he had not known about it? The movement here is constantly relative. If Antigone had not known with certainty the actual relationship, then she would be insignificant, then she would have had nothing more than a suspicion to fight against, and that contains too little of the tragic to interest us. But she does know everything; yet even in this knowledge there is still an ignorance which can always keep sorrow in movement, always transform it into pain. Then, too, she is constantly at odds with her environment. Oedipus lives in the popular estimation as a fortunate king, honored and acclaimed; Antigone herself has admired as well as loved her father. She participates in every celebration and festival in his honor; she is more enthusiastic about him than any other young girl in the realm; her thoughts constandy turn back to him; she is praised throughout the kingdom as a model, loving daughter, and yet this en- thusiasm is the only way in which she can give her sorrow any relief. Her father is always in her thoughts, but in what way is her painful secret. And yet she dares not give way to her sorrow, dares not grieve; she feels how much depends on her; she fears if anyone saw her suffer- ing that people would begin to ask questions, and so, on this side too, she knows not sorrow but pain.

Considered in this way, I think that Antigone can really interest us; I think you will not reproach my extravagance nor my paternal par- tiality when I believe Aat she dares attempt this tragic subject, and dares appear in a tragedy. So far she is only an epic figure, and the tragic in her is only an epic interest.

It is not so diflScult to discover a connection into which she might fit; in this respect we may readily be content with what the Greek tragedy gives. She has a sister living, who is, I assume, older than herself and married. Her mother might also be living. That these are naturally al- ways subordinate characters is self-evident, as is the fact that the tragedy acquires an epic moment at all, such as the Greek has, without its need- ing to be so conspicuous; still, the monologue will here always play the principal role, even if it must be assisted by the situation. One must imagine everything united about this one chief interest which consti-

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tutcs Antigone’s life content, and when the whole is set in order, then the question arises as to how the dramatic interest is brought about.

Our heroine, as she has been presented in the foregoing, is on the point of passing over a moment of her life, she is about to become wholly spiritual, something nature does not tolerate. With the depth of soul she possesses, she must necessarily love with an extraordinary pas- sion, if she does fall in love. Here, consequently, I encounter the dra- matic interest— Antigone is in love, and, I say it with pain, Antigone is head over heels in love. Here manifestly is the tragic collision. One ought generally to be a little more particular about what one calls a tragic collision. The more sympathetic the colliding forces are, the deeper but also the more homogeneous they are, the more important the collision. Hence she is in love, and he who is the object of her affec- tions knows that she loves him. My Antigone is no ordinary woman, and consequently her dowry is unusual — ^it is her pain. She cannot be- long to a man without this dowry, she feels that would be very hazard- ous; to conceal it from such an observer would be impossible, to wish to conceal it would be a betrayal of her love; but can she marry him with it? Dare she confide it to any human being, even to the beloved? An- tigone has strength; the question is not whether for her own sake, to relieve her heart, she should reveal something of her pain, for she can indeed bear this without assistance; but the question is, can she justify this to the dead, even if she really suffers in a way by revealing her secret; for her own life, too, is sorrowfully interwoven with this. This, however, does not trouble her. The question is only concerning her father. Consequently the collision from this side is of a sympathetic nature. Her life which was formerly peaceful and quiet, now becomes violent and passionate, always of course within herself, and her speech here begins to be pathetic. She struggles with herself, she has been will- ing to sacrifice her life to her secret, but now she must sacrifice her love. She conquers, that is to say, the secret conquers, and she loses. Now comes the second collision, for in order that the tragic collision should really be profound, the colliding forces must be homogeneous. The collision just described had not this quality; for the collision is really between her love for her father and for herself, and not whether her own love is too great a sacrifice. The other colliding force is the sympa- thetic love for her beloved. He knows he is loved, and boldly risks his attack. Her reserve seems admirable to him ; he notices that there must be quite peculiar difl&culties, but he thinks they cannot be insurmount- able to him. What is all important to him is to be able to convince her

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of how much he loves her, to persuade her that his life is over if he is obliged to relinquish her love. His passion at last becomes something almost unfair, but only the more ingenious because of her resistance. With every assurance of his love, he increases her pain, with every sigh he sinks the dart of sorrow deeper and deeper into her heart. He leaves no means untried to influence her. He knows, as did everyone, how deeply she had loved her father. He meets her at the grave of Oedipus, where she had gone to find relief for her emotion, where she surrenders herself to her longing for her father, even though this longing is mingled with pain because she does not know how she would meet him again, whether he was conscious of his own guilt or not. Her lover sturprises her, and he adjures her by the love she bore her father; he notes that he makes an unusual impression upon her; he persists, he hopes for everything by this means, and he does not know that he has really worked against himself.

Consequently, the interest centers about his being able to wrest her secret from her. To allow her to become momentarily deranged and thus to betray her secret, would not help. The colliding forces are so evenly matched that action becomes impossible for the tragic individual. Her pain is now increased by her love, by her sympathetic suffering with him she loves. Only in death can she find peace; so her whole life is dedicated to sorrow, and she has, as it were, established a limit, a dam, for the evil destiny, which might perhaps fatally have transmitted itself to succeeding generations. Only in the moment of death can she admit the intensity of her love, only admit that she belongs to him in the mo- ment that she does not belong to him. When Epaminondas was wounded in the battle of Mantinea, he left the arrow sticking in the wound until he heard that the batde was won, because he knew that the instant it was drawn out, he would die. So our Antigone bore her secret in her heart like an arrow, life constantly plunged it deeper and deeper withm, without depriving her of life, for as long as it remained in her heart she could live, but in the moment it was drawn out, she must die. The beloved must constantly strive to wrest her secret from her, and yet this means her certain death. Who, then, is responsible for her death, the living or the dead ? In a certain sense, the dead, and just as Hercules had predicted that he would not be slain by the living but by the dead, so this applies to her, insofar as the memory of her father is the cause of her death; in another sense it was caused by the living, insofar as her unhappy love is the occasion for her memory destroying her.

SHADOWGRAPHS

Psychological Pastime Lecture delivered before the

Symparanekromenoi

Abgeschworen mag die Uebe immer sein; Uebes- Zauber wiegt in dieser Hohle Die berauschte, uberraschte Seele In Vergessenheit des Schwures ein.

Gestern liebf ich,

Heute leid’ ich,

Morgen sterb’ ich;

Dennoch den}( ich Heu^ und Morgen Gern an Gestern.

IMPROVISED SALUTATORY

W E CELEBRATE this houT the founding of our society. Again we rejoice in the return of the happy occasion which marks the passing of the year’s longest day, and heralds the approaching victory of night. We have waited the livelong day; a moment ago we heaved a sigh over its length, but now is our despair turned into joy. The victory that has been won is indeed but an insignificant beginning, and day will doubtless maintain its rule for some time to come; but its mastery has been challenged, this cannot escape our attention. Therefore we do not wait to rejoice until the victory of night has become manifest to all, until the growing sluggishness of civic life reminds us that the day is waning. No, as a young bride impatiendy awaits the coming of night, so we longingly await the first signs of its coming, the first inti- mations of its final victory; and the more we have felt the pangs of despair, not comprehending how life was to be endured unless the days were shortened, the greater is now our joy and our surprise.

A year has passed, and our society still lives. Shall we rejoice over this fact, dear Symparanekromenoi, shall we rejoice that its continued ex- istence seems to mock our teaching that all things vanish ? Or shall we not rather grieve that it still stands, and rejoice that in any event it has but another year to stand; since we have resolved at that time to put an end to its life if it does not pass out of existence before. — W e f 6rmed no far-reaching plans in connection with its founding; for, knowing the wretchedness of human life, and the treacherousness of all existence, we determined to come to the assistance of nature in the execution of its universal law, and dissolve our society if we were not anticipated. A year has passed, and our membership is still complete. No one has been re- leased from life, and no one has released himself; for since death is for us the greatest happiness, our pride forbids us to take this way of escape. Shall we rejoice over this, or shall we not rather grieve, and take pleasure only in the hope that the confusion of life will soon separate us, the storms of life soon tear us apart? Such thoughts are indeed more ap- propriate to our society, more in harmony with this festive occasion, with every feature of our present environment. For is it not ingeniously significant that the floor in this little room, as is customary, is strewn with green, as if for a funeral; and does not nature voice its approval of our mood in the wild storm that rages outside, in the wind’s mighty roaring? Aye, and let us keep silence a moment while we listen to the music of the storm, its bold assault, its daring challenge; while we

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barken to the defiant bellowing of the sea, the anguished sigh of the forest, the desperate crashing of the trees, the cowardly rustle of the grass. Men say, indeed, that the divine voice is not in the rushing wind, but rather in the soft breeze. Our ears, however, are not attuned to ratrhin g soft breezes, but only to devouring the wild fury of the ele- ments. Aye, let the storm break forth in still greater violence, making an end of life, and of the world, and of this brief speech, which has at least the advantage over all things else, that it is soon ended! Let that wild vortex, which is the inmost principle of the world, although this escapes the attention of men, who eat and drink and marry and increase in careless preoccupation— let it break forth, I say, and in pent-up resent- ment sweep away the mountains and the nations and the productions of culture and the cunning inventions of mankind, let it break forth with the last terrible shriek which more surely than the crack of doom pro- claims the destruction of everything; let it move, and moving whirl along this naked cliff on which we stand, as lightly as thistledown be- fore the breath of our nostrils! — ^But night conquers, the day is short- ened, our hope grows stronger! Fill then your cups once more, dear drinking brethren. In this toast I hail thee, silent Night, eternal mother from whom all things are! From thee they come, to thee they return. Again have mercy upon the world, open thine arms wide to receive all things in thy embrace, and hide us safe in thy bosom! Dark Night, I hail thee, I hail thee victor! And this is my solace, for thou dost shorten all things: day and time and life and troublesome memory in an eternal forgetfulness!

Ever since Lessing in his renowned essay, Laocoon, defined the dis- puted boundaries between poetry and art, the result, unanimously accepted by all aestheticians, has been to consider that the difference between them is that art lies in the qualification of space, poetry in that of time, that art expresses repose, poetry movement. In order, therefore, for a subject to lend itself to artistic representation, it must have a quiet transparency, so that its inner essence rests in a corresponding outer form. The less this is true of a subject, the more difiBcult becomes the artist’s task, until at last the difference asserts itself, and warns him that there is simply nothing he can do. If we apply the principle here casu- ally suggested but not expounded, to the relation between grief and joy, we shall readily see that joy is far more easily represented artistically than grief. It should by no means be denied that grief can be artistically represented, but it should be said that there is a stage in its evolution

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paleness. Reflective grief is not accompanied by any characteristic out- ward change; even at its very inception it hastens inward, and only a watchful observer suspects its vanishing; afterwards it keeps careful guard over its outward appearance, so as to make it as unobtrusive as possible.

Retiring thus within, it finds at last an enclosure, an iimermost recess, where it hopes it can remain; and now begins its monotonous move- ment. Back and forth it swings like a pendulum, and cannot come to rest. Ever it begins afresh from the beginning and reconsiders every- thing, it rehearses the witnesses, it collates and verifies their testimony, as it has done a hundred times before, but the task is never finished. Monotony exercises in the course of time a benumbing influence upon the min d. Like the monotonous sound of water dripping from the roof, like the monotonous whir of a spinning-wheel, like the monotonous sound of a man walking with measured tread back and forth on the floor above, so this movement of reflective grief finally gives to it a cer- tain sense of numb relief, becoming a necessity as affording it an illu- sion of progress. Finally an equilibrium is established, and the need of obtaining for itself an outward expression, insofar as this need may have once or twice asserted itself, now ceases; outwardly everything is quiet and calm, and far within, in its htde secret recess, grief dwells hke a prisoner stricdy guarded in a subterranean dungeon, who spends year after year in monotonously moving back and forth within his litde enclosure, never weary of traversing sorrow’s longer or shorter path.

The circumstance which gives rise to grief of this reflective type may lie partly in the subjective nature of the individual, pardy in the ob- jective grief, or in the occasion for it. An abnormally reflective indi- vidual will transform every sorrow that comes to him into reflective grief, since his individual make-up and the organization of his person- ality make it impossible for him to assimilate his sorrow in an immediate manner. This is a morbid condition, however, which does not interest us particularly, since in this way every accidental phenomenon can •undergo a metamorphosis which transforms it into reflective grief. It is another matter when the objective grief, or its occasion in the indi- vidual, itself nourishes the reflection which makes the grief a reflective grief. This is everywhere the case when the objective grief is not com- plete, when it leaves a doubt behind, whatever be the specific nature of this doubt. Here a great many different varieties of thought at once present themselves, greater in proportion to the scope and depth of one’s experience, or one’s predilection for such investigations. It is not, how-

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ever, by any means my intention to work my way through the entire manifold of these varieties; I desire only to bring out a single aspect of reflective grief, as this has revealed itself to my observation.

When the cause of the grief is a deception, then the objective nature of the emotion is itself such as to produce the reflective grief in the in- dividual. That a deception really is a deception is often very hard to prove, and yet everything hinges on placing this beyond all possible doubt; as long as this remains disputable, grief will find no rest, but will be compelled to wander back and forth in the arena of reflection. More- over, when the supposed deceit touches not some external fact, but the entire inner life of a human being, the inmost kernel of his personality, it becomes increasingly probable that the reflective grief aroused by it will persist and become permanent. But what can with greater truth be called a woman’s entire life than her love? When, therefore, the sorrow of an unhappy love is rooted in deceit, it is an inevitable consequence that reflective grief should set in, whether it persists for the rest of the individual’s life, or she succeeds in overcoming it. Unhappy love is in- deed of itself one of the most profound sorrows which a woman can experience; but it does not follow that unhappy love always generates a reflective grief. When her lover dies, or her love is unrequited, or cir- cumstances make its realization impossible, there is cause for grief to be sure, but not for reflective grief except insofar as the individual is ab- normally reflective beforehand, in which case she does not come within the scope of our interest But if she is not abnormally reflective, her grief will be of an immediate type, and as such it will be capable of artistic representation; contrariwise, it is quite impossible for the artist ade- quately to portray reflective grief, or to express the essential point in such grief. The immediate grief is the immediate impression and ex- pression of the inner sorrow’s impression, as precisely congruent with its original as the image that Veronica retained in her handkerchief; its sacred script is stamped upon the features, beautiful and clear and leg- ible to all.

Reflective grief, consequently, cannot be represented artistically, pardy because it never is, but is always in the process of becoming, and partly it is indifferent to and unconcerned with the external and the visible. Hence, unless the artist is satisfied with the naivet6 sometimes fotmd in old books, where a figure is drawn that could represent almost anything, which bears on its breast a plate in the form of a heart or the like, to which it points or otherwise calls attention, whereon one may read a description of the picture, an effect the artist could just as well

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have produced by writing above the picture: Please note — ^he will have to renounce the idea of portraying reflective grief, leaving it to be dealt with by poets or psychologists.

It is this reflective grief which I now propose to bring before you, and as far as possible, render visible by means of some pictures. I call these sketches Shadowgraphs, partly by the designation to remind you at once that they derive from the darker side of life, partly because like other shadowgraphs they are not direcdy visible. When I take a shadowgraph in my hand, it makes no impression upon me, and gives me no clear conception of it. Only when I hold it up opposite the wall, and now look not directly at it, but at that which appears on the wall, am I able to see it. So also with the picture which I wish to show here, an inward pic- ture which does not become perceptible until I see it through the exter- nal. This external is perhaps quite unobtrusive but not until I look through it, do I discover that inner picture which I desire to show you, an inner picture too delicately drawn to be outwardly visible, woven as it is, of the tenderest moods of the soul. If I look at a sheet of paper, there may seem to be nothing remarkable about it, but when I hold it up to the light and look through it, then I discover the delicate iimer inscriptions, too ethereal, as it were, to be perceived directly.

Turn your attention then, dear Symparanekromenoi, to this inner picture; do not allow yourselves to be distracted by the external ap- pearance, or rather, do not yourselves summon the external before you, for it shall be my task constantly to draw it aside, in order to aflFord you a better view of the iimer picture. But surely I do not need to encourage this society, of which I have the honor to be a member, to do this; for although young, we are yet old enough not to be deceived by appear- ances, nor to continue in this deception. Do I flatter myself with a vain hope when I believe that you will do these pictures the honor of grant- ing them your attention ? Or must these efforts of mine be regarded as alien, a matter of indifference to you, out of harmony with the purpose of our society, a society that knows but a single passion: a sympathetic interest in the secrets of sorrow.? We too form an order, we too venture forth into the world now and then, in the role of knights errant, each taking his own way, not to fight huge monsters, nor for the sake of as- sisting innocence in distress, nor to seek adventures in love. Nothing of all this interests us, not even the last, for the dart from a woman’s eye caimot wound our hardy breasts, and the merry smile of happy lassies caimot move us— but only the secret beckoning of sorrow. Let others

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boast far and wide that no woman has been able to withstand the power of their love, we do not envy them.

We will be proud that no secret sorrow can escape our attention, that no hidden grief can be so coy and so proud as to hinder us from pene- trating victoriously into its innermost haunts. Which conflict is the more dangerous, which presupposes the greater skiU, and which promises the greater reward, we do not ask. Our choice is made: we love only grief, grief alone is the object of our search, and everywhere we find its foot- prints, there we follow after them, intrepidly, immovably, until grief reveals itself. For this conflict we arm ourselves, in this struggle we train ourselves daily. And in truth, grief steals through the world so secre- tively, that only the sympathetic observer even succeeds in suspecting its presence. You walk through the streets, each house looks like its neigh- bor, and only the experienced observer suspects that here in this house at midnight, all is different: an unhappy person wanders about, unable to find rest; he ascends the stairs, and his footsteps echo in the stillness of the night. We pass one another on the street, and each resembles his neighbor, and his neighbor the common run of mankind. Only the ex- perienced observer suspects that within this head there dwells a lodger who has renoxmced the world, and pursues a solitary life in quiet do- mesticity. The external appearance is indeed something which attracts our attention, but it does not engage our interest; thus the fisherman sits by the water and constantly keeps his eye upon the float, but the float does not interest him at all, but only the movements beneath the surface. The external certainly has a meaning for us, but not as an ex- pression for the inward, but rather as a telegraphic communication which tells us that there is something hidden deep within.

Sometimes when you have scrutinized a face long and persistently, you seem to discover another face hidden behind the one you see. This is generally an unmistakable sign that this soul harbors an emigrant who has withdrawn from the world in order to watch over secret treas- ure, and the path for the investigator is indicated by the fact that one face lies beneath the other, as it were, from which he understands that he must attempt to penetrate within if he wishes to discover anything. The face which is otherwise the mirror of the soul, here takes on an ambiguity that resists artistic production, and which also remains for only a fleeting instant. An exceptional eye is needed to see it, and trained powers of observation to follow this infallible index of a secret grief. This eye is eager, and yet so solicitous; anxious and compelling, and yet so sympathetic; persistent and shrewd, and yet sincere and

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benevolent. It lulls the individual into a certain pleasant languor, in which he finds an almost voluptuous pleasure in pouring forth his grief, like the pleasure said to accompany blood-letting. The present is for- gotten, the external is broken through, the past is resurrected, grief breathes easily. The sorrowing soul finds relief, and the sympathetic knight errant rejoices that he has found the object of his search; for we seek not the present but the past, not joy which is always present, but sorrow whose nature it is to pass by, and which can be seen in the pres- ent moment only as one catches a glimpse of a man turning a corner, at the instant when he vanishes from sight.

But sometimes grief succeeds even better in hiding itself, and the out- ward appearance gives us not even the slightest intimation. This may then escape our attention for a long time, but when at last a look, a word, a sigh, a quaver in the voice, a glance of the eye, a trembling of the lips, or a convulsive handclasp, treacherously betrays the carefully guarded secret— then passion awakens, then the struggle begins. This struggle requires vigilance and cunning and persistence. For who is so inventive as secret grief.? But a prisoner for life has ample time to devise ingenious ways of concealment. And who is so swift to hide itself as secret sorrow.? For no young girl can cover an exposed bosom in greater haste and with greater anxiety than the secret grief when it has been surprised. There is required an unshakable pertinacity, for one strives with a Proteus who yet must yield if one only holds out, even if like the ancient prophet of the sea, it assumes every possible form in order to escape: now a serpent winding about the hand, now a lion terrible in its roaring, now a tree with leaves rustling in the wind, or a turbulent waterfall, or a crackling fire — ^at last it must prophesy, and grief must at last reveal itself.

Lo, these are the adventures in which we find our pleasure and our pastime, in them is the test of our knighthood. For their sake we arise like thieves in the night, for their sake we are willing to risk everything; for no passion is so undisciplined as sympathy. Nor need we fear that opportunities for adventure will be wanting, but only that we may meet an opposition too hard and unyielding for our strength. As scientists say that by blasting open great rocks which have defied the centuries, they have found a living animal inside, which uncovered has revived, so there may be found human beings whose external appearance is like a mountain of rock, which protects an eternal life of secret sorrow. Such a possibility cannot subdue our passion, nor cool our zeal, but rather must inflame it. For our passion is not mere curiosity, content with the

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external and the superficial. It is an anxious sympathy which searches the reins and the hidden thoughts of the heart; it evokes things secret by means of magic and incantations, even that which death has hidden from our sight. Saul came in disguise before the batde, to the Witch * of Endor, and demanded that she summon up for him the shade of Samuel. It was surely not mere curiosity which moved him, not a wish to behold Samuel’s visible image, but he would learn his thoughts; and it was not without anxiety that he waited for the stern judge to pro- nounce his verdict. And so it cannot be mere curiosity which moves one and another of you, dear Symparanekromenoi, to give attention to the pictures I am about to present to you. For though I have borrowed the names of certain Uterary characters for purposes of designation, it does not follow that only these fictitious characters pass in review. The names must be regarded as nomina appellativa, and I shall not object if one or another of you should feel inclined to choose some other name, a dearer one, perhaps, or one which seems more natural to him.

I. MARIE BEAUMARCHAIS

This young woman is known to us through the pages of Goethe’s Clatngo, and we shall take that work as our point of departure, except that we intend to pursue her history a litde farther, after she has lost the dramatic interest, and the retinue of grief begins to fall away. We, however, keep her company; for as knights of sympathy we have both the native gift and the acquired art to keep pace in the pro- cession of grief. Her story is brief: Clavigo was betrothed to her, Clavigo left her. And this is quite enough for all who are accustomed to viewing the phenomena of life as one inspects curiosities in an art cabinet — ^the more briefly the better, the more one can see. In the same way one might briefly relate that Tantalus thirsts, and that Sisyphus rolls a stone up the mountain. For one who is in a hurry, it would only delay matters to linger longer over such things, since one can learn no more than one already knew, which is the whole. To claim more attention, a story must be of a different kind. As we cluster familiarly about the tea table, the samovar singing its last refrain, the hostess asks the mysterious stranger to unburden his heart; as she serves the sugared water and the sweetmeats, he begins: It is a long drawnout and complicated story. The novel employs this method, but that is of course a very different thing: a long and complicated story, and such a brief Htde advertise-

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ment. Whether it is a short story for Marie Beaumarchais is another question; so much is certain, it is not a long story, for a long story has a measurable length; a short story, on the contrary, sometimes has the mysterious quality of being longer than the ifaost long-winded, in spite of its brevity.

I have already remarked that reflective grief is not outwardly visible, that is, it does not find a beautiful outward expression in repose. The inner unrest prevents this transparency, the external is rather consumed thereby, and insofar as the inner manifests itself in the outer, it does so rather by a certain morbidity, which never lends itself to artistic repre- sentation since it lacks the interest of beauty. Goethe has given us one or two hints about this. But although one might assent to the correctness of this observation, one might still be tempted to regard it as an acci- dent, and only when by considering the purely poetic and aesthetic point of view, otie becomes convinced that what observation teaches has aesthetic truth, does one gain the deeper consciousness of its meaning. Now if I imagine a reflective grief, and ask myself if it can be repre- sented artistically, it is at once evident that the external appearance is wholly accidental in relation to it; but if this is true, then the idea of artistic beauty is renounced. It is a matter of indifference whether she be large or small, significant or insignificant in appearance, more or less beautiful; to ask whether it would be more correct to let her head bend to one side or the other, or toward the ground, to let her stare in melancholy, or sadly fix her gaze upon the ground, all such things are entirely irrelevant — the one does not express reflective grief any more adequately than the other. The external is, in comparison with the internal, unimportant and indifferent. The point in reflective grief is the fact that sorrow is constantly seeking its object; this search is its life and the secret of its unrest. But this search is a constant fluctuation, and if the external were in each separate moment a perfect expression for the internal, it would be necessary to have an entire series of pic- tures to represent it; but no single picture could express it, and no sin gle picture would have essential artistic value, since it would not be beauti- ful but true. The pictures would have to be regarded as one regards the second-hand of a watch; the works themselves are not visible, but the inner movement constantly expresses itself by the constantly c hangin g positions of the second-hand. But this change cannot be represented artistically, and yet it is the gist of the whole matter. Thus, when un- happy love has its ground in a deception, its pain and suffering are due to its inability to find its object. If the deception is proved, and if its vie-

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tim understands that it is a deception, then the grief does not cea^^, but it becomes an immediate sorrow, not a reflective one. The dialectical diflEculty is readily evident, for why does she grieve.? If he was a de- ceiver, then it was just as well that he left her, the sooner the better; in fact, she should be glad that he left her, and mourn only because she had loved him. And yet it is still a profound sorrow that he was a deceiver. But the question whether or not he really was a deceiver is precisely the unrest which gives perpetual motion to her grief. To establish certainty for the external fact that a deception is really a deception, is always very difiScult, and even this would by no means settle the matter, or end the movement of reflection. A decep- tion is for love an absolute paradox, and herein lies the necessity for a reflective grief. The different factors constituting love may be combined in very different ways in the individual, so that love as it exists in one may not be the same as in another; the egoistic may predominate more, or the sympathetic; but whatever the love is, for the individual moment as well as for the total, a deception is a paradox which love cannot think, but which it must nevertheless attempt to think. If either the egoistic or the sympathetic factor were absolutely present, the paradox would disappear, that is, -the individual by virtue of the absolute is lifted above reflection; he does not understand the paradox through reason or reflection, but he is saved from the paradox by not attempting to think it, by not troubling himself about the illuminations or the con- fusions of a busy reflection; he rests in himself. An egoistically proud love, because of its pride, regards a deception as impossible; it does not trouble to listen to the arguments for or against, defendmg or excusing; it is absolutely certain because it is too proud to believe that anyone would dare to deceive it. Sympathetic love has the faith which can remove mountains; and the strongest defense is as nothing to it compared with the immovable certainty it possesses that there was no deception; every accusation is impotent in the face of the advocate, who explains that there was no deception, and explains it not in this way or that, but absolutely. But such a love is rarely or perhaps never seen in life. Ordinarily, both moments are present in love, and this brings it into relation with the paradox. In the two extreme forms described, the paradox exists in a sense, but love refuses to recognize it; in the last case it exists essentially. The paradox is unthinkable, and yet love per- sistently attempts to think it, and determined by the momentary dom- inance of one factor or another, it constantly seeks to think the paradox, often in contradictory fashion, in the ever unsuccessful effort to under-

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Stand it. This process of reflection pursues an endless path, and can conae to an end only if the individual arbitrarily breaks it off by a transition to something else, a determination of the will, but in so doing the individual brings himself under ethical categories, and loses his aes- thetic interest. What he cannot win by reflection, he attains by a reso- lution of the will: finality and rest.

This holds true of all unhappy love which has its ground in a decep- tion. What further helps to evoke reflective grief in Marie Beaumar- chais, is the fact that it is only an engagement which has been broken. An engagement is a possibility, not an actuality, but precisely because it was only a possibility, it might seem that the effect of breaking it could not be so great, that the shock would be far easier for the individ- ual to bear. This might sometimes be the case; but, on the other hand, the fact that it is only a possibility that has been destroyed tends to pro- voke a more intensive reflection. When an actuality is destroyed, its destruction generally involves a far more radical breach with the past; every nerve is cut, and the finality of the breach is far more complete. When a possibiHty is destroyed, the suffering for the moment may per- haps not be so great, but it often leaves a small ligament or two whole and uninjured, which remains a constant source of continued sufiEering. The annihilated possibility seems transfigured into a higher possibility, whereas the temptation to conjure up such a new possibility is not so great When it is the actual which has been destroyed, because the actual is higher than the possible.

Consequently, Clavigo has forsaken her, he has faithlessly ended their engagement. Accustomed to depend on him, when he rejects her she has not sufl&cient strength to stand; she sinks helpless into the arms of the environment. Thus it seems to have been with Marie. It is possible also to imagine another beginning. It is possible to conceive of her as having sufiScient strength immediately to transform her sorrow into reflective grief, so that, either in order to escape the humiliation of hear- ing others talk about her having been deceived, or because she still cared so much for him that it gave her pain to hear others repeatedly abuse him as a deceiver, she breaks off at once every connection with her environment, in order to feed upon her grief and to consume her- self in sorrow. We follow Goethe. Her environn^ent is not unsympa- thetic, it feels her pain with her, and sympathetically says: it will be the death of her. Aesthetically this is quite correct. An unhappy love affair may be such that suicide is aesthetically indicated, but not when the cause of it is a deception. In that case suicide loses its elevated character,

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and implies a concession which pride must refuse to yield. But when, on the other hand, she dies as a result of it, this is identical with his having murdered her. This expression completely harmonizes with the inten- sity of her inner passion, and she finds relief therein. But life does not exactly follow aesthetic categories, nor always obey aesthetic norms, and she does not die. This becomes a source of embarrassment to the environment. It feels it will not do constantly to repeat the assertion that she win die, when she continues to live; moreover, it c ann ot infuse the satne pathetic energy into the assertion as in the beginning, and yet it is only this condition which might be of any comfort to her. Hence the environment changes the method. He was a scoundrel, it says, a deceiver, a detestable creature, for whose sake it is not worth while to die; forget him, think no more about the matter, it was only an engagement; blot out the affair from your memory, and you will again be young and full of hope. This inflames her, for this angry pathos harmonizes with other moods within her; her pride finds satisfaction in the revengeful thought that she will transform the whole experience into a mere nothing. She tells herself that it was not because he was such an extraordinary man that she loved him, far from it; she saw his faults clearly enough, but she thought he was a good man, a faithful man, and this was why she loved him; it was only pity, and therefore it will be easy to forget him, since she has never really needed him. The environment and Marie are again in tune, and the duet goes capitally.

For the environment, it is not difficult to think of Clavigo as a de- ceiver; for it has never loved him, and so there is no paradox; and insofar as it perhaps may have admired him a little (something Goethe sug- gests in connection with Marie’s sister), this interest now arms it against him, and this benevolence, which perhaps was little more than benevo- lence, now becomes excellent fuel for feeding the flames of hate. Nor is it difficult for the environment to erase every memory of him, and hence it demands that Marie shall do the same. Her pride breaks forth m hate, the environment fans the flames, she finds a vent for her passion in strong words and powerful energetic resolutions, and intoxicates herself with these. The environment rejoices. It does not perceive, what she will hardly acknowledge to herself, that the next moment she is weak and faint; it does not notice the anxious misgiving that seizes her, as to whether the strength she has in certain moments is an illusion. This she carefully conceals, and will admit to no one. The environment continues the theorizing exercises with vigor, but begins to wish signs of practical results. These do not appear. The environment continues to inflame

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her; her words reveal an inward strength, and yet the suspicion grows that all is not well. It becomes impatient, and ventures upon extreme measures, it drives the spur of ridicule into her side to incite her. It is too late. Misunderstanding has slipped in. There is nothing humiliating to the community in his having been a deceiver, but it is otherwise with Marie. The revenge oflFered her, the privilege of despising him, does not TT ipa n much; only if he loved her would it have real significance, but he does not love her, and her scorn becomes a draft which no one honors. On the other hand, there is no pain for the environment in Clavigo’s being a deceiver, but only for Marie, and yet he is not without a defender in her own heart. She feels that she has gone too far, that she has laid claim to a strength she does not possess, although she will not admit it. And what comfort is there for her in despising him? It is better to grieve. Moreover, she is perhaps in possession of a seaet note or two, of great importance in explaining the text, and capable of plac- ing bim in a more or less favorable light according to circumstances. She has not shared and will not share this knowledge with anyone, for, if he is not a deceiver, it is conceivable that he might regret the step he has taken and return to her; or, and this would be still more glorious, perhaps he has no need of regretting it, perhaps he will be able to justify himself absolutely and explain everything, and then, if she had made use of it, the fact might become a stumbling-block, preventing the estab- lishment of their old relationship; and that would be her fault, for it was she who had shared with him in his love’s secret growth. And if she could really be persuaded that he was a deceiver, then it would make no difference anyway, and at all events, it would be more handsome of her not to make use of it.

In this manner the environment now assists her, against its will, in developing a new passion — ^jealousy in behalf of her own grief. Her decision is made. The environment lacks on every side the energy to harmonize with her passion — she takes the veil. She does not enter a convent, but she puts on the veil of sorrow which conceals her from every alien glance. Her outward appearance is calm, the past is for- gotten; her conversation lets no one suspect; she has taken the vow of sorrow, and now begins her solitary secret life. Everything is at once changed; before, it seemed as if she could unburden herself to others, but now she is not only bound by the vow of silence her pride wrung from her with the consent of her love, or which her love required of her, and her pride assented to; but she simply does not know how or where to begin, not because new elements have entered, but because

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reflection has conquered. If someone should ask her now why she grieves, she would have nothing to say, or she would answer in the manner of that ancient sage who was asked what religion was, and requested time for consideration, and again more time, and so the an- swer was always postponed. Now she is lost to the world, she is lost to her environment, she is immured alive. With sadness she closes the last opening; even at this moment she feels that it would perhaps be pos- sible to reveal herself; another moment and she will be forever isolated. However, it is decided, irrevocably decided, and she does not need to fear, like others immured alive, that when the meager portion of bread and water which is consumed by her is used up she will perish, for she has nourishment for a 'long time; nor need she fear boredom, for she indeed has occupation. Her outward appearance is calm and quiet, not arresting the attention, and yet her mner self is not the incorrup- tible essence of a quiet spirit but the unfruitful activity of a restless spirit. She seeks solitude or its opposite. In solitude she rests from the effort it always costs to force the outer appearance into some definite form. As one who has been standing or sitting for a long time in a cramped position, stretches himself with pleasure, as a branch, which has long been bent by force joyfully returns to its natural position when the bond is broken, so she finds refreshment in solitude. Or she seeks the opposite — ^noise, distraction — so that while all the others fix their attention on other things, she may safely occupy herself with her grief. The thing s going on nearest to her — the sound of music, the noisy conversation — sotmd so far away that it is as if she sat in a httle room by herself, far from the entire world. And if perchance she cannot keep back the tears, she is certain to be misunderstood, and so weeps without restraint; for when one lives in an ecclesia pressa, it is rightly a satisfaction that one’s worship coincides in mode of expression with the public form. She fears only the more quiet intercourse, for here she is less on guard, here it is so easy to make a mistake, so difl&cult to prevent its being noticed.

Thus there is outwardly nothing to attract the attention, but inwardly there is a ceaseless activity. Here she institutes an inquiry, one which may with perfect right and particular emphasis, be called a painful inquiry; everything is brought forward and accurately tested: his figtire, his mien, his voice, his words. It sometimes happens that a judge in such a painful inquiry, fascinated by the beauty of the accused, has broken off the inquiry, and not been able to continue it. The court ex- pectantly awaits the result of his inquiry, but it is not forthc omin g. And yet it is by no means because the magistrate neglects his duty; the turn-

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key can testify that he comes every night, that the accused is brought before him, that the examination lasts several hours, that in his time there has never been a magistrate who could thus persevere. From all this the court concludes that it must be a very complicated case. And so it goes with Marie, not once only, but again and again. She reviews everything precisely as it happened; precisely, for justice requires it, and —love. The accused is summoned. “There he comes, he txirns the corner, he opens the wicket, see how he hastens, he has longed to see me, impa- tiently he throws everything aside so as to reach me as soon as possible, I hear his swift footsteps, swifter than my own heart beats, he comes, there he is” — and the inquiry— it is postponed.

“Great God, this little word! I have so often repeated it to myself, I have remembered it in the midst of so many other things, but I have never before perceived what it really conceals within it. Aye, it explains everything; he is not serious about leaving me, he turns back to me. What is the whole world against this one little word! People weary of me, I had no friend, but now I have a friend, a confidant, a little word which explains everything— he turns back, but not with downcast eye; he looks at me half reproachfully, and says: O you of little faith! and this litde word trembles like an olive leaf upon his lips — ^he is there” — and the inquiry is postponed.

, Under such circumstances, it is namral enough that there should be great dfficulty in rendering a verdict. Of course a young woman is not a jurist, but it does not follow that she cannot pass judgment, and yet this young woman’s verdict will always be of such a nature that while at first glance it appears to be a verdict, it also contains something more which shows that it is not a real verdict, and which also shows that an opposite verdict may be rendered in the very next moment. “He was no deceiver; for if he had been, he must have been conscious of being one from the beginning. But this is not so; my heart tells me that he has loved me.” If one insists upon this conception of a deceiver, then it fol- lows in all likelihood that a deceiver has never existed. To acquit him on such grounds shows a partiality for the accused which is inconsistent with strict justice, and cannot hold against a single objection. “He was a deceiver, a detestable creature, who cold and heardess has made me infinitely unhappy. Before I knew him I was content. Aye, it is true, I had no conception that I could become so happy, or that there was such a wealth of joy as he revealed to me; but neither had I any conception that I could become so unhappy as he has made me. Therefore I will hate him, despise him, curse him. Yea, I curse you, Clavigo, in my soul’s

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innermost depths I curse you. But no one must know it; I cannot permit anyone else to curse you, for no one has the right to do so except myself. I have loved you as no other has, but I also hate you, for no one knows your craft as I do. Ye good gods, to whom vengeance belongs, lend it to me a little while; I shall not misuse it, I shall not be cruel. I shall creep into his soul when he is about to love another, not to slay his love, for that would be no punishment, for I know that he loves her as little as he loves me, for he does not love human beings at all; he loves only ideas, thoughts, his mighty influence at court, his intellectual power, things which I cannot understand how he can love. I shall deprive him of these, and then he will learn to know my pain. And when he is near to the brink of despair, I shall give them all back to him again, and he will have me to thank for it — ^and this shall be my revenge.”

“No, he was no deceiver. He did not love me any longer, and so he left me, but this was no deceit. Had he remained without loving me, then he would have been a deceiver, then should I have lived like a pensioner on the love he had once borne me, lived on his compassion, lived on the mite he, though rich, might perhaps have cast me, lived a burden to him and a torment to myself. Wretched, cowardly heart, despise yourself, learn to be great, learn it from him; he has loved me more than I have known how to love myself. And should I be angry with him.? No, I shall continue to love him, because his love was stronger, his thought more proud than my weakness and cowardice. And perhaps he even loves me still — aye, it was out of love for me that he left me.”

“Ah, now I see the truth, now I doubt no longer; he was a deceiver. I saw him; his air was proud and triumphant, his mocking glance swept superciliously over me. At his side was a Spanish lady, ravishingly beautiful; oh, why was she so beautiful — I could murder her — ^why am I not as beautiful? And was I not.? — did not know it, but he taught me; and why am I no longer beautiful ? Whose fault is it ? A curse upon you, Clavigo! Had you remained with me I should have become even more beautiful, for my love was nourished by your words and your assurances, and my beauty grew with my love. Now I am faded, now I thrive no more. What virtue is there in the tenderness of a whole world in comparison with a single word of yours ? Oh, that I were again beau- tiful, that I might again be pleasing to him! For this reason alone would I be beautiful. Oh, that he might no longer love youth and beauty, for then I would grieve more than before, and who can grieve as I can?”

“Aye, he was a deceiver. How otherwise could he have ceased to love

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me? Have I ceased to love him? Or is there one law for a man’s love and another for a woman’s ? Or should a man be weaker than the weak ? Or was it perhaps a mistake, an illusion, that he loved me, an illusion that vanished like a dream; is this proper for a man ? Or was it insta- bility? Is it then proper for a man to be unstable? And why in the beginning did he assure me that he loved me so much ? If love cannot endure, what then can endure ? Aye, Clavigo, you have deprived me of everything; you have taken from me my faith, my faith in love, not only my faith in your love!”

“He was no deceiver. What it was that tore him away from me I do not know; I do not understand this mysterious power. But it has given him pain, deep pain; he did not wish me to share this pain, and there- fore he pretended to be a deceiver. True, if he had loved another, then would I call him a deceiver, then nothing in the world could make me believe anything else, but he has not done this. Perhaps he thinks to lessen my suffering by making himself appear like a deceiver, and so arm me against him. This is why he shows himself now and then with young girls, this is why he looked so derisively at me the other day, in order to make me angry, and thus set me free. No, he certainly was no deceiver. How could anyone be a deceiver who had a voice like his? It was so calm and yet so full of feeling; as if it burst forth through solid rock, so it sounded forth from a depth I could not even fathom. Can such a voice deceive? What then is the voice — a. mere movement of the tongue, a noise produced at pleasure? Somewhere in the soul it must have a home, a birthplace it must have. And it had that; in his heart’s innermost chamber it had its home, there he loved me, there he still loves me. True, he also had another voice, it was cold, icy, it had power to loll every joy in my soul, to smother every happy thought, it could even make my kisses seem cold and distasteful to myself. Which was the One voice? He could deceive in all ways, but I feel sure that this quiver- ing voice wherein his passion trembled, that it was no deception, that would be impossible. The other was a deception. Or some evil power overmastered him. No, he was not a deceiver, this voice which has bound me to him forever, it was no deception. A deceiver he was not, even if I never xmderstood him.”

The inquiry is never finished, nor the verdict; the inquiry not, because something constantly intrudes, the verdict not, because it is only a mood. Once begun the movement can continue indefinitely, and it is impos- sible 0 envisage any end. It can be made to cease only by a breach, by breaking this entire course (rf thought. But this cannot happen; for

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the will is always in the service of the reflection, which gives energy to the momentary passion.

When she tries at times to tear herself free, it comes to nothing, so this is again only a mood, a momentary passion, and reflection constantly remains victorious. Mediation is impossible. If she tries to make a new beginning, but so that this beginning is in one way or another the result of her previous reflection, she is at once carried away. The will must be wholly indifferent; it must begin in the strength of its own willing before there can be any talk of a beginning. If this happens, she may indeed find a beginning, but she removes herself from the field of our interest, since we turn her over willingly to the moralists, or whoever cares to attend her. We wish her a respectable marriage, and pledge our- selves to dance on her wedding-day, when fortunately the altered name will help us forget that it was the Marie Beaumarchais of whom we have spoken.

But we return to Marie Beaumarchais. The characteristic feature of her grief is, as we remarked above, the restlessness which prevents her from finding the object of her grief. Her suffering cannot attain qui- etude; she lacks the peace which every life must have in order to assimi- late its nourishment, and benefit by it. No illusion overshadows her with its quiet coolness while she assimilates the pain. She lost childhood’s illusion when she gained that of love, and she lost love’s illusion when Clavigo deceived her; if it were possible to win the illusion of sorrow, then she would be helped. Then would her grief grow to man’s ma- turity, and she would have compensation for her loss. But her sorrow does not thrive, for she has not lost Clavigo; he has deceived her. Her grief remains always a puny babe with its tiny wail, a child without father or mother; for if Clavigo had been torn away from her, it would have had a father in the memory of his faithful love, and a mother in Marie’s ecstasy. But now she has nothing on which she can nourish it; for the experience was indeed beautiful, but it had no significance in itself, but only as a foretaste of the future. And she cannot hope that this child of pain will become transformed into a child of joy; she cannot hope for Clavigo’s return, for she would not have strength to bear a future. She has lost the glad confidence with which she would willingly have followed him to the brink of the bottomless pit, and she has ac- quired a hundred hesitations, and would at most only be able to live the past with hkn again. When Clavigo left her there stretched a future before her, so beautiful, so enchanting, that it almost confused her thoughts. It had already begun dimly to exercise its power, her meta-

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morphosis had already begun, when the development was checked, and her transformation ceased. She had begun vaguely to feel a new life, its energies were already moving within her; then it was crushed, she was thrust back, and there is no compensation for her, neither in this world nor in the world to come. The future snuled upon her, and its riches were reflected in the illusion of her love; and still everything was natural and straightforward. Now an impotent reflection perhaps some- times paints her an impotent illusion, an illusion which does not even tempt her, but for a moment soothes her. And thus she will pass her time imtil at last she has consumed the object of her grief which was not identical with her grief, but the occasion through which she always sought an object for her grief.

If a man possessed a letter which he knew, or believed, contained information bearing upon what he must regard as his life’s happiness, but the writing was pale and fine, almost illegible — ^then would he read it with resdess anxiety and with all possible passion, in one moment getting one meaning, in the next another, according as he believes that having read one word with certainty it would clarify what came after; but' he would never arrive at anything except the same uncertainty with which he began. He would stare more and more anxiously, but the more he stared, the less he would see. His eyes would sometimes fill with tears; but the oftener this happened the less he would see. In the course of time, the writing would become fainter and more illegible, imtil at last the paper itself would crumble away, and nothing would be left to him except the tears in his eyes.

II. DONNA ELVIRA

We find this young woman in the opera of Don Juan, and it will not be without significance in our later inqxiiry to take notice of the hints concerning her earlier life, which the text of the opera contains. She had been a nun; it was from the peace of the cloister that Don Juan had torn her away. In this is suggested the tremendous intensity of her pas- sion. It was no frivolous girl from a boarding school, who had learned to love at school and to flirt at balls; the seduction of such a girl has no great significance. On the contrary, Elvira has been brought up in the discipline of the cloister, but this has not been able to eradicate passion, but has taught her to suppress it, and thereby to make it more violent as soon as it is allowed to break forth. She is certain prey for a Don Juan;

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he knows how to entice her passion forth, wild, ungovernable, insa- tiable, satisfied only in his love. In him she has everything, and the past is nothing; if she loses him, she loses everything, including the past. She had renounced the world. Then there appeared a figure she could not renounce, and it is Don Juan. From now on she relinquishes everything in order to live with him. The more significant the past she leaves behind her, the more closely must she cling to him; the more closely she has twined herself about him, the more terrible becomes her despair when he leaves her. Her love is even from the beginning a kind of despair; nothing has any significance for her, either in heaven or on earth, except Don Juan.

In the opera Elvira is of interest to us only insofar as her relationship to Don Juan has significance for him. If I were to attempt briefly to indicate this significance, I should say: she is Don Juan’s epic fate, the Commandant is his dramatic fate. There is in her a hatred which will seek Juan in every nook and corner, a flame which will light up the darkest hiding place, and should this still not discover him, there is in her a love which will find him. She shares with the rest in the pursuit of Don Juan; but I imagine that if all the forces of the pursuit were neutralized, if the efforts of the pursuers had destroyed one another so that Elvira was alone with Don Juan and he was in her power, then would her hate arm her to murder him; but her love would forbid it, not from pity, since for that he is too great a figure, and so she would continue to keep him alive, for if she killed him, then she would also have killed herself. Hence, if the forces active in the opera were re- stricted to Don Juan and Elvira, it would never end; for Elvira would prevent the lightning itself, if that were possible, from striking him, in order that she might avenge herself, and yet she would again be unable to take her revenge. Such is the interest she has for us in the opera; but here we are concerned about her relationship to Don Juan only insofar as it has significance for her. Many are interested in her, but in very different ways. Don Juan was interested in her before the opera begins, the spectator grants her his dramatic interest, but we, the friends of sorrow, follow her not only to the nearest street-crossing, not only in the moment when she passes across the stage, no, we follow her on her solitary way.

Accordingly Don Juan has seduced Elvira and abandoned her. It was quickly done, as quickly as a “tiger breaks a lily”; when Spain alone reckons 1,003, it i® ^^*7 to see that Don Juan is in a hurry, and in some measure to calculate the speed of his movements. Don Juan has aban-

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doned her, but there is no environment into whose arms she can fall fainting; she need not fear that the environment will close too tightly about her, it will rather open wide its ranks to make her departure easier; she need not fear that anyone will deny her loss, rather per- haps will one or another take it upon himself to demonstrate it. She stands alone and abandoned, and no doubt sustains her; it is clear that he was a deceiver who has deprived her of everything and exposed her to shame and dishonor. This is, however, aesthetically speaking, not the worst for her; it saves her for a time from the reflective grief which is certainly more painful than the immediate. The fact is indisputable, and reflection cannot give it now one meaning, now another. A Marie Beaumarchais may have loved a Clavigo as intensely, as violently, and as passionately, as regards her own passion; it may have been entirely an accident that the worst has not happened, she may almost wish that it had happened; for then the story would have an end and she would be far more strongly armed against him, but this did not happen. The fact she has for herself is far more ambiguous, its essential character always remains a seaet between her and Clavigo. When she thinks of the cold craftiness, the miserable calculation he needed to deceive her so that in the eyes of the world it takes on a far more innocent aspect, so that she becomes a prey to the sympathy which says: “Well, good Lord, the case is not so terrible, it might have been worse” — it revolts her; she almost Ibses her mind when she thinks of the proud superiority over against which she has meant absolutely nothing, which set her a limit and said: thus far and no farther. And yet, the whole story can also be explained in another manner, in a more beautiful manner. But as the explanation becomes different, the fact also becomes different. Reflec- tion, therefore, has immediately enough to keep it busy, and the reflective grief is unavoidable.

Don Juan has abandoned Elvira, and in the same instant everything stands clearly before her, and no doubt lures her grief into the discussion room of reflection; she is dumb in her despair. With a single pulse-beat it streams through her, and its current is outward, in a blaze the passion illuminates her, and becomes visible externally. Hate, despair, revenge, love, all break forth, to reveal themselves visibly. In this moment she is picturesque. The imagination therefore also shows us at once a picture of her, and the external is by no means set in indifference; its reflection is not meaningless, and its activity not without significance, as it rejects and chooses.

Whether she is herself in this moment a subject for artistic representa-

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tion is another question; but so much is certain, in this moment she is visible and can be seen, naturally not in the sense that this or that actual Elvira can be seen, which is most frequently identical with her not being seen, but the Elvira we imagine is essentially visible. Whether art is able to shade her expression to such a degree that the point in her despair becomes visible, I shall not attempt to decide, but she can be described, and the picture which thus appears, becomes not merely a burden for the memory, which neither adds to nor takes away, but has its validity. And who has not seen Elvira!

It was early morning when I undertook a journey by foot in one of the romantic valleys of Spain. Nature awoke, the trees of the forest shook their heads, and the leaves, as it were, rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, one tree bent to the other to see if it was yet awake, and the whole forest billowed in the fresh cool breeze; a light mist rose from the earth, the sun tore it away as if it had been a blanket under which it had rested during tlie night, and now it looked down like a loving mother upon the flowers and upon everything that had life, and said: Arise, dear children, the sun is already shining. As I swung around a defile, my eye fell on a cloister high up on the peak of the mountain, to which a foot- path led up through many turnings. My thoughts dwelt upon the scene; so, I said to myself, it lies there like a house of God fast fomided upon a rock. My guide told me that it was a convent, known for its strict disci- pline. My pace slowed down, like my thought; what is there ttf hasten for, so near the cloister ? I should probably have come altogether to a stop, if I had not been aroused by a quick movement near me. Involun- tarily I turned about to look; it was a knight who hurried past. How beautiful he was, how light his step, and yet so full of energy, how royal his carriage, and yet so evidently in flight; he turned his head to look back, his aspect was so inviting, and yet his glance so resdess; it was Don Juan. Is he hurrying to some place of assignation, or coming from one .f* Still, he was soon lost to sight and forgotten by my thought; my eye was fixed upon the cloister. I sank again into a contemplation of the joys of life and the quiet peace of the cloister, when I saw high up on the mountain a feminine figure. In great haste she ran down the path, but the way was steep, and it constantly seemed as if she hurled herself down the mountain. She came nearer. Her face was pale, only her eyes blazed terribly, her body was faint, her bosom rose and fell painfully, and yet she ran faster and faster, her disheveled locks streamed loose in the wind, but not even the fresh morning breeze and her own rapid motion was able to redden her pale cheeks; her ntm’s veil was torn and

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floated out behind her, her thin white gown would have betrayed much to a profane glance, had not the passion in her countenance turned the attention of even the most depraved of men upon itself. She rushed past me; I dared not address her, her brow was too majestic, her glance too royal, her passion too high-born. Where does this woman belong ? In the cloister? Have these passions their home there?— -In the world? This costume?— Why does she hurry? Is it to conceal her shame and disgrace, or is it in order to overtake Don Juan ? She hastens on to the forest, and it closes about her and hides her, and I see her no more, but hear only the sigh of the forest. Poor Elvira! Have the trees found out something— and yet, the trees are better than men, for the trees sigh and are silent— men whisper.

In this first moment Elvira can be presented, even if the artist cannot do it precisely, because it would be difl&cult to find a single expression which also includes all her manifold passions — ^as the soul demands to see her. This I have attempted to suggest by the litde picture sketched above; it was not my thought that this picture adequately describes her, but I wished to suggest that a description of her belongs to the story, that it was not an arbitrary notion of mine, but a valid claim in the idea. However, this is only a point, and we must follow Elvira farther.

The movement which lies nearest at hand is a movement in time. She keeps in the foregoing a suggested almost picturesque level through a certain period of time. Thereby she achieves a dramatic interest. Through the haste with which she rushed past me, she overtakes Don Juan. This is also quite m order, for he had indeed forsaken her, but he had drawn her into his own life movement, and she must reach him. When she does reach him her entire attention is directed outwardly, and we do not yet get a reflective grief. She has lost everything— heaven when she chose the world, the world when she lost Don Juan. She has, therefore, nowhere to seek refuge except with him ; only by being in his presence can she keep despair at a distance, either by drowning out the inner voices with the clamor of hate and bitterness, which only sounds with emphasis when Don Juan is personally present, or by hop- ing. This latter signifies that the elements of a reflective grief are already present, but they have not yet had time to gather themselves together within her. “Until she is cruelly convinced,” says Kruse’s interpre- tation, but this requirement completely reveals the inner disposition. If she has not been convinced by this occurrence, that Don Juan was a deceiver, she never will be. But as long as she requires a further proof, so long she may succeed, by living a restless, wandering life, constantly

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occupied in pursuing Don Juan, in escaping the inner unrest of a quiet despair. The paradox already exists in her soul, but as long as she can keep her soul in a state of agitation by means of external proofs which do not explain the past, but do throw light upon Don Juan’s present condition, so long she escapes the reflective grief. Hate, bitterness, curses, prayers, adjurations, alternate, but her soul has not yet turned back upon itself to rest in the reflection that she has been deceived. She looks for an explanation from without. When therefore Kruse makes Don Juan say:

Have you a mind to hear.

To believe my words— you who suspect me so;

Then let me tell you now, strange and improbable Must seem the cause which forced, etc.,

one must be careful to believe that this, which to the spectator’s ear sounds like mockery, has actuality for Elvira. For her this speech is a relief, for she demands the improbable, and she wants to believe it, just because it is improbable.

When we now permit Don Juan and Elvira to meet each other, we have a choice between permitting Don Juan to be the stronger or El- vira. If he is the stronger then her whole appearance will mean nothing. She demands a “proof in order to be cruelly convinced”; he has gal- lantry enough to furnish it. But she is, naturally enough, not convinced, and demands a new proof; for demanding a proof is an amelioration, and the uncertainty is refreshing. Thus she becomes only one more wit- ness of Don Juan’s exploits. But we might also imagine Elvira as the stronger. It rarely happens, but out of gallantry toward beauty we shall grant it. She stands, then, still in her full beauty, for though she has wept, the tears have not yet put out the fire in her eyes; and though she has sorrowed, the sorrow has not consumed the vitality of youth; and though she has grieved, her grief has not undermined the vitality of her beauty; and though her cheek has become pale, it has but enhanced the spirituality of her expression; and though she no longer glides with the lightness of childish innocence, she steps forth with the energetic assur- ance of womanly passion. Thus she confronts Don Juan. She has loved him more than all the world, more than her soul’s salvation; she has thrown away everything for him, even her honor, and he was untrue. Now she knows only one passion, hate, only one thought, revenge. Thus she is as great a figure as Don Juan; for the power to seduce all women is the masculine expression which corresponds to the feminine one of be-

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ing seduced once with her whole soul, and then of hating, or, if you will, of loving her seducer with an energy no wife ever had. Thus she con- fronts him; she does not lack the courage to dare to meet him, she fights for no moral principles, she fights for her love, a love she does not base on respect; she does not fight to become his wife, she fights for her love, which is not satisfied with a repentant faithfulness, but which demands revenge; out of love for him she has thrown away her eternal happiness, and if it were again offered her, she would cast it away again for the sake of her revenge.

Such a figure cannot fail to make an impression upon Don Juan. He knows the pleasure of inhaling the fragrance of the finest and most fragrant blossoms of first youth, he knows that it lasts but an instant, and he knows what comes later; he has often enough seen these pale figures fade so quickly that it was almost visible to the eyes; but here is indeed a miracle; the laws governing the ordinary course of existence have been broken; it is a young woman he has seduced, but her life is not ruined, her beauty is not faded; she has been transformed, and is more beautiful than ever. He cannot deny that she fascinates him more than any young woman had ever fascinated him before, more than Elvira herself; for the innocent nun was, in spite of her beauty, a girl like many others, his love for her an adventure like many another one; but this woman is alone of her kind. This woman is armed; she does not conceal a dagger in her bosom, but she carries an invisible weapon, for her hate is not to be satisfied with speeches and declamations, but it is unseen, and this weapon is her hate. Don Juan’s passion awakens; she must once more be his, but not so. True, if it were a woman who knew his nefariousness, who hated him, although she had not been seduced by him, then Don Juan would be victorious; but this woman he caimot win, all his seductiveness is unavailing. If his voice were more ingratiat- ing than his own voice, his attack more insidious than his own attack, he could not move her; if angels begged for him, if the mother of God were willing to be bridesmaid at the wedding, it would be in vain. As Dido, even in the underworld, turns away from Aeneas who was un- faithful to her, so would Elvira not indeed turn away from him, but confront him more coldly than Dido.

But this encounter of Elvira with Don Juan is only a transitional mo- ment; she walks across the stage, the curtain falls, but we, dear Sym- paranekromenoi, «teal away after her; for now does she first really become Elvira. As long as she is in the presence of Don Juan she is be- side herself; when she comes to herself then she begins to tbinir the

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paradox. To think a contradiction is, in spite of all the assurances of modern philosophy and the foolhardy courage of its young adherents, not an easy matter; it is always connected with great difficulties. A young woman may well be forgiven if she finds it difficult, and yet this is the task which is set her, to think that the man she loves is a deceiver. This is something she has in common with Marie Beaumarchais, and yet there is a difference between them, in the manner in which each one comes to the paradox. The fact Marie had to go on was in itself so controversial that reflection with all its exigency could not help seiz- ing it immediately. But with respect to Elvira, the factual proof for Don Juan’s deception seems so evident that it is not easy to see how reflec- tion can get hold of it. It therefore attacks the matter from another side. Elvira has lost everything, and yet there lies an entire life before her, and her soul requires a pittance to live on.

Here two possibilities present themselves, either to go on under ethical and rehgious categories, or to preserve her love for Juan. If she adopts the first, she places herself outside the range of our interest; with pleas- ure we permit her to retire to an institution for Magdalenes, or wherever she likes. This will probably be difficult for her, however, for to make it possible she must first despair; she has already once known the reli-' gious, and the second time it makes greater demands. The religious is in general a dangerous power to have anything to do with; it is jealous for itself, and will not be mocked. When she chose the cloister, itw quite possible that her proud soul found a rich satisfaction in it, for say what you will, no woman makes so brilliant a match as she who becomes the bride of heaven; but now, on the contrary, as a penitent she must go back in penitence and remorse. Moreover it is a question whether she can find a priest who can preach the gospel of repentance and remorse with the same power with which Don Juan had preached the glad gospel of pleasure. Therefore to save herself from that despair, she must hold fast to Don Juan’s love, something which she finds so much easier since she still loves him. A third course of action is mithinkable, for that she should seek comfort in the love of another would be still more ter- rible than the most terrible. For her own sake, consequently, she must love Don Juan; it is self-defense which bids her do it, and this is the spur of reflection which drives her to fix her eyes upon this paradox, whetiier she can still love him although he had deceived her. Whenever despair seizes hold upon her, she attempts to take refuge in the memory of Don Juan’s love, and in order to find herself in this refuge, she is tempted to think that he is no deceiver, although she thinks this thought in many

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ways. For a woman’s dialectic is remarkable, and only he who has had opportunity to observe, only he can imitate it, and it would puzzle the greatest dialectician who ever lived to originate it.

I have, however, been so fortunate as to know a couple of excellent examples with whom I have gone through a whole course in dialectics. Strangely enough, though one might expect to find them in the capital, for the noise and multitude of people hide much, this is not so, that is to say, when you wish to find a perfect species. In the provinces, in small towns, on country estates, you will find the most beautiful specimens. The one I have particularly in mind was a Swedish lady of noble birth. Her first lover cannot have desired her with greater intensity than I, her second lover, strove to follow her heart’s thoughts. However, I owe it to truth to acknowledge that it was not my keenness and cunning which put me on the track, but an accidental circumstance which would take too long to relate here. She had lived in Stockholm, where she had come to know a French count, to whose faithless amiability she became a victim. She still stands vividly before me. The first time I saw her she made no particular impression upon me. She was still beautiful, with a proud and aristocratic bearing; she spoke very little, and I should prob- ably have left her as wise as I had come, if an accident had not initiated me into her secret. From that moment she became significant to me; she gave me such a vivid picture of Elvira, that I was never tired of look- ing at'her. One evening I was present with her at a large social gath- ering; I had come before her, had already waited for some time, when I stepped to the window to see if she were not coming, and a moment later her carriage was at the door. She stepped out, and immediately her dress made a singular impression upon me. She had on a thin light silk coat, almost like the domino in which Elvira makes her appearance in the ballet. She entered with a stately dignity which was really impos- ing; she was attired in a black silk dress; she was in the highest degree tastefully gowned, and yet very simply; no ornament adorned her, her neck was bare, and as her skin was whiter than snow, I have rarely seen so beautiful a contrast as that between her black silk and her white bosom. It is not rare to see an uncovered neck, but rarely do you see a young woman who really has a bosom. She curtsied to the whole com- pany, and when, thereupon, the host stepped forward to greet her, she curtsied very low to him, but though her Ups parted to form a smile, I heard not a word from her. To me her deportment was highly perfect, and I who was a party to this, mentally applied to her the words which were spoken of the oracle: It neither speaks out nor conceals, it hints.

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From her I have learned many things, and among others have found the observation confirmed that I have frequently made, that people who hide a sorrow, in the course of time acquire a special word or thought by which they are able to indicate everything to themselves and to the individual whom they have initiated therein. Such a word or thought is like a diminutive in comparison with the diffuseness of the grief; it is like a pet name one uses every day. Often it stands in an altogether acci- dental relation to that which it is supposed to signify, and almost always owes its origin to an accident. After I had won her confidence, after I had succeeded in overcoming her suspicion of me, because an accident had put her in my power, after she had told me everything, I often went through the whole scale of moods with her. If, on the other hand, she did not at times feel inclined to do so, and yet desired to indicate that her soul was occupied with her grief, she would take my hand, look at me and say: “I was more slender than a reed, he more glorious than the cedars of Lebanon.” Where she had found these words I do not know; but I am convinced that when Charon comes in his boat to set her over in the underworld, then he will find in her mouth not the required obol, but these words upon her lips: “I was more slender than a reed, he more glorious than the cedars of Lebanon!”

Consequendy, Elvira cannot discover Don Juan, and now she must find her own way out of her life’s labyrinth, she must come to herself. She has changed her surroundings, and so is deprived of the assistance which might perhaps have contributed to directing her grief outward. Her new environment knows nothing of her earlier life, sus- pects nothing; for her appearance has nothing obtrusive or noteworthy, no marks of grief, no sign which advertises to the public the presence of grief. She can control every expression, for the loss of her honor can indeed teach her this, and even though she does not set a high estimate on the judgment of men, she can at any rate avoid their condolence. And so everything is in order, and she can reckon pretty safely on going through life without awakening any suspicion in the minds of the curi- ous multitude, which is usually as stupid as it is curious. She is in lawful and undisputed possession of her grief, and only if she should be so un- fortunate as to come m contact with a professional prowler will she have a more searching examination to fear. What goes on within her? Does she grieve? If she does! But how shall we designate this grief? I should call it a nourishment sorrow; for a man’s life consists not alone in meat and drink; the soul also requires nourishment. She is yoxmg, and yet her life’s supply is exhausted, but it does not follow that she dies. In this re-

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spect she is every day concerned for the morrow. She cannot give up her love for him, and yet he deceived her; but if he deceived her then her love has lost its power to nourish her. Aye, had he not deceived her, had a higher power torn him away, then she would have been as well sup- plied as any woman could wish; for the memory of Don Juan was con- siderably more than many a living husband. But if she gives up her love, t he n is she reduced to beggary, then she must return to the cloister in shame and dishonor. Ah, if even this could buy back his love again! So she lives on. The present day, it seems to her, she can still endure, there is still something to live on; but the next day, that she fears for. As she considers over and over again, she seizes every way out, and yet she finds none, and so she can never grieve connectedly and soundly, because she always seeks to discover how she ought to grieve.

“I will forget him, I will tear his image out of my heart, I will search through my soul like a consuming fire, and every thought that belongs to him shall be destroyed; only then can I be saved; it is self-defense, and if I do not tear out every thought of him, even the most remote, I am lost; only in this way can I defend myself. Myself — ^what is this my- self.? Wretchedness and misery; my first love was faithless, and now shall I try to make all well by becoming faithless to my second love?”

“No, I will hate him; only so can my soul find satisfaction, only so can I find rest and occupation for my thoughts. I will weave a garland of curses from everything that reminds me of him, and for every kiss I say: Curses upon you! and for every time he has embraced me: Ten times accursed! and for every time he swore he loved me, I shall swear that I hate him. This shall be my work, my task, to which I dedicate myself; in the convent I learned to tell my rosary, and so I become a ntin after all, praying early and late. Or should I be content that he has once loved me? Perhaps I ought to be a sensible woman who does not cast him away in proud contempt, now that I know he is a deceiver; perhaps I ought to be a good housewife, thrifty enough to make a little go as far as possible. No, I will hate him, for this is the only way in which I can tear myself away from him, and prove to myself that I do not need him. But do I not owe him anything when I hate him ? Do I not live on his bounty ? for what else is it that feeds my hate, except my love for him ?”

“He was not a deceiver, he had no conception of what a woman can suffer. If he had, he would never have forsaken me. He was a man, wholly self contained. Is that then a comfort to me? Certainly, for my suffering and my torture prove to me how happy I have been, so happy that he can have had no conception of it. Why then do I complain, be-

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cause a man is not like a woman, not as happy as she is when she is happy, not as unhappy as she is when she is infinitely unhappy, because her happiness had no botmds.”

“Did he deceive me? No! Had he promised me anything? No! My Juan was no suitor, he was no wretched poltroon; for such, a nun does not degrade herself. He did not ask for my hand; he stretched out his own, and I seized it; he looked at me, and I was his; he opened his arms, and I belonged to him. I clung to him as a vine clings. I twined myself about him; I reclined my head upon his breast and looked into this omnipotent strength in his face, by which he ruled the world, and which nevertheless rested on me as if I were the vyhole world for him; like a nursing infant, I drank fullness and wealth and blessing. Can I .ask for more ? Was I not his ? Was he not mine ? And if he was not, was not I, nonetheless, his? When the gods visited the earth and loved women, did they remain faithful to them? And yet no one thinks of saying that they deceived them! And why not, unless it is that a woman ought to be proud of having been loved by a god. And what are all the gods of Olympus in comparison with my Juan! Ought I not to be proud, should I degrade him, should I insult him in my thoughts, allow myself to place him in the strait-jacket of the miserable laws that hold for ordinary men ? No, I will be proud that he loved me, that he was greater than the gods, and I will honor him by making myself nothing. I will love him because he belonged to me, love him because he left me, and I am still his constantly, and I will treasure what he squanders.”

“No, I cannot think of him; every time I remember him, every time my thought approaches the hiding place in my heart where his memory dwells, then it is as if I committed a new sin; I feel an anguish, an in- expressible anguish, an anguish like that I felt in the convent when I sat in my solitary cell and waited for him, and the thoughts terrified me: the severe contempt of the prioress, the convent’s terrible punishment, my crime against God. And yet did not this anguish form part and par- cel of my love for him? What would it have been without it? He was not indeed consecrated to me, we had not received the blessing of the church, no bells had rung for us, no hymns were sung; and yet, what was all the music and solemnity of the Church as a power over my mood, in comparison with this anguish! — But then he came, and the discord of my anguish resolved itself into the harmony of the most blessed safety, and only sweet tremblings moved my soul. Shall I then fear this anguish, does it not remind me of him, is it not a promise of his coming? If I could remember him without the anguish, then I could

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not really remember Wm, He comes, he commands stillness, he governs the spirits that desire to tear me away from him. I am his, blessed in him.”

If I could imagine a human being in a wreck at sea, unconcerned for his life, remaining on board because there was something he wanted to save, and yet could not save, because he could not decide what it was he should save, then should I have a picture of Elvira; she is shipwrecked, her destruction impends, but this does not worry her, she does not notice it, she is hesitating about what she should save.

III. MARGARET

We know this young woman from Goethe’s Faust. She was a little girl from the middle class, not, like Elvira, destined for a convent; but yet brought up in the fear of the Lord, although her soul was too child- like to feel the earnestness of it, as Goethe so incomparably says:

Hdb Ktnderspid,

Hdb Gott im Herzen. ’

What we especially love in this girl is the charming simplicity and humility of her pure soul. The first time she sees Faust, she feels herself too humble to be loved by him, and it is not out of curiosity to learn whether Faust loves her that she plucks the petals from the daisy, but from humility, because she feels herself too unworthy to make a choice, and therefore bows to the oracular dictum of a mysterious power. Aye, lovely Margaret! Goethe has told us how you plucked the petals and recited the words: he loves me, he loves me not; poor Margaret, you can now continue this occupation, only changing the words: he deceived me, he deceived me not; you can plant a little plot of groimd with these flowers, and you will have handiwork for the rest of your life.

Someone has remarked that it is noteworthy that while the folk-tale about Don Juan tells of 1,003 victims in Spain alone, the story of Faust tells of only one woman seduced by him. It will be worth wliile not to forget this observation, since it will have significance in what follows, and will guide us in determining the characteristic of Margaret’s reflec- tive grief. At first sight it might seem that the only difference between Elvira and Margaret was that which exists between two individuals who have had the same experience. The difference is, however, far more essential, not based so much upon the different personalities of the two

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women, as in tlie essential difference between a Don Juan and a Faust. From the very beginning there must he a difference between an Elvira and a Margaret, inasmuch as a woman by whom a Faust is affected must be essentially different from a woman who affects a Don Juan; even if I imagined that it was the same woman who attracted the atten- tion of both, it would still be some thin g different which attracted the one from that which attracted the other. The difference which thus might from the beginning be present only as a possibility, would by being brought into relation with a Faust or a Don Juan, develop into a complete actuality. Faust is indeed a reproduction of Don Juan; but pre- cisely because he is a reproduction, it makes him, even at that stage of his life in which one might call him a Don Juan, essentially different from the other; for the reproduction of another stage does not mean merely to become this stage, but to become it with all the elements of the preceding stages •within one’s self. Even if he desires the same thing as a Don Juan, he still desires it in a different manner. But in order for him to desire it in a different manner, it must also be present in a different manner. There are elements in him which make his method different, just as there are also elements in Margaret which make another method necessary. His method depends upon his mclination, and his inclination is different from Don Juan’s, even if there is an essential likeness be- tween them.

It is usually thought to be very clever to say that Faust finally becomes a Don Juan, but this means very little, since the real question is in what sense he becomes one. Faust is a demoniac figure like a Don Juan, but higher. The sensual first becomes significant for him only after he has lost an entire preceding world, but the consciousness of this loss is not erased, it is constantly present, and he seeks therefore in the sensuous, not so much enjoyment as diversion of mind. His doubting soul finds nothing in which it can rest, and now he reaches after love, not because he believes in it, but because it has a present element in which there is rest for a moment, and a striving which distracts and diverts his atten- tion from the nothingness of doubt. Hence his enjoyment does not have the serenity which distinguishes a Don Juan. His countenance is not wreathed in smiles, his brow is not unclouded, and happiness is not his playfellow; the young women do not dance into his embrace, but he frightens them to him. What he seeks is not merely the pleasure of the sensuous, but what he desires is the immediacy of the spirit As the shades of the underworld, when they got hold of a living being, sucked his blood, and lived as long as this blood warmed and nourished them.

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SO Faust seeks an immediate life by which he can be renewed and strengthened. And where can this be foimd better than in a young woman, and how can he absorb it more perfecdy than in the embrace of love ? As the Middle Ages tell of sorcerers who understood how to prepare a brew for the renewal of youth, and used the heart of an inno- cent child for that purpose, so is this the strengthening potion his starved soul needs, the only thing which is able to satisfy him for a moment. His sick soul needs what I might call a young heart’s first green shoots; and with what else shall I compare an innocent feminine soul’s first youth? If I were to call it a blossom, I should say too little, for it is more, it is a flowering: the soundness of hope and faith and trust shoots forth and blossoms in rich variety, and soft impulses move the delicate shoots, and dreams shade their fruitfulness. Thus it affects a Faust, it beckons to his restless soul like a peaceful isle in the quiet sea. That it is transient no one knows better than Faust; he does not believe in it any more than he believes in anything else; but that it exists in the embrace of love, of that he is certain. Only the fullness of innocence and childlikeness can for a moment refresh him.

In Goethe’s Taust, Mephistopheles shows him Margaret in a mirror. His eye finds enjoyment in the vision, but it is not her beauty that he desires, although he accepts that also. What he desires is the pure, rich, untroubled, immediate happiness of a woman’s soul, but he desires it not spiritually, but sensually. Hence, he desires in a certain sense like Don Juan, but yet quite otherwise. Here perhaps one or another privat- docent, who is convinced that he could have been a Faust, since other- wise he could not possibly have become a privat-docent, will remark that Faust requires intellectual culture and breeding in the woman who shall attract him. Perhaps a large number of privat-docents would consider this an excellent remark, and their respective wives and sweethearts nod assent. However, it is completely beside the point; for Faust would desire nothing less. A so-called cultured woman would belong within the same relativity as himself, and would have no significance for hinrij would be simply nothing. By her crumb of culture she might perhaps tempt this old Magister of doubt to take her out on the stream, where she would soon despair. An innocent young girl, however, belongs within another relativity, and is therefore, in a certain sense, no thing over against Faust, and yet, in another sense, tremendously much, since she is immediacy. Only in this immediacy is she the goal of his desire, and therefore I said that he desires immediacy, not spiritually but sensually.

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Goethe perfectly perceived all this, and hence we find Margaret an ordinary little maiden, a girl one is almost tempted to call insignificant. Since it is of importance with respect to Margaret’s sorrow, we shall consider a little more in detail how Faust must have impressed her. The individual traits that Goethe has emphasized have naturally great value; and yet I believe that for the sake of completeness we must imagine a little modification. In her innocent simplicity Margaret soon notices that all is not as it should be with Faust in respect to his faith. In Goethe this is brought out in a little catechisation scene, which is undeniably an excellent invention by the poet. The question is, what consequences this examination may have on their relation to one another. Faust appears in the role of a doubter, and it seems that Goethe, since he has not sug- gested anything further in this respect, has wished to let Faust continue to be a doubter also, as over against Margaret. He has attempted to divert her attention from all such inquiries, and to fix it solely and alone on the reality of love. But partly I believe that this would be a difficult task for Faust, after the issue has once been raised, and partly I believe it is not psychologically correct. I would not dwell further on this point for Faust’s sake, but for Margaret’s sake; for if he has not revealed himself to her as a doubter, her sorrow has an additional moment. Faust is then a doubter, but he is no vain fool, who merely wishes to feel his own sig- nificance by doubting what others believe; his doubt has an objective grotmd in himself. So much must be said in Faust’s honor.

As soon, however, as he would make his doubt valid against others, there can easily intermingle with it an impure passion. As soon as doubt is expressed as over against others, an envy lies therein, which finds satisfaction in depriving them of that which they regard as sure. But in order that this passion of envy should be aroused in the doubter, there must be some opposition from the individual in question. Where there can either be no opposition, or where it would be impossible to think it, there the temptation ceases. This last is the case with a young girl. Over against her, a doubter finds himself embarrassed. To deprive her of her faith is no task for him; on the contrary he feels that it is only through her faith that she is as great as she is. He feels himself humbled, for there is in her a natural demand that he should protect her, insofar as she has become uncertain. Aye, a poor wretch of a doubter, a half- baked thief, might perhaps find satisfaction in depriving a young girl of her faith, feel a joy in frightening women and children, since he can- not terrify men. But this is not true of Faust, he is too great. We may well agree with Goethe, then, that Faust betrays his doubt the first time,

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but I scarcely think that it will happen a second time. This is of great importance with respect to our conception of Margaret. Faust readily perceives that Margaret’s entire significance depends on her innocent simplicity; if this is taken away, then she is nothing in herself, nothing to him. This must therefore be preserved. He is a doubter; but as such he has all the moments of the positive within himself, for otherwise he is a poor doubter. He lacks the final conclusion, by which all the mo- ments become negative. She, on the contrary, has the conclusion; she has childlikeness and innocence. Nothing is therefore easier than for him to endow her. His experience has firequendy taught him that what he presented as doubt has affected others as positive truth. Now he finds his happiness in enriching her with the whole wealth of a view of life, he brings forth all the treasures of an immediate faith; he delights in festively adorning her with them, because they are suited to her, and she thereby becomes more beautiful in his eyes. Besides he also derives from this the advantage that her soul comes to cling to him more and more closely. She does not really xmderstand him; as a child she clings to him, for what is doubt to him is for her irrefragable truth. But while he thus builds up her faith, he at the same time undermines it, for he becomes at last an object of faith to her, a god and not a man.

But here I must seek to forest^ a misunderstanding. It might seem that I make Faust a contemptible hypocrite. This is by no means the case. Mafgaret herself has brought the matter up; with half a glance he surveys the whole glory she thinks she possesses, and perceives that it cannot stand against his doubt; but he has no wish to annihilate it, and his conduct toward her is even dictated by a sort of benevolence. Her love gives her significance for him, and yet she remains almost a child; he descends to her level, and finds his happiness in seeing how she ap- propriates everything. For Margaret’s future, however, this brings sorry consequences. Had Faust stood out before her as a doubter, then she might later perhaps have been able to save her faith, she would then in all humility have acknowledged that his high and daring thoughts were not for her, she would have held fast to what she had. But now, how- ever, she owes to him the content of her faith, and yet she perceives, since he has abandoned her, that he has not believed in it bimsplf. As long as he was with her, she did not discover the doubt; now that he is gone, everything is changed for her, and she sees doubt everywhere, a doubt she cannot control, since she always thinks it with the circum- stance that Faust himself had not been able to master it

The souirce of Faust’s fascination for Margaret, according to Goethe,

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also, is not the seductiveness of a Don Juan, but his tremendous superior- ity. Hence she simply cannot understand, as she herself says so lovably, what it is that Faust sees in her to love. The first impression she receives of him is altogether overwhelming; she becomes an absolute nothing over against him. She belongs to him, therefore, not in the same sense as Elvira belongs to Don Juan, for this still expresses an independent existence over against him, but Margaret vanishes altogether in him; she does not break with heaven to belong to him, for therein would lie a justification against him; unnoticeably, without the slightest reflection, he becomes her all. But just as from the beginning she is nothing, so, if I may venture to say so, she becomes less and less the more she is con- vinced of his almost divine superiority; she is nothing, and exists only in him. What Goethe has somewhere said about Hamlet, that in relation to his body his soul was an acorn planted in a flower-pot, which at last breaks the container, is also true of Margaret’s love. Faust is too great for her, and her love must finally break her soul in pieces. And the mo- ment for this soon comes,, for Faust doubtless feels that she caimot remain in this immediacy; he does not carry her up in the higher re- gions of the spirit, for it is from these he flees; he desires her sensually — and abandons her.

Faust has accordingly abandoned Margaret. Her loss is so terrible that the environment itself forgets for a moment what it otherwise finds so hard to forget, that she has been dishonored; she sinks back in total im- potence, in which she is not even able to think of her loss; even the power to form a conception of her misfortune, has been taken from her. If this condition could continue, it would be impossible for reflective grief to gain a foothold. But the grounds of solace afforded by her sur- roundings will little by little bring her to herself, give her thought an impulse by which it again comes into motion; but as soon as it begins to move, it readily appears that she is not able to hold fast a single one of its considerations. She listens to it as if it were not to her that its words are addressed, and not a word of it halts or advances the disquiet in her train of thought. Her problem is the same as Elvira’s, to think that Faust was a deceiver, but it is still more diflEcult, because she is more deeply impressed by Faust; he was not only a deceiver, but he was a hypocrite; she has not given up anything for him, but she owes him everything, and this everything she still possesses to a certain degree, except that it now reveals itself as a deception. But is then what he said less true because he has not believed it himself.? By no means, and yet it is so for her, for she believed it through him.

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It miglit seem that it would be more difficult for reflection to be set in motion in Margaret; that which really tends to stop it is the feeling that . she was absolutely nothing. And yet there lies in this a tremendous dia- lectical elasticity. If she were able to hold the thought fast that she was, in the strictest sense of the word, absolutely nothing, then reflection would be excluded, and then she would not have been deceived; for when you are nothing, then there is no relation, and where there is no relation, there can be no talk of a deception. Insofar she is at peace. However, this thought cannot be held fast, but instantly changes into its opposite. That she was nothing is merely an expression for the fact that all the endless differences of love are negatived, and is therefore the exact expression for the absolute validity of her love, wherein again lies her absolute justification. His conduct is then not merely a decep- tion, but an absolute deception, because her love was absolute. And herein she will again be unable to find rest; for since he has been her all, she will not even be able to hold this thought fast except through him; but she cannot think it through him, because he was a deceiver.

As her environment becomes more and more alien to her, the inner movement begins. She has not merely loved Faust with all her soul, but he was her vital force, through him she came into being. This has the effect, while her soul is not less moved than Elvira’s, of making the in- dividual moods less violent. She is on the way to acquiring a funda- mental emotional tone, and the individual mood is like a bubble rising from the deep ■without strength to maintain itself, which is not so much replaced by a new bubble as it is dissolved in the general mood that she is nothing. This fundamental mood is again a state of mind that is felt, that does not receive expression in any particular outbreak; it is inex- pressible, and the attempt that each particular mood makes to give life to it, to raise it up, is in vain. The total mood is therefore constantly pres- ent as an undertone in each particular mood it forms, a resonance of impotence and faintness. The individual mood gives it expression, but it docs not soothe, it does not ease, it is — ^to use an expression of my Swedish Elvira which is certainly very apt, though a man will scarcely feel its full import — ^like a false sigh which disappoints, and not like a genuine sigh, which is strengthening and beneficial. Nor is the indi- ■vidual mood full-toned and energetic, since her expression is too heavily encumbered.

“Can I forget him? Can the brook, then, however far it continues to flow, forget the spring, forget its source, cut itself off from the fountain- head? Then must it cease to flow! Can the arrow, however swift it flies.

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forget the bowstring? Then must its motion cease. Can the raindrop, however far it falls, forget the sky from which it fell ? Then must it dis- solve itself. Can I become another being, can I be born again of a mother who is not my mother? Can I forget him? Then I must cease to be!”

“Can I remember him? Can my memory call him forth, now when he is vanished, I who am myself only a memory of him ? This pale, dim image, is this the Faust I worshipped ? I remember his words, but I do not possess the harp in his voice! I remember his speeches, but my breast is too weak to complete them. Meaningless they sound forth on deaf ears!”

“Faust, O Faust! turn back, satisfy the hungry soul, clothe the naked, refresh the faint, visit the solitary! Well do I know that my love had no meaning for you, neither did I demand it. My love laid itself humbly at your feet, my sigh was a prayer, my kiss a thank-offering, my embrace an act of worship. Will you therefore forsake me ? Did you not know it from the beginning? Or is the fact that I need you no reason for loving me, that my soul dies if you are not with me ?”

“God in heaven, forgive me that I have loved a human being more than Thee, and yet I still do so; I know that it is a new sin for me to speak so to Thee. Eternal Love, O may Thy mercy sustain me; do not reject me, give him back to me, incline his heart to me again, have pity upon me, compassion, that I pray thus again!”

“Can I then curse him ? What am I, that I should thus dare ? San the earthen vessel presume against the potter? What was I? Nothing! the clay in his hand, a rib in his side from which he made me! What was I ? A humble plant, and he bent down to me, he loved me, he was my all, my god, the source of my thought, my soul’s nourishment!”

“Can I grieve? No, no! Grief settles like a night fog over my soul. O turn back, I will give you up, neVer demand to belong to you; only sit by my side, look at me, that I may gain strength to sigh; speak to me, speak to me about yourself as if you were a stranger, I will forget that it is you; speak, that the tears may burst forth. Am I then absolutely noth- ing, unable even to weep without him?”

“Where shall I find rest and peace? The thoughts arise in my soul, the one against the other, the one confounding the other. When you were with me, then they obeyed your least hint, then I played with them like a child, I wove garlands of them and placed them on my head. I let them flutter like my hair loose in the wind. Now they twine them- selves terrifyingly about me, like serpents they twist themselves around me and crush my anguished soul.”

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“And I am a mother! A liv in g creature demands nourishment from me. Can then the hungry satisfy the hungry, the faint slake the thirst of the thirsty? Shall I then become a murderer? O Faust, return, save the child in the womb, even though you do not care to save the mother 1”

So she is moved, not by her moods, but in her moods; but there is no relief for her in the expression of the individual mood, l^ecause it dis- solves itself in the total mood which she cannot raise. Aye, if Faust had been taken from her, Margaret would not seek any relief; in her eyes her lot would have been an enviable one; but she is deceived. She lacks what might be called the situation of sorrow, for she cannot grieve alone. Aye, if like poor Florine in the fairy story, she could find access to some cave of echoes, from which she knew that every sigh, every com- plaint, was wafted to her lover, then she would not only, like Florine, spend three nights there, but she would remain day and night; but in Faust’s palace there is no echo-cave, and he has no ear in her heart.

Too long, perhaps, I have already engrossed your attention with these pictures, dear Symparanekromenoi, and that so much the more, since in spite of all that I have said, nothing visible has appeared before you. But this docs not have its ground in the deceptiveness of my presentation, but in the matter itself, and in the craftiness of grief. When a favorable occasion arises, then the hidden reveals itself. This we have in our power,' and we shall now in farewell let these three brides of sorrow come together, let them embrace one another in the unison of grief, let them form a group before us, a tabernacle, where the voice of sorrow is never silenced, where the sigh never ceases, because they watch more scrupulously and more faithfully than vestal virgins over the observance of the sacred rites. Should we interrupt them in this occupation, should we wish them a restoration of what they have lost, would that be a gain for them? Have they not already received a higher consecration? And this consecration will unite them, and throw a beauty over their union, and bring them relief in the union; for only he who has been bitten by a serpent knows the suffering of one who has been bitten by a serpent.

S OMEWHERE in England there is said to be a grave which is distin- guished not by a splendid monument, nor by its melancholy surroundings, but by a brief inscription: The Unhappiest Man. Someone must have opened the grave, but had found no trace of a body. Which is the more astonishing, that no body was found, or that the grave was opened ? It is indeed strange that anyone should have taken the trouble to see whether there was a body there or not. Sometimes when you read a name in an epitaph, you wonder what manner of life was his who bore it, and you wish you might step down into the grave to converse with him. But this inscription is so significant! A book may have a title which makes you wish to read the book, but a title can be so richly suggestive of thought, so personally appealing, as to leave you with no desire to read the book. This inscription is indeed so significant — ^harrowing or comforting according to one’s mood— for everyone who has in quietness secretly cherished the thought that he was the unhappi- est of men. But I can imagine a man, whose soul has never known such thoughts, to whom it would be a matter of curiosity to find out whether there actually was a body in this grave. And lo, the tomb was empty! Is he perhaps risen from the dead.? Has he perhaps wished to mock the poet’s word:

... In the grave there is peace.

Its silent dweller from grief knows release.

Did he find no rest, not even in the grave; does he perhaps wander restlessly about in the world .? Has he forsaken his dwelling-place, his home, leaving only his address behind! Or has he not yet been found, the unhappiest man, who is indeed not pursued by the furies unto the door of the temple, and the seats of the contrite of heart, but who is kept alive by sorrow and pursued by grief to the verge of the grave!

If it is true that he has not yet been found, then, dear Symparanekro- menoi, let us begin upon a pilgrimage, not as crusaders to seek the sacred tomb in the happy east, but to find this melancholy grave in the unhappy west. At that empty tomb we shall seek for him, the unhappi- est man, certain to find him; for as the faithful long to sec the saaed tomb, so do the unhappy feel themselves drawn toward that empty tomb in the west, each filled with the thought that it is destined for him .

Or is not such an inquiry worthy of our attention, we whose activities, to conform with the sacred tradition of our society, arc essays in the religion of the aphoristical and the accidental, who do not merely think and speak aphoristically, but live aphoristically, we who live withdrawn

i8o THE UNHAPPIEST MAN

and segregati, like aphorisms in life, without community of men, with- out .<tharTn g their griefs and their joys; we who are not consonantal sounds in the alarums of life, but solitary birds in the stillness of night, gathering together only occasionally, to be edified by considering the wretchedness of life, the length of the day, and the endless permanence of time; we, dear Symparanekromenoi, who have no faith in the game of happiness or the luck of fools, who believe in nothing save misfor- tune.

Behold how the unhappy crowd forward in countless multitudes! Man y are they who believe themselves called, but few are the chosen. A distinction must be made between them— a word, and the crowd van- ishes; excluded are they, the uninvited guests, who think death to be the greatest misfortune, who became unhappy because they feared death; for we, dear Symparanekromenoi, we, like the Roman soldier, fear not death; we know of greater misfortunes, and first and last and above all — ^life. If indeed there were some human being who could not die, if the story told of the Wandering Jew be true, then how could we hesitate to declare him the unhappiest of men ? Then we could also explain why the tomb was empty, in order to signify, namely, that the unhappiest man was the one who could not die, could not slip down into a grave. The case would then be decided, the answer easy: for the unhappiest man was the one who could not die, the happy, he who could; happy he who died in his old age, happier, whoever died in his youth, happiest he who died at birth, happiest of all he who never was born. But it is not so; death is the common lot of all men, and insofar as the xmhappiest man is not yet found, he will have to be sought within this universal limitation.

Behold the crowd vanishes, its number is diminished. I do not now say: grant me your attention, for I know I have it; nor do I say: lend me your ears, for I know they belong to me. Your eyes shine, you rise in your seats. It is a contest for a wager, which it is indeed worth partici- pating in, a struggle even more terrible than one of life and death; for death we do not fear. But the reward, aye, it is more glorious than any other in the world, and more certain; for he who is assured that he is the unhappiest man, need fear no fate, he will not taste the humiliation in his last hour of having to cry: Solon, Solon, Solon!

So we open a free competition, from which no one is excluded by virtue of rank or age. No one is excluded except the happy, and he who fears death— every worthy member of the community of the unhappy is welcome, there is a scat of honor for every really unhappy person, the

THE UNHAPPIEST MAN i8i

grave for the unliappiest of all. My voice sounds forth through the world: “Hear you, all you who call yourselves unhappy, and do not fear death.” My voice rings back into the past; for we would not be sophistical enough to exclude the dead because they are dead, for they have once lived. “I beseech you, forgive that I disturb your rest for a moment; meet us here by this empty tomb.” Thrice I let the call ring forth over the world: “Hear this, you unhappy; for it is not our intention to decide this matter among ourselves in a corner.” The place is found where it must be decided before all the world.

But before we examine the claimants, let us make ourselves fit to sit here as worthy judges and competitors. Let us reinforce our thought, let us arm it to withstand the seductiveness of words; for what voice is so insinuating as that of the unhappiest, which so beguiling as that of the unhappiest when he speaks of his own unhappiness .? Let us make our- selves fit to sit as judges and competitors so that we do not lose the sense of proportion, nor become disturbed by the individual claims; for the eloquence of grief is boundless and infinitely inventive. Let us divide the unhappy into groups, and admit only one spokesman for each group; for this we shall not deny, that it is not some particular indi- vidual who is the unhappiest, but it is a class; but, therefore, we shall not hesitate to assign the representative of this class the name: the unhappi- est, nor hesitate to assign him the tomb.

In each of Hegel’s systematic writings there is a section which treats of the unhappy consciousness. One approaches the reading of such in- quiries with an inner restlessness, with a trembling of the heart, with a fear lest one learn too much, or too little. The unhappy consciousness is a term which when casually introduced, almost makes the blood run cold, and the nerves to quiver; and then to see it so expressly empha- sized, like the mysterious sentence in a story of Clemens Brentano’s, terUa nux mors est — ^it is enough to make one tremble like a sinner. Ah, happy he who has nothing more to do with it than to write a paragraph on the subject, happier still, he who can write the next. The unhappy person is one who has his ideal, the content of his fife, the fullness of his consciousness the essence of his being, in some manner outside of him self He is always absent, never present to himself. But it is evident that it is possible to be absent from one’s self either in the past or in the future. This, then, at once circumscribes the entire territory of the un- happy consciousness. For this rigid limitation we are grateful to Hegel; and now, since we are not merely philosophers beholding the kingdom from afar, we shall as native inhabitants give our attention in detail to

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the various types which are implied herein. The unhappy person is con- sequently absent. But one is absent when living either in the past or in the future. The form of expression must here be carefully noted; for it is clear, as philology also teaches us, that there is a tense which expresses presence in the past, and a tense which expresses presence in the future; but the same science also teaches us that there is a tense which is plus quam perfectum, in which there is no present, as well as a futurum ex- actum of an analogous character. Now there are some individuals who live iQ hope, and others who live in memory. These are indeed in a sense unhappy individuals, insofar, namely, as they live solely in hope or in memory, if ordinarily only he is happy 'who is present to himself. However, one cannot in a strict sense be called an unhappy individual, who is present in hope or in memory. That which must here be em- phasized is that he is present to himself in one or the other of these forms of consciousness. We shall also see from this that a single blow, be it ever so heavy, cannot possibly make a man the unhappiest of all. For one blow can either deprive him of hope, thereby leaving him present in memory, or of memory, thus leaving him hope. We now go on to get a more detailed description of the unhappy individual.

First we shall consider the man of hope. When he as a hoping indi- vidual (and insofar, of course, unhappy) is not present to himself in his hope, then he becomes in the stricter sense unhappy. An individual who hopes for an eternal life is, indeed, in a certain sense unhappy, since he has renounced the present, but not yet in the strict sense, because he is himself present in this hope, and does not come into conflict with the individual moments of the finite life. But if he does not become present himself in this hope, but loses his hope and then hopes again and again loses, and so on, so that he is absent from himself, not only with respect to the present, but also with respect to the future, then we have one type of the unhappy consciousness. In the case of the man of mem- ory the case is parallel. If he can find himself present in the past, he is not in the strict sense unhappy; but if he cannot, but is constandy absent from himself in the past, then we have another type of unhappiness.

Memory is emphatically the real element of the unhappy, as is natural, because the past has the remarkable characteristic that it is past, the future, that it is yet to come, whence one may say that in a certain sense the future is nearer the present than is the past. In Order that the man of hope may be able to find himself in the foture, the future must have reality, or, rather, it must have reality for him; in order that the map of memory may find himself in the past, the past must have had reality

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for him. But when the man of hope would have a future which can have no reality for him, or the man of memory would remember a past which has had no reality, then we have the essentially unhappy individuals. It might seem as if the first supposition were impossible, or sheer lunacy; however, it is not so; for though the hoping individual does not hope for something which has no reality for him, he may nevertheless hope for something which he himself knows cannot be reaHzed. For when an individual loses his hope, and then instead of taking refuge in memory, continues to hope, then we have such a type. When an individual who loses his memory, or who has nothing to remember, will not become a hoping individual, but continues to be a man of memory, then we have one type of unhappiness. If thus an individual buried himself in an- tiquity, or in the middle ages, or in any other period of time so that this had an authentic reality for him, or if he lost himself in his own child- hood or youth, so that these things had an authentic reality for him , then he would not in a strict sense be an unhappy individual. On the other hand, if I imagine a man who himself had had no childhood, this age having passed him by without attaining essential significance for him , but who now, perhaps by becoming a teacher of youth, discovered all the beauty that there is in childhood, and who would now remember his own childhood, constandy staring back at it, then I should have an excellent illustration of this type of unhappiness. Too late he would have discovered the significance of that which was past for him but which he still desired to remember in its significance. If I imagined a man who had lived without real appreciation of the pleasures or joy of life, and who now on his deathbed gets his eyes opened to these things, if I imagined that he did not die (which would be the most fortunate thing) but lived on without living his life over again — such a man would have to be considered in our quest for the unhappiest man.

The unhappiness of hope is never so painful as the unhappiness of memory. The man of hope always has a more tolerable disappointment to bear. It follows that the unhappiest man will have to be sought among the unhappy individuals of memory.

Let us proceed, let us imagine a combination of the two stricter types of unhappiness already described. The unhappy man of hope could not find him self present in his hope, just as the unhappy man of memory could not find himself present in his memory. There can be but one combination of these two types, and this happens when it is memory which prevents the unhappy individual from finding himself in his hope, and hope which prevents him from finding himself in his mem-

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ory. When this happens, it is, on the one hand, due to the fact that he constandy hopes something that should be remembered; his hope con- stantly disappoints him, and in disappointing him, reveals to him that it is not because the realization of his hope is postponed, but because it is already past and gone, has already been experienced, or should have been experienced, and thus has passed over into memory. On the other hand, it is due to the fact that he always remembers that for which he ought to hope; for the future he has already anticipated in thought, in thought already experienced it, and this experience he now remembers, instead of hoping for it. Consequently, what he hopes for lies behind him, what he remembers lies before him. His life is not so much lived regressively as it suffers a two-fold reversal. He will soon notice his mis- fortune even if he is not able to imderstand the reason for it. Before, however, he really has the opportunity to feel it, he meets with mis- understanding which constantly mocks him in a curious way.

In the ordinary course of things, he enjoys the reputation of being in full possession of his five senses, and yet he knows that if he were to ex- plain to a single person just how it is with him, he would be declared mad. This is quite enough to drive a man mad, and yet he does not be- come so, and this is precisely his misfortune. His misfortune is that he has come into the world too soon, and therefore, he always comes too late. He is constandy quite near his goal, and in the same moment he is far a^ay from it; he finds that what now makes him unhappy be- cause he has it, or because he is this way, is just what a few years ago would have made him happy if he had had it then, while then he was unhappy because he did not have it. His life is empty, like that of An- caeus, of whom it is customary to say that nothing is known about him except that he gave rise to the proverb: there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, as if this was not more than enough. His life is resdess and with- out content; he does not live in the present, he does not live in the future, for the future has already been experienced; he does not live in the past, for the past has not yet come. So like Latona, he is driven about in the Hyperborean darkness, or to the bright isles of the equator, and cannot bring to birth though he seems constandy on the verge. Alone by himself he stands in the wide world. He has no contemporary rim e to support him; he has no past to long for, since his past has not yet come; he has no future to hope for, since his future is already past. Alone, he has the whole world over against him as the dter with which he finds himself in conflict; for the rest of the world is to him only one person, and this person, this inseparable, importunate friend, is Mis-

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understanding. He cannot become old, for he has never been young; he cannot become young, for he is already old. In one sense of the word he cannot die, for he has not really lived; in another sense he cannot live, for he is already dead. He cannot love, for love is in the present, and he has no present, no future, and no past; and yet he has a sympathetic nature, and he hates the world only because he loves it. He has no pas- sion, not because he is destitute of it, but because simultaneously he has the opposite passion. He has no time for anything, not because his time is taken up with something else, but because he has no time at all. He is impotent, not because he has no energy, but because his own energy makes him impotent.

And now our hearts are indeed sufficiendy steeled, our ears stopped, even if not closed. We have listened to the cool voice of deliberation; let us now hear the eloquence of passion— brief, pithy, as all passion is.

There stands a young woman. She complains that her lover has been faithless. This we cannot take into consideration. But she loved him, and him alone, in all the world. She loved him with all her heart, and with all her soul, and with all her mind — ^then let her remember and grieve.

Is this a real being, or is it an image, a living person who dies, or a corpse who lives— it is Niobe. She lost all at a single blow; she lost that to which she gave life, she lost that which gave her life. Look qp to her, dear Symparanekromenoi, she stands a litde higher than the world, on a burial mound, her memorial. No hope allures her, no future moves her, no prospect tempts her, no hope excites her — ^hopeless she stands, petrified in memory; for a single moment she was unhappy, in that same moment she became happy, and nothing can take her happiness from her; the world changes, but she knows no change; and time flows on, but for her there is no future time.

See yonder, what a beautiful union! The one generation clasps hands with the next! Is it unto blessing, unto loyal fellowship, unto the joy of the dance.? It is the outcast house of Oedipus, and the curse is trans- mitted from one generation to the next, imtil it crushes the last of the race — ^Antigone. Yet she is sorrowed for; the sorrow of a family is enough for one human life. She has turned her back on hope, she has exchanged its instability for the faithfulness of memory. Be happy, dear Antigone! We wish you a long life, significant as a deep sigh. May no forgetfulness deprive you of aught, may the daily bitterness of grief be yours in fullest measure!

A powerful figure appears, but he is not alone, he has friends, how

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comes he here then ? It is Job, the patriarch of grief— and his friends. He lost all, but not at a single blow; for the Lord took, and the Lord took, and the Lord took. Friends taught him to feel the bitterness of his loss; for the Lord gave, and the Lord gave, and the Lord gave him a foolish wife. He lost all; for what he retained lies outside the scope of our in- terest. Respect him, dear Symparanekromenoi, for his gray hairs and his unhappiness. He lost all; but he had possessed it.

His hair is gray, his head bent low, his countenance downcast, his soul troubled. It is the father of the prodigal son. Like Job he lost his most precious possession, but it was not the Lord who took it, but the enemy. He did not lose it, but he is losing it; it is not taken away from him, but it vanishes. He does not sit by the hearth in sackcloth and ashes; he has left his home, forsaken everyddng to seek the lost. He reaches after him, but his arms do not clasp him; he cries oul^ but his cries do not overtake him. And yet he hopes even through tears; he sees him from afar, as through a mist; he overtakes him, if only in death. His hope makes him old, and nothing binds him to the world except the hope for which he lives. His feet are weary, his eyes dim, his body yearns for rest, his hope lives. His hair is white, his body decrepit, his feet stumble, his heart breaks, his hope lives. Raise him up, dear Symparanekromenoi, he was tmhappy.

Who is this pale figure, unsubstantial as the shadow of the dead ? His name has been forgotten, many centuries have passed since his day. He was a youth, he had enthusiasm. He sought martyrdom. In imagination he saw himself nailed to the cross, and the heavens open; but the reality was too heavy for him; enthusiasm vanished, he denied his Master and himself. He wished to lift a world, but he broke down under the strain; his soul was not crushed nor annihilated, but it was broken, and his spirit was enervated, his soul palsied. Congratulate him, dear Sym- paranekromenoi, for he was unhappy. And yet did he not become happy? He became what he wished a martyr, even if his martyrdom was not, as he had wished, to be nailed to the cross, nor to be thrown to wild beasts, but to be binned alive, to be slowly consumed by a slow fire.

A young woman sits here of thoughtful mien. Her lover was faithless —but this we cannot take into consideration. Young woman, observe the serious countenances of this society; it has heard of more terrible misfortunes, its daring soul demands something greater still. — ^But I loved him and him only in all the world; I loved h im with all my soul, and with all my heart, and with all my mind. — ^You merely repeat what wc have already heard before, do not weary our impatient longing; you

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can remember, and grieve. — No, I cannot grieve, for he was perhaps not a deceiver, he was perhaps not faithless. — ^Why then, can you not grieve .? Come nearer then, elect among women; forgive the strict censor who sought for a moment to exclude you. You cannot sorrow, then you can hope.? No, I cannot hope; for he was a riddle. — ^Well, my girl, I under- stand you. You stand high in the ranks of the unhappy; behold her, dear Symparanekromenoi, she stands almost at the pinnacle of unhappi- ness. But you must divide yoiarself, you must hope by day and grieve by night, or grieve by day and hope by night. Be proud; for happiness is no real groimd for pride, but only unhappiness. You are not indeed the unhappiest of all; but it is your opinion, dear Symparanekromenoi, is it not, that we ought to offer her an honorable accessit} The tomb we < cannot offer her, but the place adjoining shall be hers.

For there he stands, the ambassador from the kingdom of sighs, the chosen favorite of the realm of sufferiog, the aposde of grief, the silent friend of pain, the unhappy lover of memory, in his memories con- founded by the light of hope, in his hope deceived by the shadows of memory. His head hangs heavy, his knees are weak; and yet he seeks no support save in himself. He is faint, and yet powerful; his eyes seem not to have wept, but to have drunk many tears; and yet there is a fire in them strong enough to destroy a world, but not one splinter of the grief within his breast. He is bent, and yet his youth presages a long life; his lips smile at a world that misunderstands him. Stand up, dear Sym- paranekromenoi, bow before him, ye witnesses of grief, in this most solemn hour! I hail thee, great unknown, whose name I do not know;

I fiail thee with thy tide of honor: The Unhappiest Man! Welcomed here to your home by the community of the unhappy, greeted here at the entrance to the low and humble dwelling, which is yet prouder than all the palaces of the world. Lo, the stone is rolled away, the grave’s shade awaits you with its refreshing coolness. But perhaps your time has not yet come, perhaps the way is long before you; but we promise you to gather here often to envy you your good fortune. Accept then our wish, a good wish: May no one understand you, may all men envy you; may no friend bind himself to you, may no woman love you; may no secret sympathy suspect your lonely pain, may no eye pierce your distant grief; may no ear trace your secret sigh! But perhaps your proud soul spurns such sympathetic wishes, and despises the alleviation, so may the maidens love you; may the pregnant in their anguish seek your aid; may the mothers set their hopes on you, and the dying look to you for comfort; may the youth attach themselves to you; may men depend

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upoa you; may the aged lean upon you as on a staff — ^may the entire world believe that you are able to make them happy. So live well, then, unhappiest of men! But what do I say: the unhappiest, the happiest, I ought to say, for this is indeed a gift of the gods which no one can give himself. The language fails, and thought is confounded; for who is the happiest, except the unhappiest, and who is the unhappiest, except the happiest, and what is life but madness, and faith but folly^ and hope but the briefest respite, and love but vinegar in the wound.

He vanished, and we again stand before the empty tomb. Let us then wish him peace and rest and healing, and all pcMsible happiness, and an early death, and an eternal forgetfulness, and no remembrance, lest even the memory of him should make another unhappy.

Arise, dear Symparanekromenoi. The night is spent, and the day be- gins its unwearied activities, never weary, it seems, of everlastingly repeating itself.

THE FIRST LOVE

A Comedy in One Act by Scribe, translated by J. L. Heiberg

This article was intended for publication in a periodical. Frederick Unsmann had in- tended to publish it at a certain time. Alas, what are all human intentions!

A NYONE who has ever felt an inclination toward literary productiv- ijk ity has certainly noticed that it is a little accidental external circumstance which furnishes the occasion for the actual pro- duction. Only the authors who in one way or another have been inspired by a definitive purpose, will perhaps deny this. This is their own loss, however, for they are thereby deprived of the extreme poles of true and sound productivity. One of these poles is what is traditionally called the invocation of the muse, the other is the occasion. The expression, invo- cation of the muse, may give rise to a misunderstanding. The call of the muse may partly signify that I call upon the muse, partly that the muse calls upon me. Any author who is naive enough to believe that every- thing depends upon honest volition, upon diligence and industry, or who is shameless enough to offer for sale the productions of the spirit, will neither be sparing of zealous invocations, nor of audacious impor- tunities. However, not much is accomplished by this, for what Wessel once said regarding the god of taste, is still valid: “He whom all call upon, seldom comes.” If, however, one understands by this expression, that it is the muse, who calls, I do not say upon us, but upon the ones concerned, then the saying acquires another significance. While the authors who call upon the muse go on board before she comes, the others, on the contrary, are embarrassed in another way, because they need another moment so that their inward determination may become an outward one: this is what we call the occasion. When iJie muse summoned them, she beckoned them away from the world, and they listened only to her voice, and the wealth of thought lay open before them, but so overpoweringly that although every word stood out clearly and vividly, it seemed to them as if it were not their own production. When, then, consciousness has reasserted itself so that it possesses the whole content, then is the moment come which contains the possibility of real creation, and which yet lacks something; it lacks the occasion, which one might say is equally necessary, although in another sense, it is infinitely insign ifi cant. Thus it has pleased the gods to join the great- est contradictions together. This is a mystery which reality has, a stum- bling block to the Jews, and to the Greeks foolishness. The occasion is always the accidental, and this is the tremendous paradox, that the acci- dental is just as absolutely necessary as the necessary. The occasion is not in the ideal sense the accidental, as when I logically think the acci- dental; but the occasion is, irrationally regarded, the accidental, and yet in this accidental, the necessary.

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Regarding what we ordinarily call the occasion, there rules a great confusion. In part we see too much in it, in part too litde. Every pro- ductivity which lies in the category of the commonplace — ^and thank God, this productivity belongs especially to daily speech — overlooks occasion and inspiration equally. Therefore, too, such a productivity believes, what we may admit, that it is equally suitable at all times. It overlooks the true significance of occasion, that is, it sees an occasion in everything; it is like a garrulous man who sees in the most contradictory things an occasion to talk about himself and his doings, just as readily when one has heard it all before, as when one has not. But in this, the salient point is lost. On the other hand, there is a productivity which falls in love with the occasion. About the first kind, one may say that it sees an occasion in everything, about the other that it sees everything in the occasion. In this class is included the great body of occasional au- thors, the writers of occasional pieces in the more profound sense, as well as those who in a stricter sense see everything in the occasion, and therefore use the same verse, the same formulas, and still hope that for the authors concerned, the occasion will be an immediate occasion for a suitable honorarium.

The occasion which as such is the unessential and accidental, can sometimes in our age try its hand at the revolutionary. The occasion quite often plays the master; it decides the matter, it makes the product and the producer into something or into nothing, whichever it wUl. The poet expects the occasion to inspire him, and sees with wonder that it does not do so; or he produces something which he personally considers insignificant, and then sees the occasion make it everything, sees him- self honored and distinguished in every possible manner, and knows within himself that he has only the occasion to thank for all this. These look too long at the occasion; those we described in the foregoing, over- look it, and therefore always come entirely uncalled. They really divide themselves into two classes; those who still intimate that an occa- sion is necessary, and those who do not even notice this. Both classes naturally depend on an infinite overvaluation of their own talents. When a man constantly uses such phrases as, “if the occasion favors me,” “if the occasion suggests,” and so on, then one can always be sure that such a man is at fault regarding himself. Even in the most significant things, he frequently sees only an occasion for getting his triviality no- ticed. Those who do not even admit the necessity for an occasion may be regarded as less vain, but more unbalanced. They spin assiduously, without looking to the right or to the lef the thin thread of their small

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talk, and with their talk and their writing they produce the same effect in life as the mill in the fairy story, about which it is said that whatever happened, the mill went klip klap, klip klap.

And yet even the most complete, the most profound, the most signifi- cant production has an occasion. The occasion is the delicate, almost invisible, web in which the fruit hangs. Insofar, therefore, as it some- times seems as if the essential appears as occasion this is in general a misunderstanding, since in that case it is usually a particular part of it. If someone will not grant that I am right in this, then it is because he has confused ground and cause with occasion. If such a one should now ask me: what is the occasion for all these observations, and he was then satisfied if I answered: the results, then he would make himself guilty, and allow me to become guilty in such a mistake of identity. On the other hand, if in his question he used the word occasion in a very strict . sense, it would be exactly right for me to answer: it has no occasion. In relation to a single part of the whole, it would be absurd to demand that which one can rightfully demand of the whole. Should these observa- tions, for instance, demand an occasion, then they must in themselves constitute a well rounded little whole, which would be an egotistic attempt on their part.

Occasion is thus of the greatest importance in regard to every produc- tion, indeed it is this which essentially decides the question regarding its true aesthetic value. Productions without any occasion alvyays lack something, not outside of themselves (for although the occasion belongs to it, yet in another sense it is foreign to it), but they lack something within themselves. A production where the occasion is everything, also lacks something. For the occasion is not positively productive, but nega- tively so. A creation is a production from nothing; the occasion is, how- ever, the nothing from which everything comes. The whole wealth of thought, the substance of the idea can be there and yet lack the occasion for the expression. Hence it is not something new that comes with the occasion, but with the occasion everything comes forward. This modest meaning of the occasion is also expressed in the word itself.

There are many men who are not able to imderstand this, but that is because they have no conception of what an aesthetic production really is. An attorney can write his brief, a merchant his letter, and so on, without suspecting the mystery which hides in the word occasion, and that in spite of the fact that he begins thus: On the occasion of your great favor.

Perhaps, now, one or another may permit me to develop this, and ad-

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mit its significance for poetical productions, who would marvel gready if I were to do something equally valid with respect to reviewers and critics. And yet I believe that just here this is of the greatest importance, and that the fact that one has overlooked the significance of the occa- sion, lias been the reason that reviews in general are as bungling as the productions of business men. In the world of criticism, the occasion still gets a maximum significance. Although one often enough hears talk in critical reviews about the occasion, one still sees with half an eye how litdc they know the answer as to how the matter stands. The critic does not seem to need to invoke the muse, for it is truly no poetical work he produces; but if he does not need to invoke the muse, neither does he need the occasion. Meanwhile, one should never forget the significance of the old saying: the like is only understood by the like.

That which is the object of the aestheticist’s consideration is no doubt already finished, and he should not, like the poet, himself produce. Not- withstanding this, the occasion has entirely the same significance. The aestheticist who adopts aesthetics as his profession, and in his profession again sees the precise occasion, he is eo ipso lost. However, it must by no means be said that he cannot perform his work skillfully; but the secret of all production he has not' understood. He is too much a Pelagian autocrat, able in childish wonder to rejoice over the singularity in the fact that some alien power, as it were, has produced that which a human being believes is his own: the inspiration, namely, and the occasion. In- spiration and occasion belong inseparably together; it is a union which one finds often enough in the world, that the great, the elevated, are constandy accompanied by a fussy litde person. Such a person is the occasion, a person one otherwise would pay no attention to, who does not dare to open his mouth in fine society, but who sits silent, with a roguish smile, and enjoys himself by himself, without hintin g to anyone why he smiles, or that he knows how important, how indispensable he is; even less would he enter into a dispute concerning it; for he knows very well that there is no use in one’s taking every occasion to humiliate him. From such an ambiguous nature the occasion constandy arises, and it av^s a man just as much to wish to deny it, to wish to free hi m self from this thorn in the flesh, as to wish to set the occasion on the throne; for in purple with a scepter in its hand, it shows up very fool- ishly, and one immediately sees that it was not born to rule. This wrong way, however, lies very near, and it is often the best minds that fall into error. When a man has enough of an eye for life to see how the Eternal Being makes sport of a man, so that something so ins i gnifican t and

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ordinary, something one almost blushes to mention in polite society, is absolutely one with him, then he is easily tempted to wish to dabble in the subject, indeed to return the sarcasm, so that he, as well as God, mocks the greatness of man by flinging h im headlong into the law of the occasion, thus mocking him again by first making the occasion everything, and the next moment a foolistuiess, wherein God then be- comes superfluous, and the conception about a certain guidance a folly, and the occasion a rogue who ridicules everything, God as well as man, so that the whole of existence ends in a jest, a joke, a charade.

The occasion is at one and the same tipie the most significant and the most insignificant, the most exalted and the most humble, the most important and the most unimportant. Without the occasion, precisely nothing at all happens, and yet the occasion has no part at all in what does happen. The occasion is the last category, the essential transitional category, from the sphere of the idea to actuality. Logic should consider this. It can be absorbed as much as it wishes in immanent thinking, it can rush down from nothing into the most concrete form, it never ap- proaches the occasion, and, therefore, never reality. The whole of reality can be ready in the idea; without the occasion, it never becomes real. The occasion is in the category of the finite, and it is impossible for an immanent thought to lay hold of it^ and besides it is too paradoxical. It shows one also that that which comes out of occasion is something quite different from the occasion itself, which is an absurdity for all immanent thought. But therefore, the occasion is the most amusing, the most inter- esting, the wittiest of all categories. Like a wren it is everywhere and nowhere. Like the fairies it goes around m life, invisible to all school- masters, whose gestures, therefore, become an inexhaustible source of laughter to one who believes in the occasion. The occasion is, then, in itself nothing, and only something in relation to that which it gives rise to, and in relation to this it is exactly nothing. For as soon as the occasion becomes something other than nothing, then it stands in a relatively immanent relation to that it produces, and would then be either cause or reason. Unless one holds on to this firmly, everything again becomes confused.

Thus, if I were to say that the occasion for this litde review of a play by Scribe, was the masterly performance which fell to its lot, then I should insult the scenic art; for it is indeed true that I might write a review without having seen the play produced, without having seen it expertly performed, aye, even if I had seen it badly performed. In the last case I should rather call the bad performance the occasion. On the other

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hand, when I have seen it perfectly performed, then the stage presenta- tion becomes much more to me than an occasion; it is a very important moment in my apprehension, whether it has served to correct or to con- firm and sanction my point of view. My piety will therefore forbid me to call the stage production the occasion, it will oblige me to see some- thing more in it, to confess that without it, I should perhaps not quite have understood the play. Therefore, in this case I am not like reviewers in general, who prudently or stupidly enough first mention the play, and later the performance separately. To me the performance itself is the play, and I cannot adequately rejoice over it in a purely aesthetic sense, nor sufl&ciently rejoice as a patriot. If I wished to show a stranger our theater in its full glory, I should say: Go out and see The First Love. The Danish stage possesses in Madame Heiberg, Frydendall, Stage, and Phister, a four-leaf clover which here appears in all its beauty. A four- leaf clover I call this union of artists, and yet I seem to have said too little, for a four-leaf clover is remarkable only in that four ordinary clover leaflets are borne on one stem, but our four-leaf clover has this distinction that each single leaflet by itself is just as rare as a four-leaf clover, and yet these four leaflets again in their union, form a four-leaf clover.

Still, it was on the occasion of the occasion for this litde critique that I had wished to say something quite general about the occasion, or about the occasion in general. It happens, however, quite fortimately that I have already said what I wished to say; for the -more I consider this mat- ter, the more certain I am that there is simply nothing to be said about it in general, because there is no occasion in general. So I have come about as far as I was when I began. The reader must not be angry with me; it is not my fault, it is the occasion’s. The reader may perhaps think that I ought to have considered the whole thing thoroughly before I started to write, and then not have begun to say something which after- ward proved to be nothing. However, I still believe that he ought to do my mode of procedure justice, insofar as he has assured himself far more convincingly that the occasion in general is something which is nothing. Later he will perhaps begin again to reflect on this, when he has ascer- tained that there is something else in the world about which one can say much, with the idea that it is something, and yet it has the quality that when it has been said, then it appears to be nothing. What then is said here must be regarded as unnecessary, like a superfluous title-page which is not included when the work is bound. I do not therefore know any way to end it, other than in the incomparable laconic manner in

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which I see Professor Poul M0ller ends the introduction to his excellent review of The Extremists’. With this the introduction is finished.

Concerning the special occasion for the present litde critique, it has a certain relation to my own insignificant personality, and dares to recommend itself to the reader with the normal quality of being trivial. Scribe’s play. The First Love, has in numerous ways affected my per- sonal life, and this contact has occasioned the present review, which then, in the strictest sense, is the child of the occasion. I, too, was once young, was enthusiastic, was in love. The girl who was the object of my longing, I knew from an earlier period, but the different circumstances of our lives made it possible for us to see one another but seldom. On the other hand we thought of each other oftener. This mutual preoccupa- tion with each other at the same time drew us closer together, and set us farther apart. When we actually met, we were so shy and bashful that we were farther apart than when we did not see each other. Then when we were again separated, and the unpleasantness of this mutual difl&- dence was forgotten, then our meeting assumed its full significance, we began again in our dreams exactly where we had left off. Such, at least, was the case with me, and I later learned that it was the same with my beloved. I had remote prospects of marriage; our understanding in other respects encountered no obstacles which might have inflamed us, and so we were in love in the most innoceq|t manner in the world. Before there could be any thought of declaring my feelings, a rich uncle, whose sole heir I was, must die. This too seemed the proper thing, for in all the romances and comedies I kilew, the hero was in a like situation, and I was secredy glad of being a poetical figure.

So my beautiful, romantic life went on, and then one day I saw in a newspaper that a play was to be given, called The First Love. I had not known there was such a play, but the tide pleased me, and I resolved to see it. The First thought I — ^it exactly expresses your own feel-

ings. Have I ever loved anyone else; does not my love go back to my earliest recollections; could I imagine loving another, or seeing her pledged to another.? No, she becomes my bride, or I never marry. That is why the phrase, the first, is so beautiful. It suggests the primitive in love, for it is not in a numerical sense that one speaks of first love. The poet could just as well have said, the true love, or entitled it, “The First Love is the True Love.” Now this play would help me to understand myself; through it I would get a deep insight into myself; for this reason poets are called priests, because they glorify life, but they will not be understood by the crowd but only by the natures who have hearts to feel

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with. To those the poet is an inspired singer, who shows beauty every- where, but first and last bears witness to the beauty of love. By its poetic power this play will cause the love in my breast to blossom forth, its flower to open with a snap like a passion-flower. Ah, at that time I was very young! I hardly understood what I said, and yet I found it well said. The flower of love must open with a snap, the feeling burst its locks with an energy like that of champagne. It was a bold expression, and I rejoiced in it. And yet what I said was well said, for I meant that love must open like a passion-flower. It was a good expression, for love really opens with marriage, and insofar as one may call it a flower, one may appropriately call it a passion-flower.

Still, back to my youth. The day was approaching when the play would be presented. I had bought my ticket, my soul was solemnly at- tuned, and with a certain unrest and joyously expectant I hastened to the theater. When I entered the door I glanced up at the first balcony. What did I see .? My beloved, the mistress of my heart, my ideal, she was sitting there! Involuntarily I stepped back into the dimness of the par- quet in order to observe her without being seen. How had she come here ? She must have come to town this very day, and I did not know it, and now she is here in the theater. She would see the same play. It was no accident, but a guidance, a benevolence on the part of the blind god of love. I stepped forward, our eyes met, she noticed me. There was no question about bowing to her, about conversing with her, in short, there was nothing to embarrass me. My ardor breathed freely. We were meet- ing halfway, like transfigured beings we clasped each other’s hands, we floated like wraiths, like disembodied spirits, in a world of fantasy. Her eyes rested longingly upon me; her breast heaved with a sigh; it was for me, she belonged to me, I understood that. And yet I did not wish to rush up to her, nor to throw myself at her feet; that would have em- barrassed me, but thus at a distance I felt the beauty of loving her, of daring to hope that I was loved. The overture was over. The chandelier was raised; my eye followed its movement, it cast for the last time its light over the first balcony and over her. A dimness spread itself out; this light seemed even more beautiful, even more like fantasy. The cur- tain went up. Even yet it was as if I gazed in a dream when I stared at her. I turned aroimd. The play began. I would think only of her and of my love; everything which was said in honor of first love, that would I apply to her, and to my relation to her. There was perhaps no one else in the whole theater who would thus understand the divine speech of the poet as well as I— and perhaps she. Thinking about the powerful

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impression already made me stronger, I felt courage for the next day to let my hidden feelings burst forth, they must not fail of their effect upon her; by a single allusion I would remind her of what we had this eve- ning heard and seen, and thus should the poet come to my assistance, and make her more approachable, make me stronger and more eloquent than ever. I saw and heard — ^and heard — ^and the curtain went down. The chandelier again deserted its heavenly hiding-place, the shadows vanished; I looked up — all the young girls looked so delighted, my be- loved also; tears stood in her eyes, so heartily had she laughed, her bosom heaved tumultuously, laughter had got the upper hand. Lucidly I was in the same condition.

We met the following day at my aunt’s. The shrinking embarrass- ■ ment which we had experienced at being in the same room together had vanished, a certain jubilant gladness had taken its place. We laughed a little at one another, we had understood each other, and we owed it to the poet. For this reason we call a poet a prophet, because he predicts the future. We arrived at an explanation. We still could not decide to destroy all that had gone before. Then we bound ourselves by a sacred promise. As Emmeline and Charles promised one another to look at the moon, so we promised to see this play every time it was produced. I have faithfully kept my promise. I have seen it in Danish, in German, in French, at home and abroad, and never have tired of its inexhaustible humor, whose truth no one understands better than I. This became the first occasion for the present little criticism. Through having seen it so often, I finally produced something about the play. However, this pro- ductivity still remained in part unwritten, and recorded only a certain observation. This occasion may then be regarded as an occasion for the ideal possibility of this criticism.

I should probably not have carried it any farther, if there had not arisen a new occasion. For some years past, an editor of one of our news- papers had solicited me, and desired me to furnish him with a little article. He possessed an uncommon eloquence for ensnaring souls, and also lured me into a promise. This promise then, was also an occasion, but it was an occasion in general, and therefore contributed little toward bfflpin g me. I found myself in an embarrassment like that in which a candidate in theology would find himself, if he were given the whole Bible from which to choose his own text. I was, however, bound by my promise. Accompanied by many other thoughts, but also by the thought about my promise, I started out on a little outing to Sjaelland. When I reached the station where I intended to spend the night, I had the

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servant bring all the books the landlord could muster up, a practice I never omit, and from which I have often reaped advantage, because one quite accidentally stumbles on something which otherwise might have escaped one’s attention. This was not, however, the case here, for the first book the man brought me was — The First Love. It struck me, for one seldom finds a collection of plays in the country. Still, I had really lost faith in first love and no longer believe in the first. In the next town I called upon one of my friends. He was out when I arrived; I was in- vited to wait, and shown into his study. When I approached his table, I found a book lying open — ^it was Scribe’s Theater, and it lay open at les premises amours. Now the lot seemed cast. I resolved to redeem my promise and write a review of this play. To make my resolution un- shakable, it happened strangely enough that my former sweetheart, my first love, who lived there in the coimtry, had come to town, not to the capital, but to the little town where I was. I had not seen her for a long time, and I found her now, engaged, happy, and glad, and it was a pleasure to me to see her. She assured me that she had never loved me, but that her betrothed was her first love, and therewith she told the same story as Emmeline, that only the first love is the true love. Had my resolution not been fixed before, it became so now. I must still tinder- stand what the “first love” signifies. My theory began to totter, for “my first love” was inexorably insistent that her present love was her first.

Therenvere motives enough; the essay was finished almost to the last point, and there remained only a few intermediate sentences to be in- troduced here and there. My friend, the editor, pressed me, and held my promise up before me with an obstinacy that would have done honor even to an Emmeline. I explained to him that the essay was ready, that there were lacking only a few trifles, and he expressed his satisfaction. As time went on, however, the gnats changed into elephants, into in- surmountable diflEculties. Thus it happened that while I was writing, I had forgotten that it was to be printed. I have written many little essays in this fashion, but have never permitted any of them to be printed. He became tired of this talk about my having finished, when he could not get the manuscript. I became tired of his perpetual demands and wished that the devil might take all promises. Then his newspaper went up for lack of subscribers, and I thanked the gods; I felt easy again, unembar- rassed by any promises.

This was the occasion for this criticism coming into the world, as a reality to myself, as a possibility for my friend, tihe editor, a possibility which later changed into an impossibility. So another year passed, dur-

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ing which I became exactly a year older. There is no thin g remarkable about this, for it is with me as it ordinarily is with other people. But one year can sometimes have more significance than another, more signifi- cance than that a man becomes a year older. That was the case here. By the end of this year I found myself entering on a new period of my life, hito a new world of illusion, which happens only to a young man. When you belong to the “readers’ sect,” when in one way or another, you get a reputation for being a diligent and attentive reader, the prob- ability grows among other people, that you may become an author of sorts, for, as Hamann says: “Out of children grow people, out of virgins grow brides, out of readers grow writers.”

Now there begins a rose-colored life, which has a great similarity to a girl’s early youth. Editors and publishers begin to pay court. It is a dangerous period, for editors’ talk is very seductive, and one is soon in their power, but they only deceive us poor children, and then, aye, then, it is too late. Watch your step, young men, go not too often to the coffee- houses and restaurants; for there the editors spin their web. And then when they see an innocent young man who talks freely without cere- mony, about all sorts of things, with no idea as to whether what he says is worth while or not, but only for the pleasure of talking freely, of hearing his heart beating easily as he talks — ^throbbing at the ideas ex- pressed, then a dark figure approaches him, and this figure is an editor. He has a discriminating ear, he can tell immediately whether what is said would look well in print or not. Then he tempts the youngster, he shows him how inexcusable it is thus to cast his pearls away in this man- ner; he promises him money, power, influence, even with the fair sex. His courage weakens, the editor’s words are attractive, and soon he is caught. Now he haunts no more the solitary places to breathe out his sighs; no more does he hasten joyously to the youth gymnasiums in order to intoxicate himself with talk; he is silent, for he who writes does not talk. He sits pale and cold in his study, his color changes not at the kiss of the idea, nor does he blush like the young rose when the dew falls in its chalice; he neither smiles nor weeps, calmly his eye follows the pen across the paper— for he is an author, and no longer young.

I, too, in my youth had been exposed to temptations of this kind. Still, I believe I dare testify that my courage had been undaunted. What helped me there was the fact that the experience had come when I was much younger. The editor who received my first promise was very friendly toward me, and yet he invariably made me feel that anyone who accepted an article from my hand was conferring a favor, an honor.

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Upon me, as if someone pointed me out among the young men and said: “With time we may be able to make something of him, let him try it, it encourages him to show him this honor.” At that time the tempta- tion was not so great, and yet I learned to know all the harrowing results of a promise. Being, then, uncommonly well-armed against temp- tation from my early manhood, I therefore dared to frequent coffee- shops and restaurants rather often. The danger must come, then, from another direction, and it was not wanting. It happened that one of my coffee-shop acquain tan ces decided to become an editor. One will find his name upon the tide page of this periodical. He had no sooner formu- lated this idea and made the necessary arrangements with the publisher, than he sat down at the writing-table one evening, and wrote the whole night through — ^letters to every possible man about contributions. Such a letter composed of the most complaisant expressions and filled with the most glowing prospects, I, too, received. However, I raised no stout opposition, but promised, on the contrary, to serve him in every way in editing the articles submitted. He himself worked assiduously on the first article which was to launch the publication. He was as good as fin- ished with it, and now was kind enough to show it to me. We spent a very pleasant forenoon; he seemed satisfied with my suggestions and made several changes. Our mood was excellent, we ate fruit and con- fectionery, and drank champagne; I was pleased with his article, and my comments seemed to satisfy him, when my unlucky star willed that just as I bent over to take an apricot, I should upset the inkhorn over the entire manuscript. My friend was infuriated. “The whole thing is ruined; the first nxunber of my paper will not come out at the appointed time, my credit is destroyed, the subscribers will fall away; you do not know how much work it takes to get subscribers, and when one has got them, they are like all troopers, faithless, seizing every opportunity to desert Everything is lost, there is nothing else to do, you will have to supply an article. I know you have manuscripts ready, why will you not print them.? You have the criticism of The First Love, let me have it, I will get it ready; I beg you, I conjure you by otir friendship, by my honor, by the future of my paper!”

He accepted the article, and my inkhorn became the occasion for my little criticism becoming a reality, which now is — say it with horror — publici juris.

If one would indicate by a single word the merit of modem comedies, particularly those of Scribe, in comparison with the older, one mighi-

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perhaps express it thus: The personal value of the poetic figures is adequate to the dialogue, the effusiveness of the monologue is excessive; the value of the dramatic action is adequate to the situation, the novel- istic details are superfluous; the dialogue finally becomes audible through the transparency of the situation. Hence, no details are neces- sary to orient the spectator, no retardation of the drama is necessary to give suggestions and statements. That is the way it is in life, where we constandy need explanatory notes; but it ought not to be so in poetry. The spectator should be carefree, able to enjoy imdisturbed the dramatic unfolding. But while the modern drama thus seems to require less self- activity on the part of the spectator, it still demands more perhaps in another way, or to speak more correcdy, it does not demand it, but it avenges the forgetting of it. The more imperfect the dramatic form or construction of a drama is, the more frequentiy the spectator is stirred up out of his sleep, providing he is sleeping. When one is shaken up on an indifferent country road whenever the wagon strikes against a stone, or the horses are caught in a thicket, there is not much opportunity to sleep. On the other hand, if the road is a leisurely one, then you easily have time and opportunity to look about you, but, also, you may more unconcernedly fall asleep. So it is with the modern drama. Everything moves along so quickly and easily, that the spectator, if he does not pay a litde attention, misses much. It is indeed true that a five-act play of the older comedy and a five-act play of the modern are equally long, but the question is always whether as much happens.

To carry this inquiry further could indeed have its own interest, but not for this review; more explicitly to point it out in Scribe’s theater, might well be important, but I believe that the more detailed report on the little masterpiece, which is the object of the present consideration, will be sufficient. I dwell the more willingly on the present play, since one cannot deny that in some of Scribe’s other dramas we sometimes miss the complete perfection, and the situation becomes drowsy, and the dialogue monotonously garrulous. The First Love, on the contrary, is a play without a fault, so perfect that it alqpe should make Scribe im- mortal.

We shall first examine the individuality of the persons in this play a little more closely, in order to see later how well the poet has known how to let their individualities become revealed in speech and situation, and this despite the fact that the whole play is only a sketch.

Derviere, a wealthy iron-founder and widower, has an only daugh- ter, “a little maiden of skteen years.” Every reasonable requirement of

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him, regarded as a worthy and honorable man who is very rich, must no doubt be respected, whereas all his attempts at being a man, at being a father, “who does not understand a joke,” must be regarded as a fail- ure. He is also frustrated by his daughter, without whose consent and approval he hardly dares regard himself as a rational being. “She has the run of the house in wooden shoes,” and he shows an uncommon apti- tude for understanding a joke, since her humor incessantly plays blind man’s buff with his paternal dignity.

His only daughter Emmeline is now sixteen years old, a nice, fasci- nating litde girl, but a daughter of Derviere, and brought up by Aunt Judith. She has brought her up and educated her on romances, and her father’s wealth has made it possible to preserve these refinements un- disturbed by the reality of life. Everyone m the house obeys her caprice; and her instability, among other things, one can see in the monologue of Lapierre, the servant, in the third scene. Through Judith’s training she has lived in her father’s house with no particular knowledge of the world, and has not lacked the opportunity to weave about herself a web of sentimentality. She was brought up with her cousin Charles; he was her playmate, her all, the necessary supplement to the aunt’s romances. With him she had read the novels, with him she has associated every- thing since he parted from her when she was very young. Their ways were separated; they now live much farther apart, only united by “a sacred prt>mise.”

The romantic training Charles had had in common with his cousin, otherwise the circumstances of his life were different. At a very early age he was sent out into the world; he had only 3,000 francs a year and he soon saw that it was necessary, if possible, to make his education profit- able in the world. His efforts in this direction seem not to have been very successful; reality soon reduced him and his theories in ahsurdum\ the promising Charles has become a dissolute fellow, a bad lot, a failure. Such a figure in itself is so dramatically effective that it is inconceivable that one so seldom sees it used. A dramatic bungler would, however, be easily tempted to interpret it entirely abstractly: a black sheep, generally. It is not so with Scribe, for he is no bungler but a virtuoso. Before such a figure can arouse interest, one must constantly wonder how it hap- pened; for he has in a stricter sense than other men, a pre-existence. This, one must see even in his failure, and thus consider the possibility in his depravity. However, it is not so easily done as said, and we can- not sufiSciently admire the virtuosity with which Scribe knows how to let it come out, not in a tiresome monologue, but in the situation.

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Charles is perhaps on the whole one of the most ingenious characters Scribe has given to the stage; every one of his speeches is worth its weight in gold, and yet the poet has wasted him in a fugitive sketch. Charles is no abstraction, not a new Charles, but you apprehend imme- diately how it happened; you see in him the consequences of his life’s premises.

The result of a romantic education can be two-fold. Either the individual sinks deeper and deeper into illusion, or he emerges from it and loses faith in the illusion, but gains a belief in mystification. In illusion the individual is hidden from himself, in mystification, he is hidden from others, but both cases are results of a romantic training. In the case of a girl, she will probably sink into illusion; thus the poet has let it happen with Emmeline, and her life in this respect is fortunate. It is otherwise with Charles. He has lost the illusion; but although in many ways he has felt the pinch of reality, he has not outgrown his rom^tic training. He believes he can mystify. When therefore Emme- line talks about sympathies, which goes far over her father’s head, you then hear immediately the fair reader of romances; but you find in Charles’s speeches no less accurate reminders of his education. He has great faith in his extraordinary talents for mystifying, but this belief in mystification is just as romantic as Emmeline’s ecstasies. “After eight years of wandering, he comes back incognito; he has natural common sense and is well-read, and he knows that there are five or six ways where- by one can move an uncle’s heart; but the principal thing is that one must not be recognized, it is a necessary condition.” There we have at once the romantic hero. That Charles should believe himself clever enough to fool such a ninny as his uncle is quite in order; but this is not what Charles means; he is speaking about uncles in general, about five or six methods in general, and about the condition in general for being unrec- ognized. His faith in mystification is then just as fantastic as Emmeline’s illusion, and one recognizes Judith’s schooling in both. Charles’s over- straining in this respect gives us a good idea of the fact, that, in spite of aU these excellent theories, he is not able to hit upon the least thing, but must take the advice of the anything but visionary Rinville. His belief in mystification, then, is just as unfruitful as Emmeline’s m illusion, and therefore the poet has also let them both come to the same result, namely, to the opposite of what they believe they are working for; for Emmelin e’s sympathy and Charles’s mystification effect exactly the opposite of what they believe they will efiect. I shall develop this later.

Although Charles now at the cost of his illusion, has gained the belief

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in mystification, he still has left a little of the illusion, and it is this remnant wherein one recognizes in the unfortunate Charles, Judith s pupil and Emmeline’s playmate. He knows how his own life, in spite of its wretchedness and insignificance, apprehended a romantic glorifi- cation. He contemplates his youth, when he went out into the world as “a highly attractive cavalier, a young man of the best form, full of fire and life and grace, subject to great persecutions from the fair sex.” Even the affair with Pamela had in his eyes a romantic aspect, although the spectator very rightly suspects that Charles had really been a fool. One will easily see why I made mystification predominant in Charles; for the illusion he holds is really an illusion about his gift for mystify- ing. Here ag ain we see the romantic hero. There is an incomparable truth in Charles. To people in general, such an unsuccessful subject offers something of distinction, he is affected by the idea, his brain is not unacquainted with'visionary ideas. Such a figure is therefore rightly comic, because his life succumbs to the commonplace, to wretchedness, and yet he believes that he is accomplishing the extraordinary. He believes that the episode with Pamela is an “affair,” and yet one enter- tains a suspicion that it was rather she who had taken him by the nose. One is almost tempted to believe that he is more naive than he himself thinks, that Pamela had had other reasons for terrifying him “with tailor’s shears,” than her injured love, indeed, that these reasons even lay outside his relation to her.

Finally, one finds in the unfortunate subject, the primitive Charles, because of a low-comic touch, a softness which believes in great emo- tions and is moved by them. When he hears that his uncle has paid the note, he exclaims: “Aye, the bond of blood and nature is sacred.”* He is really moved, his romantic heart is touched, his feelings are given expression, he becomes enthusiastic: “Aye, I did not reflect enough; either one has an uncle, or one has not.” There is no trace of irony in him, it is the freshest sentimentality, but therefore the comic effect in the play is infinite. When his cousin begs her father for forgiveness for the supposed Charles, he breaks out emotionally, with tears in his eyes, “O the good cousin!” He has not quite lost faith that there is in life, as in romance, a noble womanly soul whose lofty resignation can only

If the reader is very conversant with the play, he will have had the opportunity to rejoice

over the poetic chance which, with Binvillc in the first scene where he represents Charles, repro- duces him so poetically true, that his conversation becomes a sort of ventriloquism, with an in- finitely comic effect, because it is as if one saw and heard the sentimentally vapid Charles touchingly proclaiming these words: “Is the call of blood only imagination? Does it not speak to your heart? Does it not say to you, my dear Uncle . . (6th scene)

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move one to tears. This belief now awakens with its former enthusiasm.

I have purposely given more time to Charles, because as presented by the poet, he is such a perfect character that I believe I could write a whole book about him just by using his speeches. One believes perhaps that Emmeline is sentimental, and that Charles, on the contrary, is worldly-wise. By no means. Therein, precisely, lies Scribe’s infinite cleverness, that Charles in his own way is just as sentimental as Em- meline, so that both of them appear equally vividly as pupils of Aunt Judith.

The old Dervicre, his daughter, and Charles together make up an entirely fantastic world, even though in another sense they are all fig- ures taken from life. This world must be brought into relation to reality, and this takes place through Mr. Rinville. Rinville is an edu- cated young man who has traveled abroad- He is at the age when it might seem suitable through marriage to take a step decisive for his whole life. He had considered the matter by himself, and had fixed his eyes on Emmeline. He is too well acquainted with the world to be sentimental; his marriage is a well-considered step which he decides on for a variety of reasons. In the first place the girl is rich and has a prospect of 50,000 francs in annual rentals; in the second place, there is a friendly relation between her father and his own; in the third place, he had said in jest that he would make a conquest of this coy little beauty; finally, she is really a lovable girl. This reason comes .last, it is an after-thought.

We have thus surveyed the principal characters in the play, and now pass on to inquire how these must be arranged in relation to one an- other, in order to arouse a dramatic interest. Here we easily have occa- sion to admire Scribe. The play must be built up about Emmeline, of that there can be no question. Emmeline is, on the whole, accustomed to dominate; it is therefore proper that in the play she should be the dominating force; she has all possible qualifications for being a heroine, not yet substantially, but in a negative sense. She is comical, and with her the play is comedy. She is accustomed to rule, which is proper in a heroine, but that which she rules is a fool of a father, the servants, and so on. She has pathos, but since its content is nonsense, her pathos is essentially nonsense; she has passion, but its content is unreal, so her passion is essentially foolishness; she has enthusiasm, but since its con- tent is nothing, her enthusiasm is essentially prittle-prattle; she will make every sacrifice for her passion, that is, she will sacrifice everythmg for nothing. As a comic heroine she is incomparable. With her, every-

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thing turns upon imagination, and everything external turns about her, and therefore about her imagination. One easily sees how perfectly comical the whole procedure must become; one watches it as one would look down into an abyss of laughter.

Emmeline’s imagination terminates in nothing more nor less than that she is in love with her cousin Charles whom she has not seen since she was eight years old. The chief argument with which she attempts to defend her illusion is the following: “The first love is the true love, and one loves only once.”

As champion of the absolute validity of first love, Emmeline repre- sents a numerous class of mankind. One thinks indeed that it may be possible to love more than once; but the first love is still essentially dif- ferent from every other. This cannot be explained in any other way than by assuming that there is a beneficent spirit who has presented mankind with a little gilding to paint on life. The proposition that the first love is the true love is very accommodating and can come to the aid of man- kind in various ways. If a man is not fortunate enough to get possession of what he desires, then he still has the sweetness of the first love. If a man is so unfortunate as to love many times, each time is still the first love. The proposition is really a sophistical one. If a man loves three times, then he says: “This, my present love, is still my first true love, but the true love is the first, ergo, this third love is my first love. The sophistry lies in the fact that the category: first, is at the same time a qualitative and a numerical category. When a widower and a widow join fortunes, and each one brings five children along, then they still assure each other on their wedding day that this love is their first love. Emmeline in her romantic orthodoxy would look upon such a connec- tion with aversion; it would be to her a mendacious abomination, which would be as loathsome to her as a marriage between a monk and a nun was to the Middle Ages. She interprets the category numerically and with such conscientiousness, that she thinks an impression received in her eighth year is decisive for her whole life. In the same way she inter- prets the other proposition: one loves only once. This proposition is, however, as sophistical as it is clastic. One loves many times, and each time one denies the validity of the preceding times, and thus one still maintains the correctness of the proposition that one loves only once.

Enuneline, then, holds fast her numerical proposition with deter- mination; no one can refute her; for every one who Ventures to do so, she pronounces destitute of sympathy. She must now acquire experience and the experience refutes her. The question becomes, how one at this

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point must understand the poet. It appears that she loves Rinville, not Charles. The answer to that would be decisive in determining whether the play is infinitely comic, or finitely moralizing. As is well known, the play ends by Emmeline’s turning away from Charles, and giving her hand to Rinville, saying: “It was a mistake, I confused the past with the future.” If then the play in a finite sense is moralizing, as it is thus generally understood, then it must be the poet’s intention to depict Emmeline as a childish, high-strung, romantic girl who has it firmly fixed in her head that she loved only her Charles, but who now comes to a better understanding, is healed of her sickness, makes a suitable match with Mr. Rinville, and leaves the spectators to hope for the best for her future, that she will become an active housewife, and so on. If this is the intention. The First Love is thus changed from a masterpiece to a dramatic insignificance, under the presupposition that the poet had in some measure motivated her amelioration. Since this is not the case, then the play considered as a whole, becomes a mediocre play, and one must complain that the brillant details m it are wasted.

That Scribe has in no way motivated her improvement, I shall now prove. Rinville decides to pass himself off for Charles. He succeeds in deceiving Emmeline. He adopts the sentimentality of the assumed Charles, and Emmeline is beside herself with joy. Consequently it is not in his own person that Rinville fascinates her, but in Charles’s Sunday clothes. Even if he had been the real Charles instead of a false one, even if he had looked exacdy the same as Rinville, the approach of this figure would not have provided some new motive for her to love him. On the contrary, she loves him with an objective, mathematical love because he conforms to the picture she had herself created. Rinville has then made simply no impression upon Emmeline. How negligible he is appears also from the fact that when he does not have the ring she does not love him; when he gets the ring she loves him again, wherein there is evident a probability that this ring is to Emmeline a magic ring, and that she would love anyone who came bearing this ring. When Emmeline finally comes to know that Charles is married, she decides to marry Rinville. If this step could in some way indicate a change in her, and what is more, a change for the better, then, on the one hand, Rinville must have succeeded in pleasing her by his own attractiveness, which in the play seems to be of a better quality than that of Charles, or he must have succeeded in dissolving and explaining her theoretical obduracy con- cerning the absolute validity of first love.

Neither of these alternatives is the case. Rinville enters as Charles, and

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pleases her only so far as he resembles him. And the picture she has of Charles is not tiiat of a proud, romantic character which a poetic figure IS needed to satisfy; no, her ideal Charles is recognizable in a multitude of accidentals, especially by the ring upon his finger. Only by his re- semblance to Charles does Rinville please her, and he does not succeed in displaying a single attractive characteristic which could make an impression on Emmeline. She simply does not see Rinville at all, but only her own Charles. She is at the point where she loves Charles and loathes Rinville; which of them is the more attractive, she does not decide by looking at them; that was decided long before. When Charles approaches as Rinville, she finds him “loathsome.” In this opinion the spectator must agree with her; but it does not seem to be the poet’s intention to impute great worth to him; she knows that he is loathsome before she looks at him; she looks at him, and finds her judgment pre- cisely confirmed. The poet indeed rather wishes to show her judgment on the false Rinville as arbitrary, and therefore lets it constantly be a paro- dy of her father’s judgment. The father finds nothing pleasing about the supposed Charles; on the contrary, he find the supposed Rinville highly attractive, the daughter just the opposite; he finds it so because he wishes it so; she, likewise. That she is right the spectator sees, but her judgment is nevertheless only an arbitrary one, and thereby the situation achieves such a comic power.

Nor does Rinville succeed in overcoming her theory. Charles is married, consequendy, she caimot get him,* unless she would come into conflict with the authorities. She marries Rinville for two reasons, pardy to avenge herself upon Charles, pardy to obey her father. This reason does not seem to indicate a change for the better. If she does it to avenge herself upon Charles, it shows that she continues to love him. The motive is quite in accord with the logic of romance, and one can by no means regard her as cured. If she does it in order to diey her father, then either seriousness must have entered her soul, a remorse and repentance over having permitted herself to make fun of a father who had only one weakness, that of being too good to her; but this would be in contradiction with the whole play — or her obedience

Another way out might perhaps be found if one let Emmclme get the idea that she would

be satisHed with Charles’s divided heart One has indeed seen such things in romances, and it would not be inconceivable that it might clanfy matters for Emmeline On the whole, however, It IS remarkable that the whole of European literature lacks a femmine counterpart to Don Qmxote. May not the time for this be coming, may not the continent of sentimentality yet be discovered?

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is due to the fact that his will is in harmony with her own mood, and thus again she is unchanged.

There is, then, not the least thing discernible in the play to indicate that her choice of Rinville might be more reasonable than anything else she has done. Emmeline’s nature is infinite nonsense, she is quite as silly at the end as in the beginning, and therefore one can undividedly amuse himself with the whole comic effect of the play, which comes out in the situation’s being constantly against her. She is, then, no better at the conclusion of the play, just as little as is Erasmus Montanus in Holberg’s play. She is too great a theorist, too good a dialectician (and everyone who has a fixed idea, fs a virtuoso on one string), to convince herself empirically. Charles has been untrue to her, she marries Rinville; but her romantic conscience does not reproach her. Tranquilly she could approach Aunt Judith, if she were living; she could say to her: “I do not love Rinville, I have never loved him. I love only Charles, and I still say, .one loves only once, and the first love is the true love; but I have respect for Rinville, therefore have I married him, and obeyed my father.” TTien would Judith answer: “Rightly so, my child, the textlxKjk in a note, permits this step. It says, ‘When the lovers cannot get each other, then ought that love to go on living, and although they do not get each other, still their relationship should have the same significance as if they had got each other, and their life should be just as beautiful, and be regarded in all respects as a living together.’ That I know of my own experience. My first love was a seminarian, but he could get no living. He was my first love and became my last. I died unmarried, and he without a living. When on the other hand, one party becomes faithless to the other, then the other has a right to marry, yet so that she does it on the ground of respect.”

When one, then, has the choice between reducing Scribe’s play to in- significance, by insisting that there is something found in it which does not show, or taking pleasure in a masterpiece by being able to explain everything, then the choice seems easy. The play is not moralizing in a finite sense, but witty in an infinite sense; it has no definitive purpose, but is an endless jest about Emmeline. Nor does the play end on that account. Since the new love for Rinville is only motivated by a mistake of identity, the play may end quite arbitrarily. Now, cither this is a fault in the play, or a merit. Here again the choice is easy. Just as the spectator believes that the play is over, that he has gained a certain foot- hold, he suddenly discovers that what he steps on is not something firm, but, as it were, the end of a seesaw, and when he steps on it, he raises the

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whole play up over himself. There appears to be an infinite possibility of confusion, because Emmeline, on account of her romantic education, is encroached upon by every determination of reality. That the real Charles was not her Charles, she had learned; but soon, when Rinville becomes Rinville, she will convince herself that neither is he that. Clothes make the man, and the romantic habit is the one she looks at. There will then perhaps a new figure appear, who resembles Charles, and so forth. If one understands the play in this way, then is her closing speech even profound, while in the other case, it is, at least for me, impossible to find any meaning in it. She indicates, then, change of movement Previously, her illusion lay behind her in the past, now she will seek it in the world and in the future, for she has not renounced the romantic Charles; but whether she travels forward or backward, still her expedition in search of her first love becomes comparable to the journey one undertakes in search of health, which, as someone has said, is always one station ahead.

One will also find it in order that Emmeline gives no explanation of her theory, wfiich one might otherwise rightfully demand. When a man changes his belief, one requires an explanation; if he is a theorist, one rightly demands it. Emmeline is no common girl; she is well-read, she has a theory; she has loved Charles in the strength of this theory; she has established the proposition that the first love is the true one. How will she extricate herself from that.? If she should say that she never had loved Charles, but that Rinville is her first love, then she contradicts herself, then she actually believes that Rinville is Charles. If she should say that the first love was a childish fancy, that the other love is the true one, then one easily sees that she escapes from this only by a sophism. If she says : “I don’t stick at numbers, whether it is number one or num- ber two, the true love is something quite different”; then one must ask what attraction she had found in Rinville, since the attentive observer had not discovered anything other than that he had been so courteous as to put on Charles in order to please her. If the piece is really ended, then one must in fairness require an explanation of all this. If it is, on the contrary, the poet’s meaning that the play is endless, then it is unfair to demand an explanation of Emmeline, since she has not yet herself attained clearness about it.

The interest then turns about Emmeline and her illusion. To provide a collision is easy enough. I shall now for a moment place the three per- sons, omitting Charles, in relation to one another, in order to see how far we can get in this manner. The father wishes to see E mmeline

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married and provided for. She refuses every proposal. Finally he pro- poses the young Rinville, recommends him more warmly than any of the others, aye, makes his manner determined. Emmeline confesses that she loves another, namely Charles. Rinville comes, receives a letter, con- ceives the idea of passing himself off as Charles.

So far the play might get along with three characters, and still not deprive us of one of the most witty situations in the play, the recognition scene. I can here immediately take occasion to show how Scribe brings out everything in the situation. Enameline never gives her sentimentality expression in the form of a monologue, but always in dialogue and situation. One does not hear her raving for Charles in solitude. Only when her father brings strong pressure to bear on her, must she confess, and this is conducive to bringing out her sentimentality better. One does not hear her in monologue repeating to herself the reminiscences of her love, it comes out first in the situation. Her sympathy tells her at once that Rinville is Charles, and with him she goes over all the old memo- ries. A wittier situation is difl&cult to imagine. Rinville knows the world, and with the aid of some few details about Emmeline’s state of mind, he soon sees that her cousin Charles is a very nebulous and mythical figure. Her fantasy has painted a picture of Charles which can fit any- body, like one of the faces which the augmenting Wehmiiller painted, ■ which would fit every Hungarian. Charles’s portrait is just as abstract as this painter’s national face. This portrait and some general formulas, not forgetting a little verse, are the results of her romantic training. A decep- tion is thus made tolerably easy for Rinville, and extremely fortunate.

One might now from these three persons and their relation to one another, create a comedy. Rinville had perceived that although as Rin- ville he was in good favor with her father, it was of still greater im- portance to please the daughter, whose wish was law in Dervi^e’s house. He would then continue to pass himself off as Charles. Thereby he must gain a foothold in the family, and have opportunity to win the girl for himself. He dared reckon on Emmeline’s dominance over her father, and then when she had extorted her father’s consent, he must know how to captivate the girl so that she would not change her mind again.

One easily sees the imperfection of this plan. In order for Dervi^re to persuade his daughter to confess her secret, he must have brought very strong pressure to bear upon her; for otherwise she could just as well have confessed the first time he had talked to her at all about marriage. Her father consequendy has had many reasons for wanting Rinville to

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be his son-in-law. The more eager he is, the more the relationship is strained, the less likely it is that he will give his consent to her marrying Charles. On the other hand, there must be a dranaatic probability that Emmeline can be mistaken. This the poet has accomplished by the fact that Charles is expected, and he has arranged it so that Emmeline her- self brings the news, and at this same moment the supposed Charles comes. Her father’s embarrassment and his eagerness to conceal Charles’s approach, makes her even more certain in believing that it really is Charles.

Now I shall take up the fourth person in order to show the excellence of the plan, and how the one situation overshadows the others in clev- erness.

Charles hastens home like the prodigal son, in order to throw himself into his uncle’s arms, get rid of his cousin, and get his debts paid. But to achieve all this, he must be incognito. As almost every situation is an infinitely witty mockery of Emmeline’s sentimentality, so, too, almost every situation is likewise a witty mockery of Charles’s mystification. He comes home full of confidence in his powers of mystifying. He be- lieves it is he who contrives intrigues, he who mystifies, and yet the spectator sees that the mystification was in operation before Charles ap- pears; for Rinville had already passed himself off for Charles. The intrigue then carries Charles along with it, Rinville’s mystification forces Charles ‘into his own, and yet Charles believes that it starts from him . With his entrance the play comes completely to life, manifested by a wantonness, an almost insane crossing of the situations. Altogether four persons are mutually mystified. Emmeline wants Charles, Charles wants to be rid of her; Charles the mystifier, does not know that Rinville is passing himself off as Charles and is trying in this way to captivate the girl. Rinville does not realize that Charles as Rinville is no recommenda- tion for him; Derviere backs Rinville, but the Rinville he backs is Charles. Emmeline backs Charles, but the one she backs is Rinville. So the whole situation dissolves in nonsense. That which the play turns on is nothing, that which comes out of the play is nothing.

Emmeline and Charles work against each other, and yet they both ar- rive at the opposite of what they wish: she, in getting Rinville; he, who wished to mystify, in spoiling everything.

In every theater where The First Love is presented, there is no doubt much laughter at the play, but I dare assure the theater-going public that tiiere is never laughter enough. If I, to recall an old story, were to say about a man who laughed very heartily, either he is mad, or he has

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landers stand, like true Hollanders, unmoved, only considering how to sneak away from her. I have never been able to remember a word of her speech. The situation, on the contrary, has been unforgettable from the very moment I first saw it. As a tragic situation it is perfect. One would believe that the beautiful young girl, poetic in her love for Egmont, inspired by Egmont’s whole being, would be able to move the whole world, but no Hollander understands her. The soul broods in infinite sadness over such a situation; but it rests, contemplation is perfected in quietness. The comic situation has also a similar continuance of con- templation, but at the same time reflection is moving within it, and the more it discovers, the more infinitely comic the situation becomes in itself, the more dizzy one becomes, and yet one cannot refrain from gazing into it.

The situations in TA<f First Love are precisely of this kind. The first impression of them has aheady produced a comic effect, but if we repro- duce them for reflection, then the laughter becomes quieter but the smile more explicable, we can hardly tear our thoughts away from it because it is as if something still more laughable might come. This quiet enjoyment of the situation, when one looks at it in the same way that one who smokes watches the rising smoke, one or another reader is perhaps unacquainted with. Scribe is not to blame for this; if this is the case, then the reader has an equal responsibility with Scribe.

Dervi^re exerts strong pressure upon Emmeline to make her marry Rinville; she admits her love for Charles, confesses the highly innocent understanding she has had with him; by using affectionate words she persuades her father to write a letter to Rinville conveying a refusal. The servant is sent off with the letter, Rinville shows up. Lapierre, instead of giving orders to the servants down stairs, that the family is “not at home,” has hurried away. Consequendy Rinville is admitted. Here Scribe, instead of allowing Mr. Rinville to enter and announce bimsdf, has direedy produced a not unwitty situation, which makes Derviere as ridiculous as it does E m meline. Rinville has received the letter and read it. Here again is situation. It is not, as is so often the case, a letter which requires the reader’s close attention in order to get its meaning. It is in Mr. Derviere’s house that the future son-in-law gets his refusal. Rinville lays his plan. Derviere enters, Rinville pretends to be Charles.

Here we have a perfeedy witty situation. There could naturally not be any guest more unwelcome to Derviere than Charles. Rinville does not suspect this. This makes his whole intrigue look like a very unfor- tunate idea. The situation does not lie in the fact that Rinville pretends

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to be Charles, but in the fact that he has chosen the most unfortunate plan possible, although he believes that he has chosen the most fortunate. Next to that, the situation lies in the fact that Derviere has the excellent young Rinville in his home without suspecting it. When one comes to notice the dialogue, so poetically correct in itself, then one will repeat- edly come to enjoy the situation more intensively, because its ridiculous side becomes clearer and clearer. Rinville begins in a sentimentally pathetic style. Whether this is right or not might seem doubtful. He has no close acquaintance with Charles, consequently he could not know what maimer would operate most disappointingly. He has, however, some idea of Dervi^e’s household, and ventures from this to infer the position of the other members of this family. If one regards the begin- ning as too incorrect, one cannot deny that Scribe makes up for this weakness by the wittiness of the speeches, and the suspicion that is aroused in the spectators about the actual Charles. The incorrectness * lies in the fact that RinVille’s first speech is so pathetic that it looks as if he feared being unwelcome, which Rinville, as a result of the foregoing, must precisely believe. Therefore, Rinville resembles a litde too much the actual Charles. The uncle seems in spite of his stupidity in other re- spects, to have sized Charles up very well; he thinks he may get rid of him with money; he offers him 6,000 francs a year instead of the former 3,000. Here one involuntarily comes to consider the actual Charles. He would have considered himself very lucky, and would gladly, have ac- cepted this offer. The whole scene would then have ended just as pa- thetically as it began; he would have thrown himself into his uncle’s arms and cried: “Truly the bonds of nature and blood are sacred!” Rin- ville, however, does not do this; he continues in the way he began, quite as Charles might have done if he had not needed the 6,000 francs. The uncle now decides to do the best he can, and gain his support; he tells him candidly about the whole matter, eulogizes Rinville, which because of the situation, becomes parodical. The situation nears its climax when Dervi^e confides to Rinville that he has considered devising some stratagem by which he could make Emmeline acquainted with Rinville without her suspecting it.* The ironical contradiction is excellent. Der- vi^e will devise a stratagem, this stratagem Rinville has already

Here the play might really end, perhaps some attentive reader thinks. For what would be

simpler than that Rinville should reveal himself to old Derviere, and thus sail before a two-fold wind, with Emmeline passing for Charles, with Derviere for what he really was — ^for Rinville. However, one can still not find fault with Rinville for preserving his incognito, as over against Derviere. For a word or two from him is sufficient to show that if one wishes to carry on an intrigue, he should never have Derviere for a confidant.

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adopted. Rinville’s stratagem creates the situation, and in this one hears Derviere’s speech. Dervi^e himself admits that he is not very clever; his device is very simple, if only Charles will have the goodness to go. If this stratagem is successful, then Dervi^re has done about the most stupid thing imaginable.

However, Rinville does not go; on the contrary, Emmeline comes in with the news that a certain Mr. Zacharias wishes to talk with her father about Charles, who is momentarily expected. The father’s embarrass- ment betrays everything, she recognizes Charles. By this plan, the poet has gained much. The first person the alleged Charles stumbles on is the uncle; he must be regarded as the one easiest to deceive. He is stupid, uneasy, too, lest Charles come, and so only too inclined to credit the certainty of this sorry event; he would never dream that anyone would pretend to be Charles. As far as he is concerned therefore, Rinville can be bold enough. As regards Emmeline it would be too boldly daring, since she is always a lot more clever. Moreover, it would be unbecoming if Rinville should entirely ignore decorum, and not less unbecoming from Emmeline’s side. On the other hand, she has now in her father’s embarrassment, the most convincing proof that it is Charles. The recog- nition takes place before the father’s eyes; Rinville need do nothing; instead of having to be mindful of his role, he can remain quite calm, for now Emmeline has got her eyes open. She practically forces Rin- ville to be Charles; insofar he is blameless, and she herself is blameless, since her father is the one who had urged her to receive him. The poet has then by this plan spread a certain delicacy over the situation, which divests it of all oflensiveness, and makes it into an innocent jest.

The situation is not less amusing than the preceding. Dervi^e is quite perplexed, and still he has himself brought about the whole situ- ation, and helped Rinville over the difficulty, as regards Emmeline, of passing himself off for Charles. The situation also creates a parody on the preceding; the uncle simply could not recognize him immediately. On the contrary, Emmeline can. She explains it by a curious feeling she had, she does not know what it was; but it was like a voice which whispered to her: he is there. (This voice is certainly her father’s voice, whidh gives everything away.) She explains it as sympathetic, some- thing she cannot explain to her father, but can explain very well to her Aunt Judith. Who is now the more clever: Derviere, who did not recog- nize him, who had no suspicions, but who now recognizes him, or Emmeline who recognized him at once? The more one looks at it, the more laughable it becomes. Here again the dialogue helps the spectator

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to lose himself in the ridiculous situation. Upon E mm eline’s saying that she had such a strange feeling, Dervi^re replies: “There, I had for my part not the least suspicion, and if he had not said my own name right out . . Such a speech is worth its weight in gold. It is so natural and simple, and yet perhaps not one in ten dramatists would have sense enough and enough of an eye for situation to bring it out. An ordinary dramatist would have permitted the whole attention to rest on Emme- line; in the previous scene, he was prepared by the recognition between Dervi^e and Charles. This ensemble he had not brought forward, and yet this contributes to making the whole situation so witty. It is comical that Emmeline immediately recognizes Rinville as Charles, but Der- vi^re’s presence tends to make the situation ironic. He stands there like a booby, who understands nothiug. And yet, which is easier to explain, that Emmeline suspected this, or that Dervi^re did not?

Now follows the recognition scene, one of the most successful situ- ations imaginable. The humor by no means Hes in the fact that she con- fuses Rinville with Charles. One has frequently seen mistakes of identity on the stage. A mistake of identity is based on a real resemblance, whether the individual is unconscious of it, or has himself planned it. If this were the case here, then Rinville after having passed an examina- tion, must have known fairly well how Charles looked; for Charles must have looked about like himself. This is, however, by no means the case; every such inference would be silly. The humor lies in thefact that Emmeline recognizes in Rinville someone she does not know. The wit does not consist in the fact that she recognizes Rinville, but that it shows that she does not know Charles. As it went with Rinville, so would it go with any man under the same circumstances; she would have taken him for Charles. She then confuses Rinville with someone she does not know, and this is undeniably a very witty kind of a confusion. There- fore, the situation has a high degree of probabihty, which one may readily believe was difficult to attain. Rinville is also a fool, insofar as he believes that he has advanced a step forward; Emmeline’s Charles is, namely, an x, a desideratur, and one sees revealed here, what ordinarily takes place in privacy, how such a young maiden behaves in creating an ideal for herself. And yet she has loved Charles for eight years, and she will never love another.

If one stumbles on some quite particular speech, which seems a little incorrect, then Scribe gets rid of it vtith a witticism. Thus Rinville’s speech : “God be praised ! I was afraid I had gone farther than I wished.”

Consequently, Emmeline recognizes Charles, or rather she discovers

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him For while Rinvillc does not, as one would have expected, learn to know how Charles looks, Emmeline does come to know it, and this is very wisely arranged, since she did not know it before. The situation is so crazy that it becomes doubtful whether one should say that it is Rinville who deceives Emmeline, or Emmeline who deceives Rinville; for he is in a certain sense deceived, insofar as he had believed that there actually was a Charles. But under all this lies the infinite gist of the mat- ter, that the scene is a recognition scene. The situation is as crazy as it would be for a man who had never seen his own picture, to say on first looking into a mirror: “I immediately recognized myself.”

Emmeline and the pseudo Charles have in their recognition scene reached the precise point where they would have been interrupted by Charles’s departure, when they are again interrupted by the presence of the uncle. He has received from Mr. Zacharias information about Charles which is not particularly pleasing. This recoils on Rinville. The situation is essentially the same as earlier; but we shall see what the poet has gained. Charles’s exploits are of such a nature that candidly and correctly described, they could disturb the total impression of the play. It is vahd to give them a certain light touch so that they may not become too serious. This the poet has accomplished in two ways. The first in- formation we get regarding Charles’s life is in the ninth scene. Here it is Rinville, who has pretended to be Charles, upon whom it recoils. The spectatof’s attention is there directed away from the explicitness of the narration to the mistaken identity. Instead of the individual exploits, one thinks only about stupid tricks in general, and about Rmville’s em- barrassment, and the comedy in demanding more explicit details from him. The complete information one gets from Charles’s own mouth later, when Charles passes himself off as Rinville. What would there become too serious or too impudent, if Charles told about it in his own person, now gets a comic, almost an exuberant aspect, when he tells it in the person of Rinville, using his incognito to make the narrative as fantastic as possible. If he in his own person had described his life, one would have required from him a consciousness of his exploits, finding it highly immoral if he did not have it. Now, on the contrary, since he tells everything in the person of another, even, indeed, to the anxious Emmeline, one finds a fantastic aspect in his narration, poetically cor- rect in a two-fold respect.

Hence, Dervi^e has got detailed information; the pseudo Charles does not seem to be able to correct or complete these details. Emmeline discovers that “he is not the same any more.” This is a little hasty, after

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she has completely assured herself that he was quite as of old. Emmeline appears here right in her element, that is, altogether frivolous, what- ever she says. The dialogue itself deserves a more precise examination, because it gives occasion for extreme enjoyment of a situation which in all its comicality is illuminated from a new angle. It lays bare the sound of the words: “the same,” works like a new stimulating ingredient on the lunacy of the situation; one involuntarily has to laugh because one involuntarily begins to ask himself: “the same” as whom? The same as he appeared to be in the testing scene? Then one happens to consider how inadequate this test was. The same as whom? As Charles, whom she did not know. Moreover, when I say about someone that he is the same, or he is not the same, I may either use this expression in an external or an internal sense, with reference to his outer or his inner nature. The latter, one might believe, would be of especial importance to lovers. Now, however, one discovers that the test had not taken cognizance of this, and yet he was found to be the same. Quite accidentally Emmeline begins to consider whether Charles’s character has not changed, and she now discovers that he is not the same. The denial of his moral char- acter being the same, contains also an affirmation that in aU other re- spects he is the same. Still, Emmeline explains it more exactly. She does not seek the alteration in the fact that Charles has become a spendthrift, or possibly something even worse, but in that he has not confided every- thing to her, as he was accustomed to do. Now this must be one of her romantic ideas, and must rather be understood as such, that she has been accustomed, as in the recognition scene, to chatter about everything to him. That Charles was accustomed to confide everything to her, she simply does not know from experience, but from romances wherein one learns that lovers should have no secrets from each other. Even if Charles were a vagabond from a house of correction, that would not disturb her, if only her erotic curiosity was satisfied by his confiding it to her. The attempt E mmeline made, by observing Charles’s character, to convince herself about his identity, must be regarded as sheer non- sense, which throws some light partly on her nature, partly on the rest of her chatter. In the same moment, therefore, she abandons this train of reasoning and gets a new, a far more certain proof that he is not the same, when she discovers that he does not have die ring. Now she needs no further evidence against him. She admits that he might have done what he would, the craziest things, or, in other words, have changed as much as he would, he would still remain the same, but that he did not have the ring bore witness against him. Emmeline distinguishes herself

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by a special kind of abstract thinking. However, what she has left, after and by abstraction, is not so much Charles’s essential nature as the ring. Emmeline is to be regarded as the spirit of the ring, who obeys him “who has the ring in his hand.”

Lapierre announces a new stranger. We agree that it must be Rin- ville. Emmeline gets orders to dress herself, and bursts out: “How tire- some it is. Must I go and dress myself up for the sake of a strange man whom I cannot bear; I already know that in advance.” By this speech the spectator notices in time the irony in one of the resulting situa- tions. On the whole Emmeline can flatter herself on being delicately ironical. On the whole it suits her, and later gets the best of her. She had wished that the supposed Charles would be a handsome young man, the irony suits her; Dervi^e cannot see it, he stands like a fool, Emmeline with flying colors, and yet she is most the fool. She hoped that the supposed Rinville would be a man she cannot bear, although her father assures her that he is a very excellent young man. The irony again suits her, and yet so that she remains a fool.

The eleventh scene is a monologue by Rinville. It would seem that this monologue might have been omitted, since the efFect of it in every way is confusing. Insofar as it was in order for Rinville to remain master of the situation, and be the one to receive Charles, his monologue could have been shortened. Nor would it then have been without effect. He could thfen proclaim in the poet’s words: “Bravo! It goes excellently! Quarrels with the father, quarrels with the daughter; I must certainly admit that it is a plan which promises well.” This monologue would then contain a kind of objective reflection on the progress of the play. Should the poet consider it necessary to make the monologue a little longer in order to give Charles time to come, he could allow Rinville to make a little joke about himself, that in the final analysis he would have been more clever to have come in his own person, and about the drollery of its going from bad to worse every time new despatches came about Charles. Then it would have been best for him to be interrupted in this deliberation by Charles’s speech from the wings. For as Scribe ends the monologue, one feels too strongly that now the monologue is finished, and now a new person must appear. If Rinville’s monologue were thus interrupted, then a new light would be cast on Charles’s fantastic haste, over the importunity in his appearance, by which he always distin- guishes himself, item over the short-winded imbecility which the poet has so inimitably stamped upon his first speeches.

Still, this is less important. The main fault in this monologue is that

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the action which Rinville suggests appears entirely as talk, only as pre- tended action. Rinville explains that it was only in fun that he played Charles’s role. That was never really the case; on the contrary he himself in the beginning indicated three substantial reasons for it, so that he might be able to bring about a marriage with Emmeline. Next he ex- plains that he will prevent Emmeline from confusing him with Charles, he will persuade her that it is he she loves, not the memory of Charles. This is of utmost importance to the whole play, for it is decisive in de- termming, as developed above, whether the play is in a finite sense, moralizing, or, in an infinite sense, witty. His procedure must then tend to show his own characteristic attractiveness through the person of Charles. This, however, does not happen, and had it happened, then the play would have become something quite different. With Emmeline everything turns on the ring; when later he appears with it, she takes him into favor, recognizes hhn as being the same, and so on. Rinville, for the sake of the total effect of the play, must in no way be regarded as a poetic figure, which is not demonstrable by the few gleams of light which fall upon him. He is a man who has reached years of discretion, who has soimd reasons for what he does. Off and on he is seen in a comic light, because it appears that his soxmd reasons and his understanding are of little help to bim in captivating such a romantic litde gazelle as Miss Emmeline. Even if he were a man absolutely attractive and dan- gerous to a young girl’s heart, he would have no power over Efiameline, she is invulnerable; he can effect this only by appealing to her through her fixed idea, that is, through the ring. But since the main interest of the play requires the nullification of his real attractiveness, it would be wrong to accentuate this, which the poet has done only in this one monologue. In the scene where Rinville has most to do with Emmelme, there can naturally be no talk at all about an opportunity for him to dis- play his personal attraiction. When a young girl fastens herself upon a man as Emmeline did on Rinville, when by her own willingness, she constantly gives him an opportunity to steal into her heart, then must Rinville be an utter bungler if he cannot come to her assistance. So far from being supposed to display Rinville’s attractiveness, this scene seems rather to place him in a somewhat comic light. He is manifestly an in- telligent man; he has in the foregoing dialogue been a little self-impor- tant, letting the spectators as well as his friends in Paris, understand that he is man enough to tame a litde maiden like this. It is true he succeeds; but if his friends in Paris could see how it was done, they would have no occasion to admire his talents. His discretion teaches him to pass

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himself off as Charles. So far that is all right. Now if it happened, now if he would show his attractiveness, now if one thinks that he will have plenty to do, then it appears that he has simply nothing to do; the swift- footed Emmeline, who is hastening back into her youthful memories, takes Mr. Rinville along, and any man who was not a complete block- head, would be able to imitate this masterpiece.

What has here been developed regarding Rinville’s character is, in my opinion, of absolute importance for the whole play. There must not be a single figure in it, not a single dramatic relationship which might re- quire stirviving the destruction which the irony straight from the be- ginning has been preparing in it. When the curtain falls, then every- thing is forgotten, only nothing remains, and it is the only thing one gets to see; and the only thing one gets to hear is a laughter, which like a sound in nature, does not issue from a single human being, but is the language of a world force, and this force is irony.

Charles approaches and meets Rinville. The wittiness in the situation lies in the fact that Charles, this scheming head, comes too late, not only with respect to Mr. Zacharias, but especially with respect to the intrigue in the play. His speeches are here as everywhere masterly, and at the same time characteristic, as conforming to the situation. Rinville sug- gests to Charles the scheme of passing himself off for Rinville. He has perfecdy indicated the idea in this, when Charles, who could not pos- sibly take advice from another regarding a mystification, interrupts him, and gives the impression of being the one who invented the whole plan. Still, it at once appears in retrospect that he is not a man who could hit upon the least thing; he would even have overlooked the ring if Rinville had not called his attention to it. Rinville gets the riag.

Charles presents himself to the family as Mt. Rinville. This guaran- tees his reception. Dervi^re finds him younger and handsomer than Charles. Emmeline finds him loathsome; both judgments are equally unreliable, and one ventures to believe that Emmeline had not yet found it worth while to look at him, but knew it by virtue of inspiration. It is the same way with her father. The situation holds a profound mockery of Charles, who probably ascribes this favorable reception to his own cleverness, and hopes that everything will succeed, if he only continues incognito.

Now comes a monologue in which Emmeline communes with her heart, and finds out that she will never forget Charles, but will marry Rinville.

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Rinville comes to take leave, and delivers the ring. They are recon- ciled again. These situations we are already acquainted with.

Now follows the most brilliant situation in the whole play. There rests a nimbus over it, a transfiguration, which has a solemnity of its own, so that one might almost wish to see Aunt Judith in the back- ground, as a spirit looking down upon her two pupils. Emmeline re- solves to confide in the assumed Rinville and reveal all. This situation throws a perfect light on Emmeline and Charles. Emmeline’s fidelity becomes altogether parodical. For no price will she give him up. She fears neither fire nor water. Charles’s embarrassment becomes greater and greater, since he wishes to get rid of her. Such a loyalty is quite in order; for a little maiden like Emmeline always tends to be most loyal when the one loved wishes to be rid of her. Charles who, since he had learned that Mr. Zacharias was not coming out with the worst, was cer- tain of being able through his adroitness to get himself out of the whole situation, now becomes the one who betrays everything. The opportu- nity is too tempting. He can become the troubador of his own life, and he hopes in that way to get rid of his cousin. We were reminded earlier, that this gives the situation a lighter touch so that Charles’s aberrations take on a comic aspect. We get a vivid conception of his recklessness and his confusion of mind, but we are not indignant, as would be the case if in his own character he had told everything in the same way, and yet we suspect that he probably would do so. We surmise it, blit we do not hear it. Charles accomplishes nothing, however, he pleases only him- self. Emmeline’s loyalty knows no bounds. Finally Charles admits that he is married. It is incredible with what sureness the poet knows how to ironize Emmeline. She hears he is married, and she becomes furious. One or another spectator might perhaps think that the reason she be- came so enraged with Charles was because she had now learned to know all his bad points. By no means, dear friend! You misunderstand her. She takes Charles if only she can get him. But he is married. She would indeed find it proper, if in the eight years he had not looked at any other girl, but had conscientiously looked at the moon. Still, she knows how to disregard this. Let him have seduced ten girls, she takes him, she takes him a tout prix, but if he is married, then she cannot take him. Hinc iliac lacrymae. If this were not the poet’s meaning, then he would have let Emmeline break off with Charles somewhat earlier. Charles has ex- plained that he had been subject to many persecutions from the fair sex, that he had had various affairs, that he had perhaps sometimes gone too far in amiability. She does not mterrupt him, she promises to do every-

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thing possible to reconcile him with her father, and get him herself; for it shows very clearly when she cannot get him (as soon as she hears he is married), that she is not one who forgets to alarm the camp. Charles begins on his story of Pamela; she listens quietly to it. Then comes the terrible news that he is married, which crashed the Kingdom of Norway.

The profound irony in this situation lies, then, in Emmeline’s in- violable loyalty, which will not relinquish Charles at any price, since it would cost her her life, as well as in Charles’s increasing embarrassment at not being able to get rid of her. The whole scene is like a letting of public contracts, where the ideal Charles is awarded to Emmeline as lowest bidder. Finally, the whole thing ends at the point where it ap- pears that she cannot get Charles, and Charles cannot escape from his stupid folly.

Emmeline raises an outcry; the father comes in and promises he will never forgive Charles.

Now the pseudo Charles comes forward. Emmeline has begged her father not to lose his temper; she will herself take him to confession. We must here as always admire the poet’s tact. For the scene must become ridiculous, and the situation ironical when we see the impression on the assumed Rinville the thundering speech must make on the assumed Charles; the real Charles, in other words, has the pleasure of being personally present while he is himself executed in effigie. Had the poet let Derviere make this speech, it would have been a poetic injustice. The uncle has been Charles’s benefactor, and legitimately desires not to become a fool as over against Charles. True, the tmcle is not as clever as the girl, but his benefactions through a range of years place him at an advantage over Charles, quite different from such a reckless marriage promise as he has given Emmeline. Since, on the other hand, everything else that Emmeline says seems to be nonsense, including the marriage promise, then it is proper that this philippic should seem so like- wise. Her old love for Charles is nonsense, her new love for Rinville is also nonsense; her enthusiasm is nonsense, and likewise her anger; her defiance is nonsense, as well as her good intentions.

Enimeline then gives her anger air, and the pseudo Rinville bur- lesques the effect of her story by behaving and acting like the pseudo Charles! It may be regarded as the crowning feature in this situation that she admits that she really has loved Charles. The confusion here is perfect. For the one, that by her own admission she has loved these eight years, is Rinville in whom, by the aid of sympathy, she had im-

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mediately recognized Charles, and whom, a little after convincing herself that he was not the same, she again recognized through the ring.

At last the confusion is resolved. It appears that she has got Rinville instead of Charles. Herewith the play is finished, or, more correctly, it is not finished. This I have already explained earlier; here I shall only by a word or two throw some light on the proposition. If it is the in- tention of the play to show that Emmeline is a reasonable girl, who, when she chooses Rinville, makes a suitable choice, then the emphasis of the whole play is laid in the wrong place. For in such a case, it would interest us less to know in what sense Charles has failed. What we do demand, on the contrary, is some illumination about Rinville’s attrac- tions. Just because Charles has become a lewd popinjay, it by no means follows that Emmeline must therefore choose Rinville, except insofar as one sets Scribe down for a dramatic bungler who respects the dra- matic tradition that every young girl must be married, and if she doesn’t want the one, then must she take the other. If, however, one under- stands the play as I have understood it, then the whole play is a perfect joke, the wit infinite, the comedy a masterly performance.

The curtain falls, the play is over, nothing is left except the great out- line in which it appears; the fantastic shadow-play of the situation, which irony conducts, remains for contemplation. The immediately real situation is the unreal situation; behind this there appears a new situation which is no less absurd, and so forth. In the situation: we hear the dialogue; when it is most reasonable, it appears most crazy, and as the situation recedes, so the dialogue follows along, more and more meaningless, in spite of its reasonableness.

In order rightly to eiijoy the irony in this play contemplatively, you must not read it but see it; you must see it again and again, and when you have the good fortune to be contemporary with the four dramatic artists, who in our theater contribute in every way to showing and an- ticipating the transparency of the situation, then wiU the enjoyment become greater and greater every time you see it.

Let the dialogue in this play be ever so witty, you wiU forget it; the situations you cannot possibly forget, when you have once seen them. When you have become familiar with them, then the next time you see the play you will learn to be thankful for the dramatic presentation. I do not know how to give any greater praise to the performance than by saying that it is so highly perfect that it makes one wholly ungrateful the first time you see it, because what you get is the play, neither more nor less. I know & young philosopher who once expounded a part of his

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dextrine of being to me. Tlie whole was so easy, so simple, so naturally presented, that when he was finished I almost shrugged my shoulders, and said: Is this all? When I came home I wanted to reproduce the logical exercise, and it appeared that I could not even start. Then I observed that there must be something else. I felt how great his virtuos- ity and his superiority over me was, I felt it almost a mockery that he had done it so well, that I became ungrateful. He was a philosophical artist, and as it was with him, so it is with all great artists, our Lord inclusive.

As it was with me in the case of my philosophical friend, so it is with me about the performance of The First Love. Hence, when I now see it performed again and again and on other stages, I first become truly grateful to our dramatic artists. If I were therefore to show a stranger our stage, I should take him to the theater when this play was to be per- formed, and then, acting on the supposition that he knew the play, I should say to him : “Observe Frydendahl, turn your eyes away from him, shut them; let his image appear before you; these pure noble fea- tures, this graceful bearing, how can this be laughable; open your eyes again and see Frydendahl. Observe Madame Heiberg, cast down your eyes, for Emmeline’s attraction might become dangerous to you; listen to the sentimentally languishing voice, the childish and whimsical in- sinuations of the girl, and if you were as dry and stiff as a book-keeper, you would still have to smile. Open your eyes, how is it possible ? Repeat these movements so swifdy that they become almost simultaneous in the moment, and you have a conception of how it is performed. With- out irony, an artist can never sketch; a dramatic artist can only produce it through contradiction, for the entity of the sketch is superficial, and where no character drawing is required, there must be the art to trans- form itself into a superfluity, which is a paradox for the scenic presen- tation, and only a few can do it. An unrcflective comedian can never play Dervi^re, for he has no character. Emmeline’s whole nature is con- tradiction, and therefore cannot be presented immediately. She must be attractive, for otherwise the efllect of the whole play is spoiled; she must not be attractive but affected, for otherwise, in another sense, the whole effect of the play is lost. Behold Phister, you almost become ill when you let your glance rest on the infinitely fresh stupidity that is stamped on his countenance. And yet it is not an immediate dullness; his glance has even an enthusiasm which in its foolishness, is min dful of the past. No one is born with such a face, it has a history. When I was little I can re- member that my nursemaid explained to me that one must not make

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faces, and as a warning to me and other children, she told a story about a man with a grotesque face, which he himself was to blame for, because he made wry faces. It impressed me as strange that the wind could change itself, and that a human being retained his absurd face. Such an absurd face Phister lets us see; there is even a trace of the romantic grimace, but when the wind changed it became something distorted. Phister’s presentation of Charles has less irony, but more humor. This is quite correct, for the contradiction in his being is not so evident, lie must not pass for Rinville, except in the eyes of Dervi^e and Emmeline, who in their own ways, are equally biased.

Behold Stage, rejoice over this beautiful manly figure, this refined personality, this easy smile which betrays Rinville’s fancied superiority over Dervi^re’s fantastic family, and then see this representative of the intellect whirled along in the confusion which Emmeline’s empty pas- sion, like a forward rushing wind, occasions.

THE ROTATION METHOD An Essay in tie Theory of Social Prudence

189

190. epoDTo^i.

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You get too much at last of everything.

Of love,

of bread,

of music,

and of sweetmeats.

Of honor,

cakes.

of courage.

Ambition,

and of figs.

barley-cakes.

high ofi&ce,

lentils.

(Aristophanes’ Plutus, v. iSpf?.)

S TARTING from a principle is affirmed by people of experience to be a very reasonable procedure; I am willing to humor them, and so begin with the principle that all men are bores. Surely no one will prove himself so great a bore as to contradict me in this. This principle possesses the quafity of being in the highest degree repellent, an essential requirement in the case of negative principles, which are in the last analysis the principles of all motion. It is not merely repellent, but in- finitely forbidding; and whoever has this principle back of him cannot but receive an infinite impetus forward, to help him make new discov- eries. For if my principle is true, one need only consider how ruinous boredom is for humanity, and by properly adjusting the intensity of one’s concentration upon this fundamental truth, attain any desired degree of momentum. Should one wish to attain the maxi m u m mo- mentum^ even to the point of almost endangering the driving power, one need only say to oneself: Boredom is the root of aU evil. Strange that boredom, in itself so staid and stolid, should have such power to set in motion. The influence it exerts is altogether magical, except that it is not the influence of attraction, but of repulsion.

In the case of children, the ruinous character of boredom is universally acknowledged. Children are always well-behaved as long as they are enjoying themselves. This is true in the strictest sense; for if they some- times become unruly in their play, it is because they are already begin- ning to be bored— boredom is already approaching, though from a different direction. In choosing a governess one, therefore, takes into account not only her sobriety, her faith^lness, and her competence, but also her aesthetic qualifications for atfiusing the children; and there would be no hesitancy in dismissing a governess who was lacking in this respect, even if she had all the other desirable virtues. Here, then, the principle is clearly acknowledged; but so strange is the way of the world, so pervasive the influence of habit and boredom, that this is prac- tically the only case in which the science of aesthetics receives its just dues. If one were to ask for a divorce because his wife was tiresome, or demand the abdication of a king because he was boring to look at, or the banishment of a preacher because he was tiresome to listen to, or the dismissal of a prime minister, or the execution of a journalist, be- cause he was terribly tiresome, one would find it impossible to force it through. What wonder, then, that the world goes from bad to worse, and that its evils increase more and more, as boredom increases, and boredom is the root of all evil.

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The history of this can be traced from the very beginning of the world. The gods were bored, and so they created man. Adam was bored because he was alone, and so Eve was created. Thus boredom entered the world, and increased in proportion to the increase of population. Adam was bored alone; then Adam and Eve were bored together; then Adam and Eve and Cain and Abel were bored en famille; then the population of the world increased, and the peoples were bored en masse. To divert themselves they conceived the idea of constructing a tower high enough to reach the heavens. This idea is itself as boring as the tower was high, and constitutes a terrible proof of how boredom gained the upper hand. The nations were scattered over the earth, just as people now travel abroad, but they continued to be bored. Consider the conse- quences of this boredom. Humanity fell from its lofty height, first be- cause of Eve, and then from the Tower of Babel. What was it, on the other hand, that delayed the fall of Rome, was it not pants and cir- censes} And^ anything being done now.!* Is anyone concerned about planning some means of diversion ? Quite the contrary, the impending ruin is being proclaimed. It is proposed to call a constitutional assembly. Can anything more tiresome be imagined, both for the participants themselves, and for those who have to hear and read about it? It is pro- posed to improve the financial condition of the state by practicing economy. What could be more tiresome ? Instead of increasing the na- tional debt, it is proposed to pay it off. As I understand the political situ- ation, it would be an easy matter for Denmark to negotiate a loan of fifteen million dollars. Why not consider this plan? Every once in a while we hear of a man who is a genius, and therefore neglects to pay his debts — ^why should not a nation do the same, if we were all agreed? Let us then borrow fifteen millions, and let us use the proceeds, not to pay our debts, but for public entertainment. Let us celebrate the millen- nium in a riot of merriment. Let us place boxes everywhere, not, as at present, for the deposit of money, but for the free distribution of money. Everything would become gratis; theaters gratis, women of easy virtue gratis, one would drive to the park gratis, be buried gratis, one’s eulogy would be gratis; I say gratis, for when one always has money at hand, everything is in a certain sense free. No one should be permitted to own any property. Only in my own case would there be an exception. I re- serve to myself securities in the Bank of London to the value of one hundred dollars a day, partly because I cannot do with less, partly be- cause the idea is mine, and finally because I may not be able to hit upon a new idea when the fifteen millions are gone.

236 THE ROTATION METHOD

What would be the consequences of all this prosperity? Everythmg great would gravitate toward Copenhagen, the greatest artists, the great- est dancers, the greatest actors. Copenhagen would become a second Athens. What then? All rich men would establish their homes in this city. Among others would come the Shah of Persia, and the King of England would also come. Here is my second idea. Let us kidnap the Shah of Persia. Perhaps you say an insurrection might take place in Persia and a new ruler be placed on the throne, as has often happened before, the consequence being a fall in price for the old Shah. Very well then, I propose that we sell him to the Turks; they will doubtless know how to turn him into money. Then there is another circumstance which our politicians seem entirely to have overlooked. Denmark holds the balance of power in Europe. It is impossible to imagine a more for- tunate lot. I know that from my own experience; I once held the balance of power in a family and could do as I pleased; the blame never fell on me, but always on the others. O that my words might reach your ears, all you who sit in high places to advise and rule, you men of the king and of the people, wise and understanding citizens of all classes ! Consider the crisis! Old Denmark is on the brink of ruin; what a calamity! It will be destroyed by boredom; what a terrible calamity! In ancient times they made him king who sang mc»t beautifully over the departed; in our times we ought to make him king who utters the best witticism, and make him crown prince who gives occasion for the utterance of the best witticism.

O beautiful, emotional sentimentality, how you carry me away! Should I trouble to speak to my contemporaries, to initiate them into my wisdom? By no means. My wisdom is not exactly zum Gebrauch fur federmann, and it is always more prudent to keep one’s maxims of prudence to oneself. I desire no disciples; but if there happened to be someone present at my deathbed, and I was sure that the end had come, then I might in an attack of philanthropic delirium, whisper my theory in his ear, uncertain whether I had done him a service or not. People talk so much about man being a social animal; at bottom, he is a beast of prey, and the evidence for this is not confined to the shape of his teeth. All this talk about society and the social is partly inherited hypoc- risy, pardy calculated cunning.

All men are bores. The word itself suggests the possibility of a sub- division. It may just as well indicate a man who bores others as one who bores himself. Those who bore others are the mob, the crowd, the in- finite multitude of men in general. Those who bore themselves are the

THE ROTATION METHOD 237

elect, the aristocracy; and it is a curious fact that those who do not bore themselves, usually bore others, while those who bore themselves enter- tain others. Those who do not bore themselves are generally people who, in one way or another, keep themselves extremely busy; these people are precisely on this account, the most tiresome, the most utterly unen- durable. This species of animal life is surely not the fruit of man’s desire and woman’s lust. Like all lower forms of life, it is marked by a high degree of fertility, and multiplies endlessly. It is inconceivable that na- ture should require nine months to produce such beings; they ought rather to be turned out by the score. The second class, the aristocrats, arc those who bore themselves. As noted above, they generally entertain others — ^in a certain external sense sometimes the mob, in a deeper sense only their fellow initiates. The more profoundly they bore themselves, the more powerfully do they serve to divert these latter, even when their boredom reaches its zenith, as when they either die (passive form), or shoot themselves out of curiosity (the active form).

It is usual to say that idleness is a root of all evil. To prevent this evil one is advised to work. However, it is easy to see, both from the nature of the evil that is feared and the remedy proposed, that this entire view is of a very plebeian extraction. Idleness is by no means as such a root of evil; on the contrary, it is a truly divine life, provided one is not himself bored. Idleness may indeed cause the loss of one’s fortune, and so on, but the high-minded man does not fear such dangers; he fears only bore- dom. The Olympian gods were not bored, they Uved happily in happy idleness. A beautiful woman, who neither sews nor spins nor bakes nor reads nor plays the piano, is happy in her idleness, for she is not bored. So far from idleness being the root of all evil, it is rather the only true good. Boredom is the root of all evil, and it is this which must be kept at a distance. Idleness is not an evil, indeed one may say that every hu- man being who lacks a sense for idleness proves that his consciousness has not yet been elevated to the level of the humane. There is a restless activity which excludes a man from the world of the spirit, setting him in a class with the brutes, whose instincts impel them always to be on the move. There are men who have an extraordinary talent for trans- forming everything into a matter of business, whose whole life is busi- ness, who fall in love, marry, listen to a joke, and admire a picture with the same industrious zeal with which they labor during business hours. The Latin proverb, otium est ptdvinar dtaboli, is true enough, but the devil gets no time to lay his head on this pillow when one is not bored. But since some people believe that the end and aim of life is work,^the

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disjunction, idleness-work, is quite correct. I assume that it is the end and aim of every man to enjoy himself, and hence my disjunction is no less correct

Boredom is the demoniac side of pantheism. If we remain in boredom as such, it becomes the evil principle; if we annul it, we posit it in its truth; but we can only annul boredom by enjoying ourselves— ergo, it is our duty to enjoy ourselves. To say that boredom is annulled by work, betrays a confusion of thought; for idleness can certainly be annulled by work, since it is its opposite, but not boredom, and experience shows that the busiest workers, whose constant buzzing most resembles an in- sect’s hum, are the most tiresome of creatures; if they do not bore them- selves, it is because they have no true conception of what boredom is; but then it can scarcely be said that they have overcome boredom.

Boredom is partly an inborn genial aptitude, pardy an acquired im- mediacy. The English are in general the paradigmatic nation. A true genial indolence is very rare; it is never met with in nature, but belongs to the world of the spirit. Occasionally, however, you meet a traveling Englishman who is, as it were, the incarnation of this genial aptitude — a heavy, immovable animal, whose entire language exhausts its riches in a single word of one syllable, an interjection by which he signifies his deepest admiration and his supreme indifference, admiration and in- difference having been neutralized in the unity of boredom. No other nation produces such miracles of nature; every other national will al- ways show himself a litde more vivacious, not so absolutely still-born. The only analogy I know of is the aposde of the empty enthusiasm, who also makes his way through life on an interjection. This is the man who everywhere makes a profession of enthusiasm, who cries Ah! or Oh! whether the event be significant or insignificant, the difference having been lost for him in the emptiness of a blind and noisy enthusiasm. This later form of boredom is usually the result of a mistaken effort to find diversion. The fact that the remedy against boredom may also serve to produce boredom, might appear to be a suspicious circumstance; but it has this effect only insofar as it is incorrectly employed. A misdirected search for diversion, one which is eccentric in its direction, conceals boredom within its own depths, and gradually works it out toward the surface, thus revealing itself as that which it immediately is. In the case of horses, we distinguish between blind staggers and sleepy staggers, but call both staggers; and so we can also make a distinction between two kinds of boredom, though uniting both under the common designation of ^eing tiresome.

THE ROTATION METHOD 239

Pantheism is, in general, characterized by fullness; in the case of bore- dom we find the precise opposite, since it is characterized by emptiness; but it is just this which makes boredom a pantheistic conception. Bore- dom depends on the nothingness which pervades reality; it causes a dizzi- ness like that produced by looking down into a yawning chasm, and this dizziness is infinite. The eccentric form of diversion noted above sounds forth without producing an echo, which proves it to be based on bore- dom; for in nothingness not even an echo can be produced.

Now since boredom as shown above is the root of all evil, what can be more natural than the effort to overcome it? Here, as everywhere, however, it is necessary to give the problem calm consideration; other- wise one may find oneself driven by the demoniac spirit of boredom deeper and deeper into the mire, in the very effort to escape. Everyone who feels bored cries out for change. With this demand I am in com- plete sympathy, but it is necessary to act in accordance with some settled principle.

My own dissent from the ordinary view is sufiEciently expressed in the use I make of the word, “rotation.” This word might seem to conceal an ambiguity, and if I wished to use it so as to find room in it for the ordinary method, I should have to define it as a change of field. But the farmer does not use the word in this sense. I shall, however, adopt this meaning for a moment, in order to speak of the rotation which depends on change in its boundless infinity, its extensive dimension, sot, to speak.

This is the vulgar and martistic method, and needs to be supported by illusion. One tires of living in the coimtry, and moves to the dty; one tires of one’s native land, and travels abroad; one is ewopamude, and goes to America, and so on; finally one indulges in a sentimental hope of endless journeyings from star to star. Or the movement is different but still extensive. One tires of porcelain dishes and eats on silver; one tires of silver and turns to gold; one burns half of Rome to get an idea of the burning of Troy. This method defeats itself; it is plain endless- ness. And what did Nero gain by it? Antonine was wiser; he says: “It is in your power to review your life, to look at things you saw before, from another point of view.”

My method does not consist in change of field, but resembles the true rotation method in changing the crop and the mode of cultivation. Here we have at once the principle of limitation, the only saving principle in the world. The more you limit yourself, the more fertile you become in invention. A prisoner in solitary confinement for life becomes very inventive, and a spider may furnish him with much entertainment.

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One need only hark back to one’s schooldays, when aesthetic considera- tions were ignored in the choice of one’s instructors, who were conse- quently very tiresome; how fertile in invention did not one prove to be! How entertaining to catch a fly and hold it imprisoned under a nut shell, watching it run around the shell; what pleasure, from cutting a hole in the desk, putting a fly in it, and then peeping down at it through k piece of paper! How entertaining sometimes to listen to the monot- onous drip of water from the roof! How close an observer does not one become under such circumstances, when not the least noise nor move- ment escapes one’s attention! Here we have the extreme application of the methc^ which seeks to achieve results intensively, not extensively.

The more resourceful in changing the mode of cultivation one can be, the better; but every particular change will always come under the general categories of remembering and forgetting. Life in its entirety moves in these two currents, and hence it is essential to have them under control. It is impossible to live artistically before one has made up one’s mind to abandon hope; for hope precludes self-limitation. It is a very beautiful sight to see a njan put out to sea with the fair wind of hope, and one may even use the opportimity to be taken in tow; but one should never permit hope to be taken aboard one’s own ship, least of all as a pilot; for hope is a faithless shipmaster. Hope was one of the dubious gifts of Prometheus; instead of giving men the foreknowledge of the immortals, he gave them hope.

To forget— all men wish to forget, and when something unpleasant happens, they always say: Oh, that one might forget! But forgetting is an art that must be practiced beforehand. The ability to forget is con- ditioned upon the method of remembering, but this again depends upoq the mode of experiencing. Whoever plunges into his experiences with the momentum of hope, will remember so that he cannot forget. Nil admirari is therefore the real philosophy. No moment must be per- mitted a greater significance than that it can be forgotten when con- venient; each moment ought, however, to have so much significance that it can be recollected at will. Childhood, which is the age which remembers best, is at the same time most forgetful. The more poetically one remembers, the easier one forgets; for remembering poetically is really only another expression for forgetting. In a poetic memory the experience has undergone a transformation, by which it has lost all its painful aspects. To remember in this manner, one must be careful how one Eves, how one enjoys. Enjoying an experience to its full intensity to the last minute, will make it impossible either to remember or to forget.

THE ROTATION METHOD 241

For there is then nothing to remember except a certain satiety, which one desires to forget, but which now comes back to plague the mind with an involuntary remembrance. Hence, when you begin to notice that a certain pleasure or experience is acquiring too strong a hold upon the mind, you stop a moment for the purpose of remembering. No other method can better create a distaste for continuing the experience too long. From the beginning one should keep the enjoyment under control, never spreading every sail to the wind in any resolve; one ought to devote oneself to pleasure with a certain suspicion, a certain wariness, if one desires to give the lie to the proverb which says that no one can have his cake and eat it too. The carrying of concealed weapons is usually forbidden, but no weapon is so dangerous as the art of remembering. It gives one a very peculiar feeling in the midst of one’s enjoyment to look back upon it for the purpose of remember- ing it.

One who has perfected himself in the twin arts of remembering and forgetting, is m a position to play at battledore and shutdecock with the whole of existence.

The extent of one’s power to forget is the final measure of one’s elas- ticity of spirit. If a man cannot forget he will never amoimt to much. Whether there be somewhere a Lethe gushing forth, I do not know; but this I know, that the art of forgetting can be developed. However, this art does not consist in permitting the impressions to vanish com- pletely; forgetfulness is one thing, and the art of forgetting is some- thing quite different. It is easy to see that most people have a very meager understanding of this ^ art, for they ordinarily wish to forget only what is unpleasant, not what is pleasant. This betrays a complete one-sidedness. Forgetting is the true expression for an ideal process of assimilation by which the experience is reduced to a sounding-board for the soul’s own music. Nature is great because it has forgotten that it was chaos; but this thought is subject to revival at any time. As a result of attempting to forget only what is unpleasant, most people have a con- ception of obUvion as an untamable force which drowns out the past. But forgetting is really a tranquil and quiet occupation, and one which should be exercised quite as much in connection with the pleasant as with the unpleasant. A pleasant experience has as past something im- pleasant about it, by which it stirs a sense of privation; this unpleasant- ness is taken away by an act of forgetfulness. The unpleasant has a sting, as all admit. This, too, can be removed by the art of forgetting. But if one attempts to dismiss the unpleasant absolutely from mind, as

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many do who dabble in the art of forgetting, one soon learns bow little that helps. In an unguarded moment it pays a surprise visit, and it is then invested with all the forcibleness of the unexpected. This is abso- lutely contrary to every orderly arrangement in a reasonable mind. No misfortune or difl&culty is so devoid of affability, so deaf to all appeals, but that it may be flattered a little; even Cerberus accepted bribes of honey-cakes, and it is not only the lassies who are beguiled. The art in dealing with such experiences consists in talking them over, thereby depriving them of their bitterness; not forgetting them absolutely, but forgetting them for the sake of remembering them. Even in the case of memories such that one might suppose an eternal oblivion to be the only safeguard, one need permit oneself only a little trickery, and the decep- tion will succeed for the skillful. Forgetting is the shears with which you cut away what you cannot use, doing it under the supreme direction of memory. Forgetting and remembering are thus identical arts, and the artistic achievement of this identity is the Archimedean point from which one lifts the whole world. When we say that we consign some- thmg to obHvion, we suggest simultaneously that it is to be forgotten and yet also remembered.

The art of remembering and forgetting will also insure against sticking fast in some relationship of life, and make possible the realiza- tion of a complete freedom.

One must guard against friendship. How is a friend defined .? He is not what philosophy calls the necessary other, but the superfluous third. What are friendship’s ceremonies? You drink each other’s health, you open an artery and mingle your blood with that of the friend. It is difi&cult to say when the proper moment for this arrives, but it an- nounces itself mysteriously; you feel some way that you can no longer address one another formally. When once you have had this feeling, then it can never appear that you have made a mistake, like Geert Westphaler, who discovered that he had been drinkii^g to friendship with the public hangman. What are the infallible marks of friendship ? Let antiquity answer: idem velle, idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia, and also extremely tiresome. What are the infallible marks of friend- ship? Mutual assistance in word and deed. Two friends form a close association in order to be everything to one another, and that although it is impossible for one human being to be anything to another human being except to be ia his way. To be sure one may help him with money, assist him in and out of his coat, be his humble servant, and tender him

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243

congratxilations on New Year’s Day, on the day of his wedding, on the birth of a child, on the occasion of a funeral.

But because you abstain from friendship it does not follow that you abstain from social contacts. On the contrary, these social relationships may at times be permitted to take on a deeper character, provided you always have so much more momentum in yourself that you can sheer off at will, in spite of sharing for a time in the momentum of the com- mon movement. It is believed that such conduct leaves unpleasant memories, the unpleasantness being due to the fact that a relationship which has meant something, now vanishes and becomes as nothing. But this is a misunderstanding. The unpleasant is merely a piquant ingredi- ent in the dullness of life. Besides, it is possible for the same relationship again to play a significant role, though in another manner. The essen- tial thing is never to stick fast, and for this it is necessary to have oblivion back of one. The experienced farmer lets his land lie fallow now and then, and the theory of social prudence recommends the same. Everything will doubtless return, though in a different form; that which has once been present in the rotation will remain in it, but the mode of cultivation will be varied. You therefore qmte consistently hope to meet your friends and acquaintances in a better world, but you do not share the fear of the crowd that they will be altered so that you cannot recognize them; your fear is rather lest they be wholly unaltered. It is remarkable how much significance even the most insignificant person can gain from a rational mode of cultivation.

One must never enter into the relation of marriage. Husband and wife promise to love one another for eternity. This is all very fine, but it does not mean very much; for if their love comes to an end in time, it will surely be ended in eternity. If, instead of promismg forever, the parties would say: until Easter, or until May-day comes, there might be some meaning in what they say; for then they would have said some- thing definite, and also something that they might be able to keep. And how does a marriage usually work out.? In a little while one party be- gins to perceive that there is something wrong, then the other party complains, and cries to heaven: faithless! faithless! A litde later the sec- ond party reaches the same standpoint, and a neutrality is established in which the mutual faithlessness is mutually canceled, to the satisfaction and contentment of both parties. But it is now too late, for there are great difficulties connected with divorce.

Such being the case with marriage, it is nca surprising that the at- tempt should be made in so many ways to bolster it up with moral

244 the rotation METHOD

supports. When a man seeks separation from his wife, the cry is at once raised that he is depraved, a scoundrel, etc. How silly, and what an in- direct attack upon marriage! If marriage has reality, then he is suffi- ciently punished by forfeiting this happiness; if it has no reality, it is absurd to abuse him because he is wiser than the rest. When a man grows tired of his money and throws it out of the window, we do not call him a scoundrel; for either money has reality, and so he is suffi- ciently punished by depriving himself of it, or it has none, and then he is, of course, a wise man.

One must always take care not to enter into any relationship in which there is a possibility of many members. For this reason friendship is dangerous, to say nothing of marriage. Husband and wife are indeed said to become one, but this is a very dark and mystic saying. When you are one of several, then you have lost your freedom; you cannot send for your traveling boots whenever you wish, you cannot move aimlessly about in the world. If you have a wife and perhaps a child, it is trouble- some; if you have a wife and children, it is impossible. True, it has hap- pened that a gypsy woman has carried her husband through life on her back, but for one thing this is very rare, and for another, it is likely to be tiresome in the long run— for the husband. Marriage brings one into fatal connection with custom and tradition, and traditions and customs are like the wind and weather, altogether incalculable. In Japan, I have been told, it is the custom for husbands to lie in childbed. Who knows but the time will come when the customs of foreign countries will ob- tain a foothold in Europe

Friendship is dangerous, marriage still more so; for woman is and ever will be the ruin of a man, as soon as he contracts a permanent re- lation with her. Take a young man who is fiery as an Arabian courser, let him marry, he is lost. Woman is first proud, then is she weak, then she swoons, then he swoons, then the whole family swoons. A woman’s love is nothing but dissimulation and weakness.

But because a man does not marry, it does not follow that his life need be wholly deprived of the erotic element. And the erotic ought also to have infinitude; but poetic infinitude, which can just as well be limited to an hour as to a month. When two beings fall in love with one another and begin to suspect that they were made for each other, it is time to have the courage to break it off; for by going on they have every- thing to lose and nothing to gain. This seems a paradox, and it is so for the feeing, but not for the understanding. In Am sphere it is partlcu-

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larly necessary that one should make use of one’s moods; through them one may realize an inexhaustible variety of combinations.

One should never undertake any business. If you do, you will become a mere Peter Plere, a tiny little cog in the machinery of the body politic; you even cease to be master of your own conduct, and in that case your theories are of little help. You receive a title, and this brings in its train every sin and evil. The law under which you have become a slave is equally tiresome, whether your advancement is fast or slow. A title can never be got rid of except by the commission of some crime which draws down on you a public whipping; even then you are not certain, for you may have it restored to you by royal pardon.

Even if one does not engage in business, one ought not to be inactive, but should pursue such occupations as are compatible with a sort of leisure, one should engage in all sorts of breadless arts. In this coimcc- tion the self-development should be intensive rather than extensive, and one should, in spite of mature years, be able to prove the truth of the proverb that children are pleased with a rattle and tickled with a straw.

If one now, according to the theory of social jurisprudence, varies the soil — for if he had contact with one person only, the rotation method would fail as badly as if a -farmer had only one acre of land, which would make it impossible for him to fallow, something which is of ex- treme importance — ^then one must also constantly vary himself, and this is the essential secret. For this purpose one must necessarily have control over one’s moods. To control them in the sense of producing them at will is impossible, but prudence teaches how to utilize the moment. As an experienced sailor always looks out over the water and sees a squall coming from far away, so one ought always to see the mood a little in advance. One should know how the mood affects one’s own mind and the min d of others, before putting it on. You first strike a note or two before evoking the pure tones, and see what there is in a man, the middle tones follow later. The more experience you have, the more readily you will be convinced that there is often much in a man which is not suspected. When sentimental people, who as such are extremely tiresome, become angry, they are often very entertaining. Badgering a man is a particularly effective method of exploration.

The whole secret lies in arbitrariness. People usually think it easy to be arbitrary, but it requires much study to succeed in being arbitrary so as not to lose oneself in it, but so as to derive satisfaction from it. One does not enjoy the immediate, but something quite different which he can arbitrarily control. You go to see the middle of a play, you read the

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third part of a book. By this means you insure yourself a very different kind of enjoyment from that which the author has been so kind as to plan for you. You enjoy somethmg entirely accidental; you consider the whole of existence from this standpoint; let its reality be stranded thereon. I will cite an example. There was a man whose chatter certain circumstances made it necessary for me to listen to. At every oppor- tunity he was ready with a litde philosophical lecture, a very tiresome harangue. Almost in despair, I suddenly discovered that he perspired copiously when talking. I saw the pearls of sweat gather on his brow, unite to form a stream, glide down his nose, and hang at the extreme point of his nose in a drop-shaped body. From the moment of making this discovery, all was changed. I even took pleasure in inciting him to begin his philosophical instruction, merely to observe the penpiration on his brow and at the end of his nose.

The poet Baggesen says somewhere of someone that he was doubtless a good man, but that there was one insuperable objection against him, that there was no word that rhymed with his name. It is extremely wholesome thus to let the realities of life split upon an arbitrary interest. You transform something accidental into the absolute, and, as such, into the object of your admiration. This has an excellent effect, especially when one is excited. This method is an excellent stimulus for many persons. You look at everything in life from the standpoint of a wager, and so forth. The more rigidly consistent you are in holding fast to your arbitrariness, the more amusing the ensuing combinations will be. The degree of consistency shows whether you are an artist or a bungler; for to a certain extent all men do the same. The eye with which you look at reality, must constandy be changed. The Neo-Platonists assumed that human beings who had been less perfect on earth, became after death more or less perfect animals, all according to their deserts. For example, those who had exercised the civic virtues on a lower scale (the men of detail) were transformed into busy animals, like bees. Such a view of life, which here in this world sees all men transformed into animals or plants (Plotinus also thought that some would become plants), suggests rich and varied possibiUties. The painter Tischbein sought to idealize every human being into an animal. His method has the fault of being too serious, in that it endeavors to discover a real resemblance.

The arbitrariness in oneself corresponds to the accidental in the ex- ternal world. One should therefore always have an eye open for the accidental, always be expeditus, if anything should offer. The so-called social pleasures for which we prepare a week or two in advance amount

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to so little; on the other hand, even the most insignificant thing may accidentally offer rich material for amusement. It is impossible here to go into detail, for no theory can adequately embrace the concrete. Even the most completely developed theory is poverty-stricken compared with the fullness which the man of genius easily discovers in his ubiquity.

DIARY OF THE SEDUCER

Sua passion’ predominante e la giovin principiante

DON GIOVANNI ABIA NO. 4

I CANNOT conceal from myself, scarcely can I master the anxiety which grips me at this moment, when I decide for my own satisfac- tion to make a clear and accurate copy of the rough transcript which I was able at the time to secure ordy in the greatest haste and with much disquietude. The situation stands out before me just as alarmingly, but also as reprehensibly, as it did at that time. Contrary to his custom, he had not locked his secretary, so its whole content was at my disposal; but it is futile for me to try to extenuate my behavior by reminding my- self that I did not open the drawer. One drawer was pulled out. In it I found a number of loose papers, and on top of them lay a book in broad quarto, tastefully bound. On the upper side was placed a vignette of white paper on which he had written in his own hand: Commentarius perpetuus Nr. 4. Vainly, however, have I tried to make myself believe that if the face of the book had not been turned up, and if the strange title had not tempted me, I should not have fallen into temptation, or I should at least have resisted it. The title itself was strange, not so much in itself as because of its surroundings. From a hasty glance at the loose papers I learned that these contained interpretations of erotic situations, a few hints about one and another relationship, outlines for letters of a very peculiar character, which I later learned to know in their artisti- cally perfected, calculated carelessness. When now, after having looked into the scheming mind of this depraved personality, I recall my situ- ation; when, with my eye alert for every subtlety, I in thought ^proach that drawer, it makes the same impression upon me as it must make upon a police officer when he enters the room of a forger, opens his be- longings, and finds in a drawer a number of loose papers, samples of handwriting; on one there is a piece of tracing, on another a monogram, on a third a line of reversed writing. It clearly proves to him that he is on the right track, and his satisfaction over this is mingled with a cer- tain admiration for the study and industry which is here evidenced.

In my case it mi gh t have turned out a litde differently, since I am less accustomed to tracking down criminals, and am not armed — ^with a policeman’s badge. I should have felt with double weight the truth that I was following unlawful ways. At that time I was no less deficient in thoughts than m words, as is usually the case. One is overawed by an impression until reflection again reasserts itself, and swift and manifold in its movements, insiauates itself in with the xmknown stranger and coaxes him around. The more reflective thought is developed, the sooner it knows how to pull itself together; it becomes, like a passport clerk dealing with foreign travelers, so accustomed to seeing eccentric

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figures that it is not easily disconcerted. But although my reflective thought is certainly now very strongly developed, still at first I was greatly astonished. I remember very well that I turned pale, that I al- most feU over, and how alarmed I was about it. Suppose he had come home, had found me swooning, with the drawer in my hand — a bad conscience can still make life interesting.

The title of the book did not strike me in itself; I thought it was a collection of excerpts which seemed quite natural to me since I knew that he had always pursued his studies with enthusiasm. It contained, however, something quite different. It was neither more nor less than a diary, carefully kept; and as I, from what I had formerly known about him, had not found that his life particularly needed a commentary, so now I do not deny, after that first glimpse, that the title was selected with much taste and understanding, with a true, aesthetically objective superiority over himself and over the situation. The title harmonizes perfectly with the whole content of the Diary. His life had been an at- tempt to realize the task of living poetically. With a keenly developed talent for discovering the interesting in life, he had known how to find it, and after finding it, he constantly reproduced the experience more or less poetically. His Diary is therefore neither historically exact nor simply narrative, not indicative, but subjrmctive. Although the experi- ence is naturally recorded after it has happened, sometimes, perhaps, a long time after, yet it is often described as if it were taking place at that very moment, as dramatically vivid as if the action were taking place before one’s eyes. That he should have done this because he had .any ulterior purpose in writing the Diary is highly improbable; that, con- sidered in the strictest sense, it merely had significance for himself per- sonally is obvious; and the whole production as well as the individual parts forbid the assumption that I have before me a poetical work, one perhaps intended for publication. He did not need to fear anything per- sonally in publishing it, for most of the names are so unusual that there is absolutely no probability of their being authentic, except that I have suspected that the Christian name was historically correct, so that he might always be sure of identifying the actual person, while every out- sider would be misled by the surname. Such at least was the case with Cordelia, the girl I knew, around whom the chief interest centers; she was rightfully called Cordelia, but not, however, Wahl.

Still, how can we accoimt for the fact that the Diary has acquired such a poetic coloring ? The answer to this is not diflScult; it is explained by the fact of his poetic temperament, which, we might say, is not rich

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so from his papers. He seems also to have been engaged in another kind of practice wholly characteristic of himj for he was far too intellectually inclined to be a seducer in the ordinary sense of the word. One learns too from the Diary, that it was sometimes something altogether arbi- trary that he sought, a mere greeting for example, and under no circum- stances would he accept more, because this was the most beautiful thing about the person concerned. By the aid of his intellectual endowments he had known how to tempt a young girl and attract her to himself, without really caring to possess her. I can imagine that he knew how to excite a girl to the highest pitch, so that he was certain that she was ready to saaifice everything. When the affair reached this point, he broke it off without himself having made the slightest advances, and without having let fall a single word of love, let alone a declaration, a promise. And still it had happened, and the consciousness of it was doubly bitter for the unhappy girl because there was not the slightest thin g to which she could appeal, because she was constandy tossed about by her varying moods in a terrible witches’ dance, in which she alter- nately reproached herself and forgave him, then presendy reproached him, and then, since the relationship had had reality only in a figurative sense, she must constandy struggle with the doubt as to whether the whole affair was not a figment of the imagination. She could not con- fide in anyone, for she had nothing definite to confide. When one has had a dream he can tell it to another person, but this which she had to tell was no dream, it was real, and yet when she wished to speak of it and relieve her troubled mind, there was nothing to tell. She felt it very keenly. No one could know about it except herself, and yet it rested upon her with an alarming weight.

Such victims were of a quite distinct nature. They were not the im- fortunate girls who, cast out, or believing that they wotald be cast out of society, waded loudly and whole-heartedly, who now and then when the heart became overcharged, found relief in hate or forgiveness. There was no visible change in their appearance; they maintained their cus- tomary relationships, as respected as ever, and yet they were changed, almost inexplicably to themselves, incomprehensibly to others. Their lives were not like those snapped off or broken, but they had become introspective; lost to others, they vainly sought to find themselves. In the same way as one might say that his way through life was untraceable (for his feet were so formed that he left no footprints, thus I best picture to myself his infinite self-reflection), in that same sense, one might say that no victim surrendered to him. He lived far too intellectually to be

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a seducer in the common understanding of the word. Sometimes, how- ever, he assumed a parastatic body, and was then sheer sensuality. Even his affair with Cordelia is so complicated that it was possible for him to appear as the one seduced; indeed, even the tonfortunate girl herself was sometimes bewildered about it; here, too, his footprints are so indistinct that any certainty is impossible. The individuals were merely a stimulus to him; he cast them off as a tree sheds its leaves — ^he bourgeons again, the leaves wither.

But how, I wonder, does he regard himself? As he has led others astray, so he ends, I think, by going astray himself. The others he per- verted not outwardly, but in their inward natures. There is something revolting when a man directs a traveler, perplexed about his way, to the wrong road, and then leaves him alone in his error; but what is that compared with causing a man to go astray inwardly? The lost wayfarer always has the consolation that the scene is constantly changing before him, and with every change there is born the hope of finding a way out He who goes astray inwardly has not so great a range; he soon discovers that he is going about in a circle from which he cannot escape. I think it will be this way with him later, to a still more terrible extent. I can imagine nothing more excruciating than an intriguing mind, which has lost the thread of its continuity and now turns its whole acumen against itself, when conscience awakens and compels the schemer to extricate himself from this confusion. It is in vain that he has many exits' from his foxhole; at the moment his anxious soul believes that it already sees day- light breaking through, it turns out to be a new entrance, and like a starded deer, pursued by despair, he constantly seeks a way out, and finds only a way in, through which he goes back into himself. Such a man is not always what we* might call a criminal, he is even frequendy disappointed by his intrigues, and yet a more terrible punishment over- takes him than befalls a criminal; for what is even the pain of remorse in comparison with this conscious madness? His punishment has a purely aesthetic character; for even to say that his conscience awakens is too ethical an expression to use about him. Conscience exists for him only as a higher degree of consciousness, which expresses itself in a dis- quietude that does not, m a more profound sense, accuse him, but which keeps him awake, and gives him no rest in his barren activity. Nor is he mad; for the multitude of finite thoughts are not petrified in the eternity of madness.

Poor Cordelia! For her too it will be diflScult to find peace. She for- gives him from the bottom of her heart, but she finds no rest, for then

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doubt awakens; it was she who broke the engagement^ she who was the occasion for the unhappiness, it was her pride which craved the un- common. Then she repents, but she finds no rest; for then the accusing thoughts acquit her: it was he who so subdy put this plan in her mind. Then she hates, her heart finds relief in curses, but she finds no rest; she again reproaches herself, reproaches herself because she has hated when she herself is the culprit, reproaches herself because however crafty he has been, she always remains guilty. It is hard for her that he has de- ceived her, even harder, one might almost be tempted to say, that he has developed the many-tongued reflection within her, that he has developed her aesthetically so far that she no longer listens humbly to one voice, but that she is able to hear many voices at one time. Then memory awakens within her, she forgets the fault and the guilt, she remembers the beauti- ful moments, and she is stimulated to an unnatural exaltation. In such moments she not only remembers him, she understands him with a clairvoyance which only shows how greatly she has developed. Then she sees him neither as criminal nor as a highminded person, she feels him only aesthetically. She had once written me a letter in which she ex- pressed her feeling about him. “Sometimes he was so intellectual that I felt myself annihilated as woman, at other times he was so wild and passionate, so filled with desire, that I almost trembled before him. Sometimes I was like a stranger to him, sometimes he was devotion it- self; whdi I then flung my arms about him, then sometimes everything was suddenly changed, and I embraced the cloud. I knew this expres- sion before I knew him, but he taught me to understand it. When I use it, I always think of him, just as I think all my thoughts in connec- tion with him. I have always loved music; he was a matchless instru- ment, always responsive; he had a range such as no musical instrument has; he was the epitome of all feelings and moods, no thoughts were too lofty for him, none too despairing, he could roar like an autumn gale, he could whisper soundlessly. No word of mine was without effect, and yet I cannot say that my word did not fail of its effect; for it was im- possible for me to know what effect it would have. With an indescrib- able but mysterious, blissful, inexpressible dread I listened to this music I had myself evoked, and yet did not evoke; always there was harmony, always I was carried away by him.”

Terrible as this is for her, it will be more terrible for him; this I can infer from the fact that even I am never quite able to control the anxiety that grips me every time I think about the case. I, too, am carried away into that nebulous realm, that dream world, where every moment one

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is afraid of his own shadow. Often I seek in vain to tear myself away, I follow along like a menacing shadow, an accuser who is mute. How strange! He has spread the deepest seaecy over everything, and yet there is an even deeper secret, and that is the fact that I am privy to it, that in a very reprehensible manner I have become privy to it. To forget the whole affair would not be possible. I have sometimes thought of speaking to him about it. Still, how would that help ? He would either deny everything, insist that the Diary was a poetic experiment, or he would impose silence upon me, something I could not refuse to promise, considering the manner in which I became aware of his secret. There is really nothing else which involves so much seduction, so many execra- tions, as a secret

I have received from Cordelia a collection of letters. Whether it in- cludes all of them I do not know, still it seems to me that she intimated that she had taken out some of them. I have taken a copy of them, and will now introduce them into my manuscript It is true that the dates are lacking, but even if I had them it would not help much, since the Diary as it progresses, becomes more and more sparing of dates, until at last it is a marked exception when one is given, as if the story in its progress becomes qualitatively significant to such a degree that although historically real, it comes nearer to being idea, and for this reason the time-determination becomes a matter of indifference. What did help me, however, is the fact that at different places in the Diary is found a word or two, whose significance I did not at first understand. By com- paring them with the letters, I finally realized that they furnish the motive for the letters. It will therefore be a simple matter to insert them in the right places, as I shall always introduce them where the motives seem to suggest them. Had I not found these suggestive leads, I should have been guilty of a misunderstanding, for it would not have occurred to me, as now from the Diary seems probable, that at times the letters followed one another so frequendy that she seems to have received several in one day. Had I followed my original intention, I should have distributed them more evenly, not suspecting what an effect he had pro- duced by the passionate energy with which he had employed this, as every means, to keep Cordelia at the highest point of passion.

In addition to the complete revelation of his relationship to Cordelia, the Diary also contained, interspersed here and there, several litde oc- casional sketches. Wherever these were found, there appeared the mar- ginal notation, n.b. These sketches have absolutely nothing to do with Cordelia’s story, but they have given me a vivid conception of the mean-

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ing of an expression he often used, which I formerly imderstood in a different way: “One ought always to have a little extra line out.” Had an earlier volume of the Diary fallen into my hands, I should probably have come across a number of these, which he somewhere on the margin characterized as actiones in distans", for he himself said that Cordelia occupied him too much for him really to have time to look aroimd.

Shordy after he had deserted Cordelia, he received from her two letters which he returned unopened. These were among the letters Cor- delia turned over to me. She had herself broken the seal, and so I ven- tured to copy them. She has never mentioned their content to me; on the other hand, when she mentioned her relationship to Johannes, she taually recited a litde verse, which, of course, I recognized as Goethe’s, which seemed to mean something different according to the diversity of her moods and the different expressions conditioned by these:

Gehc,

Verschm'dhe

DieTreue,

Die Rette Kommtnach.

The letters run as follows:

Johannes!

I do not call you mine, I realize very well that you have never been mine, and I am severely enough punished in that this thought once delighted my soul; and yet I call you mine; my seducer, my deceiver, my enemy, my murderer, the cause of my unhappiness, the grave of my joy, the abyss of my destruction. I call you mine, and I call myself yours, and as it once flattered your ear which proudly bent to receive my adoration, so shall it now sound like a curse upon you, a curse to all eternity. Rejoice not at the thought that it might be my intention to pursue you, or to arm myself with a dagger to incite your ridicule! Flee where you will, I am still yours; go to the uttermost parts of the earth, I am still yours; love a hundred others, I am still yours; aye, even in the hour of death I am yours. The very language I use against you must prove that I am yours. You have presumed to deceive a human being so that you became everything to me, so now will I find all my pleasure m bemg your slave, I am yours, yours, yours, your curse.

. Thy Cordelia.

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Johannes!

There was a rich man, he had great herds, and many cattle, small and great; there was a poor little maiden, she had only a single lamb, which ate from her hand and drank of her water. You were the rich man, rich in all the glories of the earth; I was the poor maiden who had only her love. You took it; you rejoiced in it; then passion beckoned you, and you did sacrifice the litde I possessed; of your own would you sacrifice nothing. There was a rich man who owned great herds, and many cattle great and small; there was a poor little maiden who had only her love.

Thy Cordelia.

Johannes!

Is there then no hope at all .? Will your love never awaken again ? For I well know that you did love me, even if I do not know what it is that assures me of it. I will wait, however long the time may be, I will wait, wait till you are weary of the other loves, then shall your love for me rise up from its grave, then will I love you as before, thank you as before, as before, O Johannes, as before! Johannes! is your heartless coldness against me, is it your true nature; was your love, your rich love, base and untruthful, are you now again your true self.? Have patience with my love, forgive me for continuing to love you. I well know that- my love is a burden to you, but there will come a day when you will Teturn to your Cordelia. Your Cordelia! Hear that pleading word! Your Cor- delia! Your Cordelia!

Thy Cordelia.

If Cordelia did not possess the compass she admired in her Johannes, one still sees clearly that she was not without modulation. Her mood is j plainly stamped upon each of her letters, even though she lacked a cer- tain clearness in the presentation. This is especially the case with the second letter, where one rather suspects than understands her meaning, but to me this imperfection makes it very touching.

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April 4.

Caution, my beautiful unknown! Caution! To step out of a carriage is not so simple a matter, sometimes it is a very decisive step. I might lend you a novel of Tieck’s in which you would read about a lady who in dismounting from her horse involved herself in an entanglement such that this step became definitive for her whole life. The steps on carriages, too, are usually so badly arranged that one almost has to for- get about being graceful and risk a desperate spring into the arms of coachman and footman. Really, coachmen and footmen have the best of it. I really believe I shall look for a job as footman in some house where there are young girls; a servant easily becomes acquainted with the secrets of a little maid like that.— -But for heaven’s sake, don’t jump, I beg of you! To be sure, it is dark; I shall not disturb you; I only pause under this street lamp where it is impossible for you to see me, and one is never embarrassed unless one is seen, and of course if one cannot see, one cannot be seen. — So out of regard for the servants who might not be strong enough to catch you, out of regard for the silk dress with its lacy fringes, out of regard for me, let this dainty Httle foot, whose slender- ness I have already admired, let it venture forth into the world, dare to trust that it will fed a footing. Should you tremble lest it should not fed it, or should you tremble after it has done so, then follow it quickly with the other foot, for who would be so cruel as to leave you in that position,^ imgracious, so slow in appreciating the revelation of beauty.? Or do you fear some intruder, not the servants of course, nor me, for I have already seen the little foot, and since I am a natural scientist, I have learned from Cuvier how to draw definite conclusions from such details. Therefore, hurry! How this anxiety enhances your beauty! Still anxiety in itself is not beautiful, it is so only when one sees at the same time the energy which overcomes it. Now! How firmly this little foot stands. I have noticed that girls with small feet generally stand more firmly than the more pedestrian large-footed ones.

Now who would have thought it.? It is contrary to all experience; one does not run nearly so much risk of one’s dress catching when one steps out of a carriage as when one jumps out. But then it is always risky for young girls to go riding in a carriage, lest they finally have to stay in it. The lace and ribbons are wasted, and the matter is over. No one has seen anything. To be sure a dark figure appears, wrapped to the eyes in a cloak. The light from the street lamp shines directly in your eyes so you cannot see whence he came. He passes you just as you are entering the door. Just at the critical second, a side glance falls upon its

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object. You blush, your bosom becomes too full to relieve itself in a single sigh; there is exasperation in your glance, a proud contempt; there is a prayer, a tear in your eye, both are equally beautiful, and I ac- cept both as my due; for I can just as well be the one thing as the other.

But I am still malicious — ^what is the number of the house ? What do I see? A window display of trinkets; my beautiful unknown, perhaps it may be outrageous in me, but I follow the gleam She has forgot-

ten the incident. Ah, yes, when one is seventeen years old, when at that happy age one goes shopping, when every object large or small that one handles, gives one unspeakable pleasure, then one easily forgets. She has not even seen me. I am standing at the far end of the coimter by myself. A mirror hangs on the opposite wall; she does not reflect on it, but the mirror reflects her. How faithfully it has caught her picture, like a humble slave who shows his devotion by his faithfulness, a slave for whom she indeed has significance, but who means nothing to her, who indeed dares to catch her, but not to embrace her. Unhappy mirror, that can indeed seize her image, but not herself! Unhappy mirror, which cannot hide her image in its secret depths, hide it from the whole world, but on the contrary must betray it to others, as now to me. What agony, if men were made like that! And are there not many people who are like that, who own nothing except in the moment when they show it to others, who grasp only the surface, not the essence, who lose everything if this appears, just as this mirror would lose her image, were she by a single breath to betray her heart to it?

And if a man were not able to hold a picture in memory even when he is present, then he must always wish to be at a distance from beauty, not so near that the earthly eye cannot see how beautiful that is which he holds, and which is lost 'to sight in his embrace. This beauty he can regain for the outward sight by putting it at a distance, but he may also keep it before the eyes of his soul, when he cannot see the object itself because it is too near, when lips are closed on lips. . . . Still, how beauti- ful she is! Poor mirror, it must be agony! It is well that you know no jealousy. Her head is a perfect oval, and she bends it a little forward, which makes her forehead seem higher, as it rises pure and proud, with no pv t-pm al evidence of intellectual faculties. Her dark hair wreathes itself softly and gently about her temples. Her face is like a fruit, every plane fully rounded. Her skin is transparent, like velvet to the touch, I can feel that with my eyes. Her eyes — ^well, I have not even seen them, they are hidden behind lids armed with silken fringes which curve up like hooks, dangerous to whoever meets her glance. Her head is a Ma-

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donna head, pure and innocent in cast; like a Madonna she is bending forward, but she is not lost in contemplation of the One. A variety of emotions finds expression in her countenance. What she considers is the manifold, the multitude of things over which worldly pomp and splendor cast their glamor. She pulls off her glove to show the mirror and myself a right hand, white and shapely as an antique, without adornment, and with no plain gold ring on her fourth finger. Good!— She looks up, and how changed everything is, and yet the same; the forehead seems lower, the oval of her face a little less regular, but more alive. She is talking now with the salesman, she is merry, joyous, chatty. She has already chosen two or three things, she picks up a fourth and holds it in her hand, again she looks down, she asks what it costs. She lays it to one side under her glove, it must be a secret, intended for— a lover.? — But she is not engaged. — ^Alas, there are many who are not en- gaged and yet have a lover; many who are engaged, and who still do not have one. . . .

Ought I to give her up ? Ought I to leave her undisturbed in her hap- piness ? . . . She is about to pay, but she has lost her purse She prob-

ably mentions her address, I will not listen to it, for I do not wish to deprive myself of surprise; I shall certainly meet her again in life, I shall recognize her, and perhaps she will recognize me; one does not forget my side glance so easily. Her turn will come when I am surprised at meetmg her in circles where I did not expect to. If she does not recog- nize me, if her glance does not immediately convince me of that, then I shall surely find an opportunity to look at her from the side, I promise that she will remember the situation. No impatience, no greediness, everything should be enjoyed in leismrely draughts; she is pointed, she shall be run down.

5th day.

I hke that! Alone in the evening on Eastern Street! Yes, I see the foot- man is following you. Do not believe I think so ill of you as to think you would go out quite alone; do not believe that I am so inexperienced that in my survey of the situation, I did not notice this sober figure. But why in such a hurry ? You are still a little anxious, you can feel your heart beating; this is not because of an impatient longing to get home, but because of an impatient fear stre amin g through your entire body with its sweet unrest, and hence the swift rhythm of your feet. — ^But still it is a splendid, priceless experience to go out alone— with the footman behind. You are sixteen years old, you are a reader, that is to say, you

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read novels. You have accidentally in going through your brothers’ room, caught a word or two of a conversation between them and an acquaintance, something about Eastern Street. Later you whisked through several times, in order, if possible, to get a litde more informa- tion. All in vain. One ought, it would seem, if one is a grown-up girl, to know a little something about the world. If without saying anything, one could only go out with the servant following. No, thank you. What kind of a face would Father and Mother make up, and, too, what ex- cuse could one give.? If one were going to a party, it would afford no opportunity, it would be a litde too early, for I heard August say, be- tween nine and ten o’clock. Going home it would be too late, and then one must usually have an escort to drag along with one. Thursday eve- ning when we return from the theater would seem to offer a splendid opportunity, but then we always go in the carriage and have Mrs. Thomsen and her worthy cousins packed in with us. If one ever had a chance to drive alone, then one could let down the window and look around a bit. Still, it is always the unexpected that happens. Today my mother said to me: “You have not yet finished your Father’s birthday present; to give you time to work undisturbed, you may go to your Aunt Jette’s and stay until tea time, and I’ll send Jens to fetch you!” It was really not a very pleasing suggestion, for Aunt Jette is very tiresome; but this way I shall be going home alone with the servant at nine o’clock. Then when Jens comes he will have to wait till a quarter of ten before leaving. Only I might meet my brother or August — ^that wouldn’t be so good, for then I should probably be escorted home— Thanks, but I prefer to be free, freedom— but if T could get my eye on them, so that they did not see me. —

Now, my litde lady, what do you see, and what do you think I see? In the first place, the litde cap you have on is very becoming, and quite harmonizes with the haste in your appearance. It is not a hat, neither is it a bonnet, but rather a kind of ho^. But you cannot possibly have worn that when you went out this morning. Could the servant have brought it, or could you have borrowed it from your Aunt Jette?— Per- haps you are incognito.— You should not lower the veil completely if you are going to make observations. Or perhaps it is not a veil, but only a piece of lace. It is impossible to tell in the dark. Whatever it is, it con- ceals the upper part of your face. Your chin is really pretty, a litde too pointed; your mouth is small, open a trifle; that is because you have gone so fast. Your teeth— white as snow. That is the way it should be, teeth are of the utmost importance; they are a life-guard, hiding behind

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the seductive softness of the lips. The cheeks glow with health. If one tips one’s head a little to the side, it might be possible to get a glimpse under the veil or lace.

Look out! An upward glance like that is more dangerous than a di- rect one. It is as in fencing; and what weapon is so sharp, so penetrating, so flashing in action, and hence so deceptive, as the eye? You feint a high quart, as fencers say, and attack in second; the swifter the attack follows the feint, the better. The moment of the feint is indescribable. The opponent, as it were, feels the slash, he is touched! Aye, that is true, but in quite a different place from where he thought. . . . Indefatigable she goes on, without fear and without reproach. Look out! Yonder comes a man; lower your veil, let not his profane glance besmirch you. You have no idea— it will perhaps be impossible for you for a long time, to forget the disgusting fear with which it touched you — ^you did not notice, as I did, that he had sized up the situation. Your servant is set upon as the nearest objective.— There, now you see the consequences of going out alone with a servant. The servant has fallen down. At bot- tom it is laughable, but what will you do now? That you should turn back and assist him in getting to his feet is impossible, to go on with a mud-stained servant is disagreeable, to go alone is dangerous. Look out! the monster approaches. . . . You do not answer me. Just look at me, is there anything about me to frighten you? I simply make no im- pression at all upon you. I seem to be a good-natured person from quite a different world. There is nothing in my speech to disturb you, nothing to remind you of the simation, no movement that in the least approaches too near you. You are still a little frightened, you have not yet forgotten the attempt of that sinister figure against you. You feel a certain kindli- ness toward me, the embarrassment that keeps me from looking directly at you makes you feel superior. It pleases you and makes you feel safe. You are almost tempted to poke a little fun at me. I wager that at this moment you would have the courage to take my arm, if it occurred to you. ... So you live on Storm Street. You curtsy to me coldly and in- differently. Have I deserved this, I who rescued you from the whole unpleasantness? You regret your coldness, you turn back, thank me for my courtesy, offer me your hand— why do you turn pale ? Is not my voice unchanged, my bearing the same, my glance as quiet and con- trolled? This handclasp? Can then a handclasp mean anything? Aye, much, very much, my little lady; within a fortnight I shall explain it all to you, until then you must rest in the contradiction that I am a good- natured man who, like a knight of old, came to the assistance of a young

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girl, and that I can also press her hand in a no less good-natured manner.

April 7.

“All right! Monday at one o’clock at the Exhibition.” Very well, I shall have the honor of appearing at a quarter of one. A litde rendez- vous. Last Saturday I finally put business aside, and decided to call upon my business friend, Adolph Bruun. Accordingly I set out about seven o’clock for Western Street where someone had told me he was living. However, I did not find him, not even on the third floor after I had puffed my way up. When I turned to go down stairs, my ear caught the sound of a musical feminine voice saying, “Then on Monday at one, at the Exhibition, when everybody is out, for you know I never dare to see you at home.” The invitation was not for me, but for a young man who was out of the door in a jiffy, so fast that my eyes could not even follow him, to say nothing of my feet. Why do they not have light on stair- ways ? Then I might perhaps have found out whether it would be worth while to be so punctual. Still, iE there had been a light, I probably should not have heard anything. What is is rational, and I am and re- main an optimist. . . . Now which one is she ? The place swarms with girls, to use Donna Anna’s expression. It is exacdy a quarter of one. My beautiful tmknown! I wish your intended were as punctual as I am, or perhaps you would rather not have him come fifteen minutes to,o early. As you will, I am at your service in every way “Charming enchant-

ress, witch or fairy, let your cloud vanish,” reveal yourself; you aip probably already here, but invisible to me; betray yourself, for otherwise I dare not expect a revelation. Could there perhaps be several here on a similar errand.? Possibly so, for who knows the way of a man, even when he goes to an exhibition.? — ^There comes a young girl through the front room, hurrying faster than a bad conscience after a sinner. She forgets to give up her ticket, the doorkeeper detains her. Heaven pre- serve usl Why is she in such a hurry.? It must be she. Why such un- seemly impetuosity.? It is not yet one o’clock. Remember that was the time you Were to meet your beloved. Are you on such occasions entirely indifferent as to how you look, or is it a case of putting your best foot forward.? When such an innocent young damsel goes to a rendezvous, she goes about the matter like a madman. She is all of a flutter. Mean- while I sit here comfortably in my chair and look at a delightful paint- ing of a rural scene. —

She is the child of the devil, the way she storms through all the rooms.

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You must learn to conceal your anxiety a little. Remember the advice given to the young Lisbed: “Is it becoming for a young girl to show her feelings like that?” Now of course this meeting is an innocent one. ... A rendezvous is generally regarded by lovers as a most beautiful moment. I even remember as clearly as if it were yesterday, the first time I hastened to the appointed place, with a heart as true as it was ignorant of the joy that awaited me; the first time I knocked three times, the first time a window opened, the first time a litde wicket gate was unfastened by the unseen hand of a girl who hid herself as she opened it; the first time I hid a girl imder my cloak in the light summer night. There is still much illusion blended in this judgment. The re- flective third party does not always find the lovers most beautiful at this moment. I have witnessed rendezvous where although the girl was char min g and the man handsome, the total impression was almost dis- gusting, and the meeting itself was far from being beautiful, although I supposed it seemed so to the lovers. As one becomes more experienced, he gains in a way; for though one loses the sweet unrest of impatient longing, he gains ability in making the moment really beautiful. I am vexed when I see a man with such an opportunity, so upset that mere love gives him delirium tremens. It is caviar to the general. Instead of having enough discretion to enjoy her disquiet, to allow it to enhance and inflame her beauty, he only produces a wretched confusion, and yet he goes.home joyously imagining it to have been a glorious experience.

But where the devil is the fellow ? It is nearly two o’clock. He surely is a fine fellow, this lover! Such a scoundrel, to keep a lady waiting for him! Now I, on the contrary, am a very trustworthy man! It might indeed be best to speak to her as she now passes me for the fifth time. “Pardon my boldness, fair lady. You doubtless are looking for your family. You have hurried past me several times, and as my eyes followed you, I noticed that you always stop in the next room; perhaps you do not know that there is still another room beyond that, possibly you might find your friends there.” She curtsied to me, a very becoming gesture. The occasion is favorable. I am glad the man has not come; one always fishes best in troubled waters. When a young girl is emo- tionally disturbed, one can successfully venture much which would otherwise be ill-advised. I bow to her as politely and distantly as pos- sible; I sit back again in my chair, look at my landscape, and watch her out of the comer of my eye. To follow her immediately would be too risky; it might seem intrusive to her, and put her on her guard. At present she believes that I addressed her out of sympathy, and I am in

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her good graces. — know very well that there is not a soul in that inner room. Solitude will be beneficial to her. As long as she sees many people about, she is disturbed; when she is alone, she will relax. Quite right that she should stay in there. After a littie I shall stroll by; I have earned a right to speak to her, she owes me at least a greeting.

She has sat down. Poor girl, she looks so sad, I believe she has been crying, at least she has tears in her eyes. It is outrageous — ^to make such a girl cry. But be calm, you shall be avenged, I will avenge you, he shall learn what it means to wait. — ^How beautiful she is, now that her con- flicting emotions have subsided and her mood is relaxed. Her being is a harmony of sadness and pain. She is really captivating. She sits there in a traveling dress, and yet she was not going to travel; she wandered out in search of joy, and it is now an indication of her pain, for she is like one from whom gladness flees. She looks like one who had forever said farewell to the beloved. Let him go! The situation is favorable, the moment beckons. Now may I express myself so that it will seem as if I think that she is looking for her family, or a party of friends, and yet warmly enough to make every word significant to her feelings, thus I get a chance to insinuate myself into her thoughts. . . . Now may the devil take the scoundrel! There is a man approaching, who undoubtedly is he. Now write me down as a bungler if I cannot shape the situation as I want it. Yes, indeed, a little finesse brings one well out of it. I must find out their relationship, bring myself into the situation. When she sees me she will involuntarily have to smile at my believing that she was looking for someone quite different. That smile makes me an accom- plice, which is always something . — A thousand thanks, my child, that smile is worth much more to me than you realize; it is the beginning, and the beginning is always the hardest Now we are acquainted, and our acquaintance is based on a piquant situation; it is enough for me until later. You will hardly remain here more than an hour; in two hours I shall know who you arej why else do you think the police main- tain a directory?

9th day.

Have I gone blind? Has the inner eye of my soul lost its power? I have seen her, but it is as if I had seen a heavenly vision, so absolutely has her image again vanished from me. Vainly have I exerted all the power of my soul to recall this image. If I were to meet her again, then I should recognize her instandy, even among a hundred other girls.

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Now she has fled away, and my soul’s eye vainly seeks to overtake her with its longing.— I was walking along the shore boulevard, apparently unconcerned and indifierent to my surroundings, although my roving eye let nothing pass unnoticed, when I saw her. My eye fixed itself steadfasdy upon her, it paid no attention to its master’s will. It was im- possible for me to direct its attention to the object I wished to look at, so I did not look, I stared. Like a fencer who becomes frozen in his pass, so was my eye fixed, petrified in the one appointed direction. It was im- possible for me to look away, to withdraw my glance, impossible for me to see because I saw too much. The only thing I have retained is that she wore a green cloak; that is all, that is what one may call catching the cloud instead of Juno; she slipped away from me as Joseph did from Potiphar’s wife, and left only her cloak behind. She was accompanied by a middle-aged lady, presumably her mother. I can describe her from top to toe, and that although I glanced at her only en passant. So it goes. The girl made an impression upon me, and I have forgotten her; the other made no impression upon me, and I can remember her.

nth day.

My soul is still ensnared in the same contradiction. I know that I have seen her, but I also know that I have forgotten her again, so that what memory retains carries no refreshment with it. With a violent unrest that stakes my well-being on the play, my soul demands that picture, and yet it does not appear; I could tear out my eyes to pimish them for their forgetfulness. Then when I have raged in impatience, when I have become quiet again, then it is as if anticipation and memory weave a picture which still does not take on a definite form, because I cannot make it coherent. It is like a pattern in a delicate tissue, it is lighter than the background, it cannot be seen by itself because it is too delicate. This is a peculiar state for me to be in, and yet it is not altogether un- pleasant because it proves to me that I am still young. Something else also shows me that, namely, that I constantly seek my prey among young girls, not among young women. A woman is less natural, more coquettish, an affair with her is not as beautiful, not as interesting; it is piquant, and the piquant is always the last. I had never expected to be able again to taste the first fruits of fancy; I am submerged in love, ducked, as the swimmers say; no wonder that I am a little dazed. So much the better, so much the more I promise myself from this affair.

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I scarcely recognize myself. My mind is like a turbulent sea, swept by the storms of passion. If another could see my soul in this condition, it would seem to him like a boat that buried its prow deep down in the sea, as if in its terrible speed it would rush down into the depths of the abyss. He does not see that high on the mast a look-out sits on watch. Roar on, ye wild forces, ye powers of passion! Let your dashing waves hurl their foam against the sky. You shall not pile up over my head; serene I sit like the king of the cliff.

I can hardly find a footing. Like a water-bird I seek in vain to alight on my mind’s turbulent sea. And yet such turbulence is my element; I build upon it as Alcedo ispida builds its nest on the sea.

Turkey gobblers flare up when they see red; so it is with me when I see green, whenever I see a green cloak; and then my eyes often deceive me, and sometimes all my hopes are frustrated by the livery of a porter from Frederik’s Hospital.

20th day

I must have more restraint, it is the chief requisite for all enjoyment. It does not look as if I shall very soon get any information about the girl who fills my soul and my thoughts so completely that the want is kept alive. I shall now keep very quiet, for this condition, this vague, in- definite, but still strong disquiet, has a sweetness of its own. I have al- ways loved to lie in a boat on a mooiflit night, out on one or another of our beautiful lakes. I haul in the sails, take in the oars and the rudder, stretch myself out full length, and gaze up at the blue vault of the heavens. When the waves rock the boat on their bosom, when the clouds scud fast before the wind so that the moon constantly vanishes and re- appears, then I find rest in this unrest. The motion of the waves lulls me, their lapping against the boat is a monotonous cradle song; the swift flight of the clouds, the shifting Ughts and shadows all intoxicate me, so that I am in a waking dream. So now I lie here with sails furled and rudder up, longing and impatient expectation toss me about in their arms; longing and expectation become more and more quiet, more and more blissful: they fondle me like a child, the heaven of hope arches over me, and her image floats across my vision like the moon’s, indistinct, now dazzling me with its light, now with its shadow. How much en-

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joyment in thus drifting on moving water— how much enjoyment in being moved passively.

2ist day

The days go by, and yet I am no nearer. Young girls please me more than ever, and still I have no desire to enjoy them. I seek her every- where. It often makes me unreasonable, dims my vision, enervates my pleasure. That beautiful season is now approaching when in the public life on the streets and in the lanes, one buys up those petty claims which in the social life of winter, cost dearly enough; for a young girl may for- get many things, but not a situation. Social intercourse, it is true, brings one into contact with the fair sex, but it is not the way to begin an affair. In society every young girl is armed, the occasion is poor, and encoun- tering it repeatedly, she gets no sensual thrill. On the street she is on the open sea, everything acts more strongly upon her, everything seems more mysterious. I would give a hundred dollars for a smile from a girl I met on the street, not ten dollars for a pressure of the hand at a party; that is an entirely different kmd of currency. When the affair is under way, then you may openly single out the party in question in society. You carry on a cryptic conversation with her; it is the most effective incitement I know. She does not dare to talk about it, and yet she keeps thinking about it; she does not know whether you have forgotten it or not; now you delude her in one way, now in another. This year I shall probably not collect much, this girl absorbs too much of my attention. In a certain sense my returns are poor, but then I have the prospect of the grand prize.

5th day

Accursed Chance! Never have I cursed you because you have ap- peared; I curse you because you do not appear at all. Or is this perhaps a new invention of yoiurs, unfathomable being, barren mother of all, sole remnant of the past, when necessity gave birth to freedom, when freedom was again lured back into its mother’s womb? Accursed Chancel You, my only accomplice, the only being whom I consider worthy of being my ally and my enemy; always yourself, alike in un- likeness, always incomprehensible, always a riddle! You whom I love with all my soul, in whose image I mold myself, why do you not show yourself? I do not beg you, I do not humbly entreat you to show yourself in this manner or that; such worship would be idolatry, not acceptable unto you. I challenge you to battle, why do you not appear?

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Or has the pendulum of the world system stopped, is your riddle solved, so that you too have hurled yourself into the sea of eternity ? Terrible thought, then is the world come to a standstill from boredom! Accursed Chancel I await you. I shall not overcome you with principles, nor with what foolish people call character; no, I will be your poet! I will not be a poet for others; show yourself! I will be your poet, I will honor you with suitable verse, and that will sustain me. Or do you think I am not worthy } Like a Nautch girl dancing to the honor of her gods, so have I devoted myself to your service. Nimble, thinly clad, agile, unarmed, I renoimce everything for you. I own nothing, I desire to own nothing, I love nothing, I have nothing to lose, but I am not therefore more wor- thy of you, you who long ago must have wearied of tearing human beings away from what they love, tired of their cowardly sighs and cowardly prayers. Surprise me, I am ready, no stakes, let us fight for honor. Show her to me, show me a possibility which seems an impos- sibility; show her to me among the shades of the underworld, I fetch her back;, let her hate me, despise me, be indifierent to me, love another, I am not afraid; only let the waters be troubled, the silence be broken. To starve me in this way is paltry of you, you who imagine that you are stronger than I am.

May 6th

Spring is at hand. Everything is blossoming out, including the young girls. Coats are laid aside, probably my green one too is put away. This is what comes of making a girl’s acquaintance on the street, instead of in society where one may learn immediately what her name is, who her f amil y is, where she lives, whether she is betrothed. This last is very important information for all sedate and constant suitors who would never think of falling in love with an engaged girl. Such a slow-poke would be fatally embarrassed if he were in my place; he would be entirely devastated if he succeeded in getting information, and learned in addition that she was engaged. This, however, would not worry me very much. An engagement is only a comic difl&culty. I fear neither comic nor tragic difficulties; the only one I fear is the tedious one. Even yet I have not obtained a single bit of information, despite the fact that I have certainly left nothing untried, and have often felt the truth of the poet’s words:

Nox et hiems longaeque viae saevique iolores mollibus his castris, et labor omnis inest.

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Perhaps after all she does not live here in town, perhaps she is from the country, perhaps, perhaps — can become furious over all these perhapses, and the more furious I become, the more perhapses. I always have money in readiness for a journey. I seek her in vain at the theater, at concerts, balls, and on the promenades. In a certain way it pleases me; a young girl who participates too much in such recreations is usually not worth making a conquest of. She is very often lacking the primi- tiveness which is always conditio sine qua non for me. It is less incon- ceivable to think of finding a Preciosa among the gypsies than in the assembly halls where young girls are offered for sale — ^in all innocence, of course, the Lord preserve us, who says otherwise!

i2th day

Really, my child, why do you not stand quiedy in the doorway? There is nothing to criticize about a young girl’s stopping in a doorway out of the rain. I do the same myself when I have no umbrella, some- times when I have one, as now, for instance. Besides, I could mention a number of married ladies who have not hesitated to do so. One has only to stand quiedy, turn her back to the street, so that passers-by may not know whether she is standing there, or is about to enter the house. On the other hand, it is improper to hide behind the half-opened door, principally on account of the consequences, for the more you conceal yourself, .the more unpleasant it is to be surprised. If, however, you do try to hide, you should stand quite still, committing yourself to the care of your good genius and guardian angel; especially should you refrain from peeping out — to see if it has stopped raining. If you really want to know, then you should step boldly out, and look earnestly up at the sky. But if you poke your head out a little curiously, bashfully, anxiously, uncertainly, and then hurriedly draw it back — ^then every child under- stands it, they call it playing peek-a-boo. And if I were playing, I should do as I always do in play, I should hold back, and not answer when you called. . . . Do not believe that I am criticizing you, you had no ulterior motive in sticking your head out. It was the most innocent action in the world. In return you must not reproach me in your thoughts, must not insult my good name and reputation. After all it was you who started this. I advise you never to tell anyone about this affair; you were really in the wrong. What have I proposed to do other than any gentleman would— to offer you my umbrella ? Now where has she gone ? Excellent, she has hidden herself in the porter’s doorway. — She is a most rharming little girl, merry and happy. “Perhaps you could tell me about a young

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lady who just this blessed moment was looking out o£ the door, evi- dently in need of an umbrella. I am looking for her, I and my um- brella.” — ^You laugh — ^perhaps you allow me to send my servant in the morning to fetch it, or you suggest that I should call a cab — ^nothing to thank me for, it is only a simple courtesy. She is certainly the most pleasing little maiden I have seen in a long time, her glance is so child- like and yet so fearless, her personality is charming, so pure, and yet she is curious. — Go in peace, my child; if it were not for a certain green cloak, then I might have desired to establish a closer acquaintance. — She is going down to the principal shopping district. How guileless and trusting she was, not a trace of prudery. See how lightly she walks, how bravely she holds her head — ^the green cloak certainly demands self- denial.

15th day.

Thank you, kind Chance, accept my gratitude! Straight was she and proud, mysterious and thought-provoking as a spruce tree, a shoot, a thought, which from the depths of earth shoots up toward heaven, tmexplained and inexplicable, an undivided unity. The beach tree forms a crown; its leaves whisper about what is taking place down beneath it. The spruce has no crown, no story, itself mysterious — ^as she was. She was hidden in herself, she rose up out of herself, a serene pride was hers, like the daring spirit of the spruce, even though rooted to earth. A sadness enveloped her like the mournful cooing of the stock- dove, a profound longing which wanted nothing. A riddle she was, mysteriously possessed of her own solution, a secret mystery, and what are all the secrets of the diplomats in comparison with this enigma, and what in all the world is so beautiful as the word which solves it? How significant, how pregnant, the language is: to solve, what an ambiguity it implies, how beautiful and how strong are all the combinations where this word appears. As the wealth of the soul is a riddle as long as the tongue remains silent and the riddle unsolved, so, too, a young girl is a

riddle. Thanks, kind Chance, accept my gratitude! If I had seen

her in vdnter, then she would have been enveloped in the green cloak, cold perhaps, and the inclemency of the weather might have made her less beautiful. Now, however, what luck! I get to see her first in the most beautiful time of the year, in the spring, in the light of late after- noon. True, winter also has its advantages. A brilliantly lighted ball- room can indeed be a flattering setting for a young lady in evening dress; but she seldom appears to the best advantage, partly because so

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much is required of her, and this requirement acts disturbingly upon her whether she gives way to it or resists it; partly because everything suggests vanity and the transitory, and produces an impatience which makes the enjoyment less refreshing. There are certain times when I should not wish to dispense with the ball-room, to dispense with its costly luxury, its precious abundance of youth and beauty, its manifold play of forces. But I do not so much enjoy as I revel in its possibiUties. It is not a single beauty who captivates me, but a totality; a vision floats past me iu which all these feminine natures blend into one another, and all these emotions seek something, seek rest in one composite picture which is not seen.

It was on the path between the north and east gates, about half past six. The sun had lost its intensity, only the memory of it remained in a mild, radiance spreading over the landscape. Nature breathed more freely. The lake was calm, smooth as a mirror, the comfortable houses on Bleachers’ Green were reflected in the water, which farther out was dark as metal. The path and buildings on the other side were lighted up by the faint rays of the setting sun. The sky was clear and bright, only a single fleecy cloud floated unnoticed across it, best seen by looking at the lake, beyond whose shiamg surface it was lost to view. Not a leaf moved. — It was she! My eye had not deceived me, even if the green coat had done so. Although I had long been prepared for this moment, it was still impossible for me to control a certain excitement, a rising and falling, like the song of the lark soaring above the adjacent fields. She was alone. Again have I forgotten how she was dressed, and yet now I have a picture of her. She was alone, preoccupied, manifestly not with herself but with her thoughts. She was not thinking, but the quiet play of her thoughts wove a picture of longing before her soul, a picture which held a certain foreboding, imdarified as, a young girl’s many sighs. She was at her most adorable age. A young girl does not develop in the sense that a boy does; she does not grow, she is born. A boy begins to develop at once, and takes a long time for the process; a young girl takes a long time in being born, and is born full-grown. Therein lies her infinite richness; at the moment she is born she is full-grown, but this moment of birth comes late. Hence she is twice born, the second time when she marries, or, rather, at this moment she completes her birth, at that moment she is first really bom. It is not only Minerva who sprang full-grown from the head of Jupiter, not only Venus who rose in all her beauty from the depths of the sea; every young girl is like this if her womanliness has not been destroyed by what men call develop-

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ment. She does not awaken by degrees, but all at once, meantime she dreams the longer, if people are not inconsiderate enough to arouse her too early. But her dream has infinite richness.

She was preoccupied not with herself, but in herself, and this pre- occupation afforded infinite rest and peace to her soul. Thus is a young girl rich; to embrace this richness makes one himself rich. She is rich although she does not know that she possesses anything; she is rich, she is a treasure! Quiet peace broods over her, and a little melancholy. She was light to look upon, as light as Psyche who was carried away by the Zephyrs, even lighter, for she carried herself away. Let the theologians dispute about the ascension of the Madonna; that does not seem incon- ceivable to me, for she no longer belonged to the world; but a young girl’s lightness is incomprehensible and baffles the law of gravity. — She noticed nothing, and for that reason believed herself unnoticed. I kept my distance from her, and absorbed her image. She walked slowly, no precipitancy disturbed her peace or the quiet of her surroundings. A boy sat by the lake fishing. She stood still and watched the cork float- ing on the water. She had not walked very fast, but she wanted to cool off. She loosened a litde scarf that was fastened about her neck under her shawl; a soft breeze from the water fanned her bosom, white as snow, and yet warm and full. The boy did not seem to like to have any- one watch his catch, he turned around and looked her over with a rather phlegmatic glance. He really cut a ridiculous figure, ^d I did not wonder that she began to laugh at him. How youthfully she laughed! If she had been alone with the boy, I do not believe she would have been afraid to fight with him. Her eyes were large and radiant; when one looked into them they had a dark luster which suggested an infinite depth, impossible to fathom; pure and innocent it was, gende and quiet, full of mischief when she smiled. Her nose was finely arched; when I saw her profile, her nose seemed to merge into her forehead, which made it look a litde shorter, a little more spirited.

She walked on, I followed. Fortunately there were many strollers on the path. While I exchanged a word or two with one and another of my acq uaintan ce, I let her gain a litde on me, and then soon overtook her again, thus relieving myself of the necessity of walking as slowly as she did, while keeping my distance. She went toward Eastgate. I was anxious to get a nearer view without being seen. On the corner stood a house from which I mi gh t be able to do so. I knew the family, and consequendy needed only to call upon them. I hurried past her at a rapid pace as if I had not noticed her in any way. I got a long way ahead

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of her, greeted the f amil y right and left, and then took possession of the window that looked out upon the path. She came, I looked and looked, while at the same time I carried on a conversation with the tea party in the drawing room. Her walk readily convinced me that she had not taken many dancing lessons, and yet there was a pride in it, a natural nobility, but a lack of attention to details in herself. I got to see her one more time than I had coimted on. From the window I could not see very far along the path, but I could see a pier extending out into the lake, and to my great surprise I caught sight of her again out there. It occurred to me that perhaps she lived out here in the country, that perhaps her family had a summer home here.

I was on the point of regretting my call, for fear that she might turn back and I thus lose sight of her, indeed the fact that she was already at the far end of the pier indicated that she would soon turn back and disappear, when she reappeared close by. She was walking past the house, and in great haste I seized my hat and stick in order, if possible, to pass her and then again fall behind as many times as might be neces- sary, until I found out where she lived— when in my haste I happened to jostle the arm of a lady who was just about to serve tea. A frightful screaming arose. I stood there with my hat and stick, anxious only to get away. To turn the incident off and motivate my retreat, I exclaimed pathetically: “Like Cain, I shall be banished from the place where this tea was spilled!” But as if everything had conspired against me, my host conceived the preposterous idea of continuing my remarks, and declared loudly and solemnly that I should not be allowed to go a single step until I had enjoyed a cup of tea, and had also served the ladies with tea in place of that which was spilled, thus setting everything right again. Since I was perfectly certain that my host under the circumstances would consider it courteous to detain me by force, there was nothing I could do except to stay. — She had vanished!

16th day

How beautiful it is to be in love, how interesting to know that one is in love. Lo, that is the difference. I could become embittered at the thought that for a second time I have lost sight of her, and yet in a certain sense it pleases me. The image I now have of her shifts uncer- tainly between being her actual and her ideal form. This picture I now summon before me; but precisely because it either is reality, or the reality is the occasion, if has a peculiar fascination. I am not impatient, for she certainly lives in the town, and that is enough for me at present. This possibility is the condition of her image appearing so clearly —

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everything should be savored in slow draughts. And should I not be content, I who regard myself as a favorite of the gods, I who had the rare good fortune to fall in love again? That is something that no art, no study can effect, it is a gift. But having been fortunate enough to start a new love affair, I wish to see how long it can be sustained. I coddle this love as I never did my first. The opportunity falls to one’s lot seldom enough, so if it does appear, then it is in truth worth seizing; for the fact is enough to drive one to despair, that it requires no art to seduce a girl, but that one is fortunate to find one worth seducing. — Love has many mysteries, and this first falling in love is also a mystery, even though a minor one — ^most people who rush into it become en- gaged or commit some other foolishness, and in the twist of a wrist it is all over, and they neither know what they have gained nor what they have lost. Twice now has she appeared before me and vanished; that signifies that she will soon appear again. When Joseph interpreted Pharaoh’s dream, he added: “And the fact that thou didst dream this twice, signifies that it will soon be fulfilled.”

Still, it would be interesting if one could see a little in advance the forces whose coming makes up life’s content. She lives now in her quiet peace; she does not even suspect that I exist, even less what goes on in my inner consciousness; still less the certainty with which I peer into her future; for my soul demands more and more reality, it becomes stronger and stronger. When a girl at first sight does not produce a deep enough impression upon one to arouse the ideal, then the reality is generally not particularly desirable; on the other hand, if she does arouse the ideal, then however experienced one may be, he is usually a little overwhelmed. I always advise anyone who is not certain of his hand, his eye, his victory, to risk the attack at this first stage, just be- cause he is so overwhelmed that it gives him supernatural powers; for this excessive emotion is a curious blending of love and egoism. He will, however, miss some of the enjoyment; for he is too much involved in the situation to enjoy it. Which is the more attractive choice is difficult to decide, which the more interesting, is easy. However, it is always well to come as near the dividing line as possible. This affords me the real enjoyment, but what others may enjoy, I do not know with certainty. Mere possession is not worth much, and the means which such lovers employ is generally wretched enough. They do not disdain the use of money, power, influence, soporifics, and so on. But what enjoyment can there be in love if there is not the most absolute self-surrender, at least

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on one side? But such submission as a rule requires spirit, and such lovers are usually destitute of spirit.

19th day.

So her name is Cordelia. Cordelia! That is a lovely name, and that, too, is of importance, since it is often very embarrassing to have to use an ugly name in connection with the tenderest predicates. I recognized her a long way off; she was walking with two other girls on the left side. Their pace seemed to indicate that they would soon stop. I stood on a street corner and read a poster, while constantly keeping an eye on my unknown. They took leave of each other. The two had evidently gone a litde out of their way, for they took an opposite direction. She came on toward my corner. When she had taken a few steps, one of the other girls came running after her, calling loudly enough for me to hear: Cordelia! Cordelia! Then the third girl came up, and they stood with their heads together for a secret conference, which I tried in vain to hear. Then all three laughed and went away somewhat more hastily in the direction the two had taken before. I followed them. They went into a house on the Strand. I waited a long time since it seemed probable that Cordelia might soon return alone. However that did not happen.

Cordelia! That is a really excellent name, and it was also the name of King Lear’s third daughter, that remarkable girl who did not carry her heart on her lips, whose lips were silent while her heart beat warmly. So it is with my Cordelia. She resembles her, I am certain of that. But in another way she does wear her heart on her lips, not in the form of words, but more cordially in the form of a kiss. How healthily full her lips were! Never have I seen prettier ones.

That I am really in love I can tell among^other things by the reticence with which I deal with this matter, even to myself. All love is secretive, even faithless love, when it has the proper aesthetic factor in it. It never occurred to me to desire a confidant or to boast of my affairs. So I am almost glad that I did not find out where her -home is, but only a place where she often comes. Perhaps on account of this I have also come a little nearer to my goal. I can, without attracting her attention, start my investigations, and from this fixed point it will not be difficult to secure an approach to her family. Should this circumstance, however, appear to be a difficulty— eA hienl It is all in the day’s work; everything I do, I do con amorc', and so too I love con amwe.

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279 20th day.

Today I got some information about the house into which she disap- peared. It belongs to a widow by the name of Jansen, who is blessed with three daughters. I can get an abundance of information there, that is to say, insofar as they have any. The only difficulty is in unders tandin g this information when raised to the third power, for all three talked at once. Her name is Cordelia Wahl, and she is the daughter of a sea captain. He died some years ago, and her mother also. He was a very hard and austere man. She now lives with an aunt, her father’s sister, who resembles her brother, but who otherwise is a very respectable woman. This is good as far as it goes, but for the rest, they know nothing about the house. They never go there, but Cordelia often visits them. She and the two girls are taking a course in cooking at the Royal Kitchen. For this reason she usually comes there early in the afternoon, sometimes in the morning, but never in the evening. They live a very secluded life.

Thus her story ends. There appears to be no bridge by which I can slip over into Cordelia’s house.

She has then some understanding of the sorrows and of the dark side of life. Who would have suspected it? Still, these recollections belong to her earlier years; they are a shadow on her horizon, imder which she has lived, but which she has never really noticed. It really is a very good thing; it has saved her womanliness, she is not spoiled. On the other hand, it will be important in raising her to a higher level, if one really understands how to bring it out. All such circumstances usually develop pride if they do not crush, and she is certainly far from being crushed.

2ist day

She lives near the wall; the location is not of the best for me, no neighbors whose acquaintance I might make, no public places where I might make my observations unnoticed. The ramparts themselves are little suitable, one is too conspicuous. If one walks down the street, one can hardly cross over to the side by the wall, for no one goes there and it would be very noticeable; if one walks by the houses, one can see nothing. It is a corner house; from the street one can also see the win- dows overlooking the yard, there being no house next door. That is probably her bedroom.

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22nd day.

Today I saw her for the first time at Mrs. Jansen’s. I was introduced to her. She did not seem to care much about it, or to pay any attention to me. I made myself as inconspicuous as possible in order to observe her the better. She stayed only a moment, she had merely called for the daughters on the way to cooking school. While the two Miss Jansens were getting their wraps, we two were alone in the room. With a cold, almost supercilious indifference, I made some remark to her, to which she replied with a courtesy altogether undeserved. Then they left. I could have offered to accompany them, but that might have set me down as a ladies’ man, and I am convinced that she is not to be won that way. — On the contrary, I preferred to leave a moment after they 'had gone, but to go more rapidly than they, and by another street, but likewise in the direction of the cooking school, so that just as they turned into Great Kiingstreet, I passed them in the greatest hurry, with- out even a greeting or other recognition, to their great astonishment.

23rd day.

It is necessary for me to gain entrance to her home, and, in military parlance, I am ready. It continues to be, however, a rather complicated and diflScult problem. I have never known a family so isolated. There are only herself and her aunt. No brothers, no cousins, not a thread to get hold of, no relatives however distant that one might lock arms with. I constantly go about with one arm hanging free. Not for anything in the world would I at this time go arm in arm with anyone; my arm is a grappling hook always in readiness; it is designed for the uncertain returns, on the chance that there might appear in the distance, a long lost relative or friend from far away, from whom I might get a helping hand— and so clamber aboard. Anyway it is entirely wrong for a f amil y to live so isolated; it deprives the poor girl of every opportunity of get- ting to know the world, to say nothing of other dangerous consequences. It always defeats itself. It is true about suitors also. By such isolation one may guard against petty thievery. In a very hospitable house the oppor- tunities for theft are greater. That is, however, not so important, for with such girls there is not much to steal; when they are sixteen years old, their hearts are already completely filled samplers, and I never care about writing my name where many have already written. It never occurs to me to scratch my name on a window pane, or ia an inn, or upon a tree or a bench in Frcderiksberg Park.

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281 27th day.

The more I see of her the more I am convinced that she is a very isolated figure. A man ought never to be so, not even a young man; for since his development essentially depends upon reflection, he must therefore be in touch with others. A young girl should never try to be interesting, for the interesting always implies a reflection upon itself, just as in art the interesting always reflects the artist. A young girl who wishes to please by being interesting, usually succeeds only in pleasing herself. From the aesthetic side this is the objection to all forms of coquetry. Natural reactions are quite a different matter from all this improper coquetry, as for instance, the feminine blush of modesty, which is always coquetry in its most lovely form.

It may indeed happen that an interesting girl is also pleasing, but she has really renounced her femininity so that the men she pleases are usually the effeminate ones. Such a young girl really first becomes inter- esting through her relationship to a man. Woman is the weaker sex, and yet she needs far more essentially to be alone in her youth than a man does; she must be self-contained, but that in which and through which she is self-contained is an illusion; this illusion is the dowry Nature has bestowed upon her, like that of a king’s daughter. But this resting in illusion is just what isolates her. I have often wondered how it happens that there is nothing more demoralizing for a young girl than constant association with other young girls. This is evidently due to the fact that this companionship is never wholly one thing or the other; it disturbs the illusion, but it does not clarify it. Woman’s most profound destiny is to be a companion to man, but through association with her own sex her reflection becomes centered on this association, and instead of becoming a companion, she becomes a lady’s companion. The language itself is significant in this respect Man is called master, but woman is not called servant or the like; no, the category of the essential is used; she is companion, not lady’s companion.

If I were to imagin e my ideal girl, she would always be alone in the world, and thereby be self-contained, and especially she would not have girl friends. It is indeed true that there were three Graces, but it certainly has never occurred to anyone to imagine them talking together; they formed in their silent trinity a beautiful feminine unity. In this respect I would almost be tempted to recommend reviving the lady’s bower, if this restraint was not also injurious. It is always highly desirable that a young girl be permitted liberty, but that no opportunities be offered her. Thus she becomes beautiful, but she is saved from becoming inter-

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csting. For a young girl who has been much in the company of other young girls, the bridal veil is a mockery, but a man who has true aesthetic appreciation, always wishes a girl who is innocent in the deep- est and truest sense, to be brought to him veiled, even if bridal veils are not in fashion.

She has been strictly brought up, for which I honor her parents even in their graves; she lives a very secluded existence, for which I could fall on her aunt’s neck in gratitude. She has not learned to know the pleasures of the world, she has not a surfeit of small talk. She is proud, she disregards that which other young girls enjoy, and this is as it should be. That is a contradiction that I shall know how to profit by. Pomp and ceremony do not please her in the same sense that they please other girls; she is a little polemic, but this is necessary for a young girl’s en- thusiasms. She lives in a world of fantasy. If she fell into the wrong hands, it might bring out something very unfeminine in her, precisely because she is so very feminine.

30th day.

Everywhere our paths cross. Today I met her three times. I am con- scious of her slightest movement, when and where I shall meet her; but this knowledge is not used to secure a meeting with her; on the con- trary, I squander my opportunities on a frightful scale. A meeting which has cost’ me many hours of waiting is thrown away like a mere baga- telle. I do not meet her, I touch only the periphery of her existence. If I know that she is going to Mrs. Jansen’s, then my arrival does not coin- cide with hers, imless I have some important observation to make. I prefer to arrive a little early at Mrs. Jansen’s, and then to meet her, if possible, at the door or upon the steps, as she is coming and I am leav- ing, when I pass her by indifferently. This is the first net in which she must be entangled. I never stop her on the street; I may bow to her, but I never come close to her, but always keep my distance. Our continual encounters are certainly noticeable to her; she does indeed perceive that a new body has appeared on her horizon, whose orbit in a strangely imperturbable manner afiects her own distiurbingly, but she has no con-, ception of the law governing this movement; she is rather inclined to look about to see if she can discover the point controlling it, but she is as ignorant of being herself this focus as if she were a Chinaman. It is with her as with my associates in general: they believe that I have a multiplicity of affairs, that I am always on the move, and that I say with Figaro, “on^ two, three, four, intrigues at the same time, that is my

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delight.” I must first know her and her entire intellectual background before beginning my assault. Most men enjoy a young girl as they do a glass of champagne, in a single frothing moment. Oh, yes, that is all right, and in the case of many young girls it is really the most one can manage to get; but here there is more. If the individual girl is too frail to endure the clearness and transparency, O well, then one enjoys the obscurity, but she can evidendy endure it. The more one can sacrifice to love, the more interesting. This momentary enjoyment is, if not in a physical yet in a spiritual sense, a rape, and a rape is only an imagined enjoyment; it is like a stolen kiss, a thing which is rather unsatisfactory. No, when one can so arrange it that a girl’s only desire is to give herself freely, when she feels that her whole happiness depends on this, when she almost begs to make this free submission, then there is first true enjoyment, but this always requires spiritual influence.

Cordelia! What a glorious name! I sit at home alone by myself, and I repeat it parrot-like, I say: Cordelia, Cordelia, my Cordelia, my own Cordelia. I can hardly keep from smiling at the thought of how I, by means of this routine, shall be able to say these words when the decisive moment comes. One should always make preliminary studies, every- thing must be properly planned. It is no wonder that poets always de- scribe as the most beautiful moment the one when the lovers first call each other by their first names, when the lovers, not by sprinkling (although many never come any further than that), but by immersing themselves in the waters of love, rise from that baptism as old friends, though they have known one another but a short time. To a young ^1 that moment is always the most beautiful, and in order to enjoy it rightly, one ought always to be something a little higher, not only a baptizer, but also a priest. A little irony makes the next moment the interesting one, it is a spiritual undressing. One must be poet enough not to disturb the ceremony, and yet rascal enough to leer at it.

June 2nd.

She is proud, I have seen that for a long time. When she is in the company of the three Jansens she talks very little, their chatter evidently bores her, and certainly the smile on her lips seems to indicate it, I am relying on that smile. At other times she can let herself go in almost boyish wildness, to the great surprise of the Jansens. It is not inexpli- cable to me when I consider her childhood. She had only one brother, who was a year older. She knew only her father and brother, had been

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a witness to very serious scenes, which gave her a distaste for gossip in general. Her father and mother had not lived happily together; that which usually appeals to a young girl more or less clearly or vaguely, has no attraction for her. It may possibly be that she is puzzled about what it means to be a woman. Perhaps she may wish that she had been a boy instead of a girl.

She has imagination, spirit, passion, in short, all the substantialities, but she is not subjectively self-conscious. I learned that by chance today. I had learned from the Jansen firm that she does not play, that it is against her aunt’s principles. I regret this, for music is always a good means of communicating with a girl, when one, mark this well, is pru- dent enough not to pose as a connoisseur. Today I went to Mrs. Jan- sen’s. I had half opened the door without knocking, an effrontery that has often served me well, and which, when necessary, I turn into a jest by knocking on the open door — she sat alone at the piano — she seemed to be playing by stealth — ^it was a little Swedish melody; she did not play it very well, she became impatient, and then again, she played more sofdy. I closed the door and stood outside, listening to the change in her moods; there was sometimes a passion in her playing which reminded one of the maiden Mettelil, who smote the golden harp so passionately that milk gushed from her breasts. There was some sadness, but also something dithyrambic in her execution. — might have rushed in, seized the moment — ^that would have been foolish. — ^Memory is not only a means of preserving but also of enhancing; what is permeated by memory has a two-fold effect. — One often finds, in books, especially in psalters, a little flower — ^there had been a beautiful moment which had furnished the occasion for keeping this, and yet the memory is even more beautiful. She is evidendy concealing the fact that she plays, or perhaps she plays only this litde Swedish melody — ^has it perhaps a special interest for her.? All this I do not know, but therefore this inci- dent is very important to me. When sometime I can talk more con- fidentially with her, I shall slyly lead her to this point, and let her fall into the trap.

June 3rd.

Even yet I cannot decide how she is to be tmderstood. Therefore I wait very quietly, very inconspicuously — aye, like a soldier on vidette duty who throws himself on the ground and listens for the faintest sound of an approaching enemy. I really do not exist for her in any real sense, not only not in a negative relationship, but simply not at all.

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Even yet I have not dared to experin^ent. — ^To see her was to love her, that is the way it is described in novels — ^aye, it is true enough, i£ love had no dialectics; but what does one really learn about love from nov- els ? Sheer lies, which help to shorten the task.

When now after what I have learned, I think back upon the impres- sion that first meeting made upon me, I find my ideas about her are considerably modified, to her advantage as well as to my own. It is quite unusual for a young girl to go about so much alone, or that a young girl should be so introspective. I subjected her to my strict criterion: charm- ing. But charm is a very fleeting factor, which is as yesterday when it is past. I had not imagined her in the environment in which she lives, least of all had I pictured her so unreflectingly familiar with the stormy side of life.

I wonder how it is with her emotions. She has certainly never been in love, for her spirit is too free-soaring for that, nor is she by any means one of those theoretically experienced maidens, who, long before their time, are so familiar with the thought of being in the arms of the loved one. The figures she has met in real life have not been able to bring her out of her lack of clarity as to the relation of dreams to reality. Her soul is indeed nourished on the divine ambrosia of the ideal. But this ideal which hovers before her, is not merely a shepherdess or a heroine of romance, or a mistress, it is someone like a Jeanne d’Arc.

The question is always whether her femininity is strong enough to become reflective, or whether it is only to be enjoyed as beauty and charm; the question is whether one dares to tense the bow more strongly. It is indeed a wonderful thing to find a pure immediate femi- ninity, but if one dares to attempt a change, then one gets the interest- ing. In such a case it is always best simply to provide her with a suitor. Some people are superstitious enough to believe that this would be in- jurious for a young girl.— If she is, indeed, a very fine and delicate plant whose charm is her crowning quality, then it might always be best for her never to hear love mentioned, but if this is not the case, it is an ad- vantage, and I should never hesitate to bring forward a suitor, providing there were none. This suitor must not be a mere caricature, for then

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nothing is gained; he must be a respectable young man, attractive if pos- sible, but not a man big enough for her passion. She looks down on such a man, she gets a distaste for love, she almost doubts her own reality, when she feels what her destiny might be, and sees what reality offers. If this is love, she says, and not something else, then it is nothing to boast about. Her love makes her proud, this pride makes her interesting, it penetrates her being with a higher incarnation; but she is also approach- ing her downfall, but all this constantly makes her more and more inter- esting. However, it is always best to find out about her acquaintances first, to see whether or not there might be such a suitor. Her own home furnishes no opportunity, or as good as none, but still she does go out, and such a one might be found. To provide a suitor before knowing this is altogether inadvisable. To allow her to compare two equally in- significant suitors might be bad for her. I must find out whether there may not be such a lover in the oflEng, one who lacks the courage to storm the citadel, a chicken thief, who sees no opportunity in such a cloistered house.

Consequently it becomes a strategic principle, a law governing every move in this campaign, to attack her always 'in an mteresting situation. The interesting is consequently the field on which the battle must be waged, the potentialities of the interesting must be exhausted. If I am not mistaken, her whole nature is designed for this, so that what I de- sire is exacdy what she gives, aye, indeed, what she herself desires. Everything depends on finding out what the particular individual can give, and what she demands in return. For this reason my love affairs always have a reality for myself, they mark a factor in my life, a creative period, of which I am fully aware; often they are bound up with one or another acquired skill. For the sake of the first girl I loved, I learned to dance; I learned to speak French for the sake of a litde dancer. At that time, like all simpletons, I went to the open market, and I often made a fool of myself. Now I apply myself to forestalling such results. Perhaps, however, she has exhausted one phase of the interesting; her secluded life might seem to indicate that. Then it becomes proper to find another phase, which at first sight may not seem so interesting to ^ her, but which, just on accovint of this resistance, may become so to her. For this purpose I do not select the poetic but the prosaic. This is just the beginning. First her femininity is neutralized by prosaic reason and ridicule, not directly but indireedy, and at the same time by an abso- lutely colorless intellectuality. She almost loses her sense of the feminine, but in this condition she cannot stand by herself, she throws herself into

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my arms, not as if I were a lover, no, I am still quite neutral. Then her femininity awakens, one arouses her to the highest pitch, one allows her to offend against one or another validity, she vents her rage upon it, her femininity reaches almost supernatural heights, she belongs to me with the force of a world-passion.

5tJi day.

I did not have to go far after all. She visits at the home of a wholesale merchant, Baxter by name. Here I found not only Cordelia, but also a man who appears very opportunely. Edward, the son of the house, is dead in love with her, one needs only half an eye to see that, when one looks at his two eyes. He is in business with his father, a good-looking yoimg man, quite pleasant, somewhat bashful, which last 1 think does not hurt him in her eyes.

Poor Edward! He simply does not know how to go about his court- ship. When he knows that she is to be there in the evening, then he dresses for her sake alone, puts on his new dark suit with collar and cuffs, just for her sake, and cuts an almost ridiculous figure among the quite commonplace company in the drawing-room. His embarrassment is al- most incredible. If it were assumed, Edward would become a very dan- gerous rival. Embarrassment needs to be used very artistically, but it can be used to great advantage. How often have I not used it to fool some little maiden. Girls generally speak very harshly about bashful men, and yet they secretly like them. A little embarrassment always flatters a young girl’s vanity, she feels her superiority, it is earnest money. When you have lulled them to sleep, when they believe that you are ready to die from embarrassment, then you have an opportunity to show that you are very far from that, that you are very well able to shift for yourself. By means of bashfulness, you lose your masculine significance, and therefore it is a relatively good means of neutralizing sexuality. Then when they notice that this shyness was only assumed, they are ashamed, they blush inwardly, and feel very strongly that they have certainly gone too far. It is the same as when people continue too long to treat a boy as a child.

7th day

We are fast friends now, Edward and I; a true friendship, a beautiful relationship, exists between us, such as has not been seen since the palm-

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iest days of Greece. We soon becanae intimates, then; after having lured him into many conversations about Cordelia, I made him confess his secret. It goes without saying that when all secrets are being revealed, this one is included with the others. Poor fellow, he has already sighed a long time. He dresses up every time she comes, then accompanies her home in the evening; his heart beats fast at the thought of her arm resting on his, they walk home, gaze at the stars, he rings her bell, she disappears, he despairs, but hopes for better luck next time. He has not even had the courage to set foot over her threshold, he who has had such excellent opportunities. Although personally I cannot refrain from making fun of Edward, there is still something really beautiful in his childishness. Although I ordinarily imagine myself to be fairly famiUar with the very epitome of the erotic, I have never observed this condition in myself, this fear and trembling, that is, to the degree that it takes away my self-possession, for otherwise I know it well enough, but only as tending to make me stronger. Perhaps someone will say that I have never been in love; perhaps. I have taken Edward to task, I have en- couraged him to rely on my friendship. Tomorrow he is going to take a decisive step, he is going to call on her personally. I have led him to the desperate idea of inviting me to go with him; I have promised to do so. He regards this as an extraordinary display of friendship. The occasion is just what I wish it to be, we invade the house through the door. Shbuld she have the slightest doubt as to the meaning of my con- duct, my appearance will confuse everything.

I have never before been accustomed to preparing myself for my part in the conversation; now this becomes necessary in order to entertain the aunt. I have assumed the disinterested task of conversing with her, thereby covering Edward’s loving advances toward Cordelia. The aunt formerly lived in the country, and by my own prodigious studies of agricultural literature, coupled with the aunt’s information drawn from experience, I am making definite progress in insight and ejSBciency.

I have made myself very acceptable to the aunt; she regards me as a steady, reliable man whom it is a pleasure to entertain, not like some of our fashionable yoimg gentlemen. I do not seem to be particularly in Cordelia’s favor. She is indeed too innocent and unspoiled to expect

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every man to dance attendance upon her, but still she is very conscious of the rebel in my nature.

When I sit thus in the comfortable living room, while she like a good angel diffuses her charm everywhere, over everyone with whom she comes in contact, over good and evil alike, then I some t imes become out of patience with myself; I am tempted to rush forth from my hid- ing place; for though I sit there, visible to everyone in the living room, still I am really lying in ambush. I am tempted to grasp her hand, to take her in my arms, to hide her in myself, for fear someone else should take her away from me. Or when Edward and I leave in the evening, when in taking leave she offers me her hand, when I hold it in mine, it sometimes becomes very difficult to let the bird slip out of my hand. Patience — quod antea fuit impetus, nunc ratio est — she must be quite otherwise ensnared in my web, and then suddenly I let the whole power of my love rush forth. We have not spoiled that moment for ourselves by tasting, by unseemly anticipation, for which you must thank me, my Cordelia. I work to develop the contrast, I tense the bow of love to wound the deeper. Like an archer, I release the string, tighten it again, listen to its song, my battle ode, but I do not aim it, 1 do not even lay the arrow on the string.

When a small number of people are frequently together in the same room, a sort of easy pattern soon develops, in which each one has his own place and chair; thus a picture of the room is formed which one can easily reproduce for himself at will, a chart of the terrain. It was that way with us in the Wahl home; we united to form a picture. In the evening we drink tea there. Generally the aunt who previously has been sitting on the sofa, moves over to the litde work table, which place Cor- delia in turn vacates. She goes over to the tea table in front of the sofa, Edward follows her, I follow the aunt. Edward tries to be secretive, he talks in a whisper; usually he does it so well that he becomes entirely mute. I am not at all secretive in my outpourings to the aunt— market prices, a calculation of the quantity of milk needed to produce a pound of butter; through the medium of cream and the dialectic of buttermak- ing, there comes a reality which any young girl can listen to without embarrassment, but, what is far rarer, it is a solid, reasonable, and edify- ing conversation, equally improving for mind and heart. I generally sit

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with my back to the tea table and to the ravings of Edward and Cordelia. Meanwhile, I rave with the aunt And is not Nature great and wise in her productivity, is not butter a precious gift, the glorious result of na- ture and art! I had promised Edward that I would certainly prevent the aunt from overhearing the conversation between him and Cordelia, providing anything was really said, and I always keep my word. On the other hand, I can easily overhear every word exchanged between them, hear every movement. This is very important to me, for one cannot always know how far a desperate man will venture to go. The most cau- tious and faint-hearted men sometimes do the most desperate things. Although I have nothing at all to do with these two people, it is readily apparent that Cordelia constantly feels that I am invisibly present be- tween her and Edward.

We four together make a peculiar picture. If I wished to find an analogy in a familiar picture, I might think of myself as Mephistopheles; but the difl&culty is, however, that Edward is no Faust. If I were to be Faust, there again arises the difficulty, that Edward is certainly no Mephistopheles. Neither am I a Mephistopheles, least of all in Edward’s eyes. He regards me as the guardian angel of his love, and he is right in that, for at least he can be certain that no one watches more solicitously over his love than I. I have promised him that I would talk with the aunt, and I discharge this honorable task with all seriousness. The aunt vanishes, almost before our eyes, in pure agricultiural economics. We go into the kitchen and cellars, we go up into the attic, we look at the chickens, ducks, and geese, and so on. All this offends Cordelia. She naturally cannot xmderstand what it really is that I am after. I am a riddle to her, a riddle she has no temptation to solve, but which pro- vokes her, and almost makes her indignant. She feels very strongly that her aunt is making herself ridiculous, and yet her aunt is a very re- spectable lady who certainly does not deserve to be made fun of. But I do this so skilfully that she knows very well that it would be useless for her to try to stop me. Sometimes I carry it so far that Cordelia almost has to smile secretly at her aunt. These are studies that must be made. Not as if I did this in cooperation with Cordelia; far from it, I would never make her smile at her aunt. My expression does not change, I am profoundly earnest, but Cordelia cannot keep from smiling. It is the first lesson in deception: she must learn to smile ironically; but this smile is aimed almost as much at me as at her aunt, for she simply does

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air. Then wrapped in my cloak, with my hat pulled down over my eyes, I go and stand outside her window. Her bedroom looks out over the yard, but since it is a corner house, it can be seen from the street. At times she stands a moment at the window, or she opens it, looks up at the stars, imseen by anyone except the one she would least of all believe was watching her. In these hours of the night I steal about like a wraith, like a wraith I haunt the place where she lives. Then I forget everything, I have no plans, no calculations, I throw reason overboard, I expand and strengthen my chest by deep sighs, an exercise which I need in order not to suffer from the systematized routine of my life. Some are virtuous by day, sinful at night; I dissemble by day, at night I am sheer desire. If she could see me here, if she could look into my soul — ^if!

If this girl would only understand herself, she would have to admit that I am the man for her. She is too intense, too deeply emotional to be happy in marriage; it would not be enough for her to yield to an ordi- nary seducer; if she yields to me, then she will save the interesting out of the shipwreck. In relation to me, she must zu Grunde gehn, as the philosophers say in a play on words.

She is- really tired of listening to Edward. So it always is; where nar- row limits are set for the interesting, one discovers all the more. Some- times she listens to my conversation with her aunt. When I notice this, there comes a flash on the distant horizon, intimations of a very different world, to the amazement of her aunt as well as of Cordelia. The aunt sees the flash, but hears nothing, Cordelia hears the voice, but sees noth- ing. Suddenly everything is again as before. The conversation between the aunt and myself pursues its monotonous way, like the hoofs of post horses in the stillness of the night. It is accompanied by the melancholy singing of the samovar. At such times there sometimes seems to be something uncanny in the atmosphere of the living room, especially to Cordelia. She has no one she can talk with or listen to. If she turns to Edward, she faces the danger of his doing something foolish, just be- cause of his embarrassment. If she turns to the other side, to her aunt and me, then the certainty which here prevails, the monotonous ham- merblows of our steady conversation, makes a very disagreeable contrast to Edward’s uncertainty. I can well understand that Cordelia must con- sider her aunt bewitched, so completely does she follow the tempo of my

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thought. Nor can she take part in our conversation; for this, too, is one of the ways I have used to provoke her, that is, by always treating her like a child. Not that I would permit myself any liberties with her, far from it. I know too well how disturbingly such tilings can work, and it is especially worth while that her womanliness should rise up again pure and lovely. On account of the intimate footing I maintain with the aunt, it is easy for me to treat her like a child who is ignorant of the world. Thereby her femininity is not offended, but only neutralized; for it cannot offend her femininity that she is ignorant of market prices, but it can irritate her that such things should be regarded as of chief importance in life. By means of my cunning assistance, her aunt over- bids herself in this direction. She becomes almost fanatical on the sub- ject, something for which she has to thank me. The only thing about me that she cannot stand, is that I am nothing. Accordingly I have formed the habit every time something is said about a position which is vacant, of exclaiming, “That is the job for me!” and then I discuss it very seriously with her. Cordelia always notices the irony, which is exactly as I wish.

Poor Edward! Too bad he is not called Fritz. Whenever I think of him in my quiet deliberations, I am reminded of Fritz and his bride. Edward, like his prototype, is also a corporal in the militia. To tell the truth, Edward is also very boring. He does not go about the matter in the right way, and he is always too well dressed. Just between ourselves, as a favor to him, I always go dressed as carelessly as possible. Poor Ed- ward! The only thing that almost makes me sorry for him is that he is so everlastingly grateful to me that he hardly knows how to thank me. To allow him to thank me, that is really too much!

Why can you not be quiet and well behaved You have done nothing the entire morning except to shake my awning, pull at my mirror and the string by which it hangs, play with the bell-rope from the third story, rattle the window-panes, in short, in every possible way impress me with your existence, as if you would beckon me to come out with you. Yes, it is a fine day, but I have no inclination, let me stay at home. . . . Ye merry, wanton zephyrs, ye happy children, go ye alone; have your pastime as always with the young maidens. Yes, I know no one can embrace a maiden so seductively as you; in vain would she try to

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slip away from you, she cannot twist herself out of your arms— nor does she wish to; for you are cool and refreshing, you do not inflame. . . . Go your own way, leave me out. . . . But then you take no satisfaction in it, you say, you do not do it for your own sake . . . very well, then, I go with you; but on two conditions. In the first place. There lives on King’s Newmarket a yoimg maiden; she is very pretty, but she has the impudence to refuse to love me, and what is worse still, she loves an- other, and it has come to such a pass that they go out walking together arm in arm. At one o’clock I know that he goes to fetch her. Now prom- ise me that the strongest blowers among you will conceal yourselves somewhere in the neighborhood until the moment when he steps out of the door with her. That moment, just as he is about to turn down Great King’s Street, let this detachment rush forward, take his hat from his head in the politest maimer possible, and carry it at an even speed at precisely a yard’s distance in front of him; not faster than that, for then he might turn back home again. Let him always believe that he is on the point of catching it the next second, so that he does not even let go of her arm. In that manner you will bring them through Great King’s Street, along the wall as far as Northport, as far as Highbridge Place. . . . Let me see, how long will that take ? I think about half an hour. At half-past one exactly, I approach from Eastern Street. When the detach- ment in question has brought the lovers out into the middle of the Place, let a violent attack be made upon them, during which you will also tear her hat'from her head, tangle her curls, carry away her shawl, while all the time his hat floats jubilantly higher and higher into the air; in short, you will bring about a confusion so that not I alone, but the entire public will break out in a roar <?f laughter, the dogs begin to bark, and the watchman clang his bell in the tower. You will arrange it so that her hat flies over to me, who thus becomes the happy individual privileged to restore it to her. In the second place. The section that follows me must obey my every hint, must keep within the bounds of seemliness, offer no afiEront to any pretty maiden, permit itself to take no liberty greater than will allow her to preserve her joy in the jest, her lips their smile, her eye its tranquillity, and her to remain without anxiety. If a single one of you dares to behave differently, let your name be accursed. — ^And now away to life and joy, to youth and beauty; show me what I have often seen, and what I never weary of seeing, show me a beautiful young woman, unfold her beauty for me in such a way that she becomes herself more beautiful > subject her to an examination of such a kind that she derives happiness from that exammation! ... I choose Broad

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Street, but, as you know, I can only dispose of my time until half-past one* • • •

There comes a young woman, all stiff and starched; of course, it is Sxmday today. . . . Fan her a little, waft over her the cool air, glide in a gentle stream about her, embrace her with your innocent contact! How I sense the heightened color of the cheek, the reddening of the lips, the

bosom’s lifting Is it not so, my dear, it is indescribable, it is a blessed

delight to breathe this refreshing air ? The little collar quivers like a leaf. How full and sound her breathing! Her pace slackens, she is almost

carried along by the gentle breeze, like a cloud, like a dream Blow

a little stronger, with a longer sweep! . . . She draws herself together; she folds her arms a little closer to her bosom, which she covers more carefully, lest a gust of wind should prove too forward, and insinuate itself softly and coolingly imder the light covering. . . . Her color is heightened, her checks become fuller, her eye clearer, her step firmer. A little opposition tends to make a person more beautiful. Every young woman ought to fall in love with the zephyrs; for no man can rival them in enhancing her beauty, as they struggle against her. . . . Her body bends a little forward, she looks down toward the tips of her shoe. . . . Stop a little! It is too much, her body broadens, loses its pretty slen- derness Cool her a little! ... Is it not true, my dear, it is refreshing

after being warm, to feel those invigorating shivers; it is enough to make one fling open his arms in gratitude, in joy over existence. . . . She

turns her side to the breeze Now quick! a powerful gust, so that I

can guess the beauty of her form! ... A little stronger! to bring the draperies more closely about her. ... It is too much. Her posttire be- comes awkward, the lightness of her step is interfered with . . . She turns again . . . Blow, now, blow, let her try her strength! . . . Enough, it is too much! One of her curls has fallen down . . . will you be so good as to keep yourselves in check!— There comes a whole regiment on the march:

Die eine ist verliebt gar sehr;

Die andre ware es geme.

Yes, it cannot be denied, it is a very poor engagement in life to have to walk with one’s future brother-in-law, on his left arm. For a woman this is about the same as for a man to be an extra derk on the waiting list. . . . But the clerk may be advanced: he has, too, his place in the ofiflee, and is called in on extraordinary occasions, which do not fall to the sister-in-law’s lot; but then, on the other hand, her advancement is

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not so slow — ^when she is advanced and is moved over into another office. . . . Blow now a httle briskly 1 When you have something firm to hold fast to, it is easy enough to offer resistance. . . . The center advances vigorously, the wings are unable to follow. . . . He stands firm enough, the winds cannot move him for he is too heavy — ^but also too heavy for the wings to lift him from the earth. He hurls himself forward m order to show— that he is a heavy body; but the more unmoved he stands, the more do the lassies suffer imder it. . . . My beautiful young ladies, may I not ofier a piece of good advice: leave the future husband and brother- in-law out of it, try to walk alone, and you will find that it will be much more satisfactory. . . . Now blow a little more sofdy! . . . How they are tumbled about by the billowing breezes; soon they will be striking atti- tudes before one another down the street — could any dance music pro- duce a more frolicsome gaiety, and the wind does not exhaust, it

strengthens Now they sweep along side by side, in full sail down the

street — could any waltz carry a young woman away more seductively,

and the wind does not weary, it supports Now they turn around to

face the husband and brother-in-law. ... Is it not so, a little opposition is pleasant, one is glad to struggle for possession of what one loves; and the struggle will doubtless be successful; there is a Providence which comes to the aid of love, that is why the man has the wind in his favor. . . . Have I not arranged it well: when you have the wind at your back, it can ejasily happen that you pass the beloved, but when it blows against you, you are pleasandy excited, then you seek refuge near him, and the gust of wind makes you sounder and more tempting, and more fasci- nating, and it cools the fruit of your lips which should preferably be enjoyed cold, because it is so hot, just as champagne heats when it is icy cold. . . . How they laugh and talk — and the wind carries the words away — and is there anything here to talk about ? — and they laugh again and bend before the wind, and hold on to their hats, and watch their feet. . . . Stop now, lest the young women become impatient and angry at us, or afraid of us! Just so, resolutely and vigorously, the right foot before the left. . . .

How bravely and challengingly she looks about in the world. . . . Can I he mistaken? She hangs on a man’s arm, hence she must be engaged. Let me see, my child, what kind of a present you have received on life’s Christmas tree. . . . Oh, so! he seems to be a very sub- stantial fellow. She is in the first stage of the engagement, she loves him —possibly so, but yet her love flutters wide and spacious, loose about him; she still has the cloak of chastity, which suffices to cover many. . . .

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Blow up a little! . . . When one walks so fast, it is no wonder the rib- bons on her hat stiffen in the wind, so that it looks as if they were wings, bearing this light body — ^and her love — ^that too follows like a fairy veil that the wind plays with. When you look at love in this manner, it seems so spacious; but when you are about to put it on, when the veil must be made into an everyday dress— then there is not cloth enough for many puffs. . . . Heaven preserve us! When one has courage enough to dare to take a step decisive for one’s entire life, one surely has the cour- age to walk straight agamst the wind. Who doubts it.? Not I; but no temper, my little miss, no temper. Time is a hard schoolmaster, and the wind is not so bad either. . . . Tease her a little! What became of the

handkerchief.? . . . Oh, you recovered it all right There went one of

the hat ribbons ... it is really quite embarrassing, in the presence of the intended. . . . There comes a girl friend who must be greeted. It is the first time she has seen you since the engagement; of course it is for the sake of showing yourself as an engaged girl that you are here on Broad Street, and are intending furthermore to go on the Shore Boulevard. As far as I know it is the custom for a newly wedded couple to go to church the first Sunday after the wedding, engaged couples, on the other hand, show themselves on the Shore Boulevard. . . . And an en- gagement really has something in common with the Shore Boulevard. ... Be careful now, the wind takes hold of your hat, hold on to it a little, bend your head down. . . . How unfortunate that you did not get a chance to greet your girl friend at all, it was not calm enough to greet her with the superior air that an engaged girl ought always to assume before the unengaged. . . . fclow now a little more softly! . . . and now come the better days . . . how she clings to the beloved; she is far enough ahead of him so that she can turn her head back and look up into his face, and be glad in him, her wealth, her happiness, her hope, her future.

. . . O my girl, you make too much of him Or does he not owe it to

me and the wind that he looks so strong? And do you yourself not owe it to me and to the soft breezes that now bring you healiug, and turn the pain into forgetfulness, that you look so full of vitality, so full of longing, so expectant?

And I will not have a student

Who lies and reads all night.

But I will have an officer

With feathers on his hat.

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29S

That is evident at once, my girl, there is something in your look

No, you are by no means satisfied with a student. . . . But why just an ofl&cer? A graduate now, one who has finished his studies, would he not do just as well ? ... At the moment, however, I cannot furnish you with an ofl&cer or with a graduate either. But I can serve you some cool and tempering breezes. . . . Now blow a little! . . . That’s right, throw the silk shawl back over your shoulder; walk very slowly, that will make the cheek a htde paler, and the eyes to shine not quite so bright. ... So. A htde exercise, especially on a fine day like this, and then a litde patience, and you will doubdess get your ofl&cer. . . . There is a couple who seem predestined for one another. What firmness in the step, what sureness m the entire bearing, based upon mutual confidence; what a pre-established harmony m all their movements, what sufficing thoroughness. Their attitudes are not light and graceful, they do not dance together, no, there is a permanency in them, a boldness, which awakens a hope that cannot be betrayed, which commands mutual re- spect. I will wager that their view of life is this: life is a way. And they seem destined to walk with one another, arm in arm, through the joys and sorrows of life. They harmonize to such a degree that the lady has even given up the privilege of walking on the flagstones. . . . But, my dear zephyrs, why so busy with that couple ? They hardly seem to be worth so much attention. Can there be anything special to take note of? . . . but.it is half past one, off to High Bridge Place.

One would not believe it possible to calculate the developmental his- tory of a soul so accurately. It shows how wholesome Cordelia is. She is in truth a remarkable girl. She is quiet and modest, unpretentious, but unconsciously there is in her a prodigious demand. This was evident to me today when I saw her enter the house. The slight resistance that a gust of wind can offer, awakens, as it were, all the energy within her, without arousing any fight. She is not a little insignificant girl who slips between your fingers, so fragile that you almost fear that she will go to pieces if you look at her; but neither is she a showy ornamental flower. Like a physician, I Can therefore take pleasure in observing all the symp- toms in her case history.

Gradually I am beginning to approach her in my attack, to go over to more direct action. Were I to indicate this change oil my military

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map of the family, I should say that I have turned my chair so that my side is toward her. I have more to do with her, I address remarks to her, and elicit an answer from her. Her soul has passion, intensity, and with- out being foolish or vain, her reflections are remarkably pointed, she has a craving for the unusual. My irony over the foolishness of human be- ings, my ridicule of their cowardice, of their lukewarm indolence, fascinate her. She likes well enough to guide the chariot of Apollo across the arch of heaven, to come near enough to earth to scorch people a little. However, she does not trust me; hitherto I have discouraged every approach on her part, even intellectually. She must be strong in herself before I let her take rest in me. By glimpses it may indeed look as if it were she whom I would make my confidant in my freemasonry, but this is only by glimpses. She must be developed inwardly, she must feel an elasticity of soul, she must learn to evaluate the world. What progress she is making, her conversation and her eyes easily show me. I have only once seen a devastating anger in her. She must owe me noth- ing; for she must be free; love exists only in freedom, only in freedom is there enjoyment and everlasting delight. Although I am aiming at her falling into my arms as it were by a natural necessity, yet I am striv- ing to bring it about so that as she gravitates toward me, it will still not be like the falling of a heavy body, but as spirit seeking spirit. Although she must belong to me, it must not be identical with the unlovely idea of her resting upon me like a burden. She must neither hang, on me in the physical sense, nor be an obligation in a moral sense. Between the two of ns only the proper play of freedom must prevail. She must be mine so freely that I can take her in my arms.

Cordelia occupies me almost too much. I lose my balance again, not in her presence, but when in the strictest sense, I am alone with her. I long after her, not in order to talk with her, but only to let her picture float past me. I steal after her when I know that she is out walking, ndt to be seen, but to see. The other evening we all left the Baxter house to- gether; Edward accompanied her. I parted from them in greatest haste, hurried off to another street where my servant was waiting for me. In a trice I had changed my clothes, and I met her once more without her sus- pecting it. Edward was silent as usual. I am certainly in love, but not in the ordinary sense, and for that reason I must be very cautious, since it may always have some dangerous consequences; and one is that way only once. Still, the god of love is blind; if one is clever, one can fool him

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easily enough. The trick as regards an impression, consists in being as sensitive as possible, both in knowing what impression one makes upon the girl, and what impression each girl makes upon one. In this way one can be in love with many girls at once, because one loves each girl dif- ferently. To love only one is too little; to love all of them is a surfeit; to know one’s self and to love as many as possible, to let one’s soul conceal all the power of love in itself, so that each girl gets her own proper nourishment, while the consciousness embraces the whole — ^that is en- joyment, that is really living.

July 3rd.

Edward cannot really complain of me. Indeed I wish Cordelia would fall in love with him, so that through him she might get a distaste for ordinary love, and thereby go beyond her own limitations; but just for this reason it is necessary that Edward should not be a caricature, for that would not help. Now Edward is a good match, not only in the usual sense of the word, which is of no importance in her eyes, since a sixteen-year-old girl does not consider such things; but personally he has a number of attractive qualities which I try to help him exhibit in the most advantageous light. Like a lady’s-maid or a decorator, I fit him out as well as possible, according to the resources of the house. Indeed, I sometimes hang a little borrowed finery on him. Then when we go to Cordelia’s, I, strange to say, go with him. He is, as it were, xjay brother, my son, and yet he is my friend, rny contemporary,' my riifel. He can never become dangerous to me. The higher I raise him, since he is bound to fall, the better; the more it arouses a consciousness in Cordelia of what she dislikes, the more intense become her ideas of what she desires. I help him in this direction, I commend him, in short I do every- thing a friend can do for a friend. In order to make up for my own coldness, I almost rave about Edward. I describe him as a visionary. Since Edward does not know how to help himself, I must push him forward.

Cordelia both hates and fears me. What does a young girl fear.? In- tellectuality. Why.? Because it constitutes a negation of her whole femi- lune existence. Masculine good looks and a pleasing personality and so forth, are good mediators. One can make a conquest by their aid, but can never win a complete victory. Why.? Because one is making war upon a girl within her own potentialities, and in these she is always the

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stronger. Through these methods one can make a girl blush, can put her out of countenance, but can never call forth the indescribable, fasci- nating anxiety which makes her beauty interesting.

Non formosus erat, sed erect facundus Ulixes, et tamen aequoreas torsit amore Deas.

Everyone ought to know his own powers. But this is something that has often disturbed me, that even those who have natural endowments behave so awkwardly. Really a man ought to be able to see in any young girl, who has become the victim of another’s, or rather of her own love, just how she has been deceived. The confirmed murderer uses a definite technique, and the experienced policeman knows the perpetrator as soon as he sees the woimd. But where does one meet such a systematic seducer, such a trained psychologist? The seduction of a girl means to most men the seduction of a girl, and that is the end of it. And there is a whole language concealed in this thought.

As a woman, she hates me; as an intelligent woman, she fears me; as having a good mind, she loves me. Now for the first time I have pro- duced this conflict in her soul. My pride, my defiance, my cold ridicule, my heartless irony, all tempt her, not as if she might wish to love me; no, there is certainly not a trace of such feeling in her, least of all.toward me. She ^iifeould emulate me. What tempts her is a proud independence in the face of men, a freedom like that of the Arabs of the desert. My laughter and singularity neutralize every erotic impulse. She is fairly at ease with me, and insofar as there is any reserve, it is more intellectual than feminine. She is so far from regarding me as a lover, that our re- lation to each other is that of two able minds. She takes my hand, presses it a little, laughs, pays some attention to me in a purely Platonic sense. Then when irony and ridicule have duped her long enough, I shall fol- low that suggestion found in an old verse: “The knight spreads out his cape so blue, and begs the beautiful maiden to sit thereon.” However, I do not spread out my cape in order to sit with her on the greensward, but to vanish with her into the air in a flight of thought. Or I do not take her with me, but set myself astride a thought, wave farewell to her, kiss her fingers, and vanish from her sight, audible to her only in the whistling of the winged words, not, like Jehovah, becoming more and more manifest through the voice, but ever less so, because the more I speak, the higher I mount. Then she wishes to go with me on the ven-

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turesome flight of thought. Still, this lasts only a single instant; the next moment I am cold and prosaic.

There are different kinds of feminine blushes. There is the coarse brick-red blush which romantic writers always use so freely when they let their heroines blush all over. There is the delicate blush; it is the blush of the spirit’s dawn. In a young girl it is the ineffable. The passing blush produced by a happy idea is beautiful in a man, more beautiful in a young man, charming in a woman. It is a gleam of lightning, the heat lightning of the spirit. It is most beautiExil m the young, charming in a girl because it appears in her girlishness, and therefore it has also the modesty of surprise. The older one becomes, the more rarely one blushes.

Sometimes I teach Cordelia something important; usually, something very inconsequential. Edward must as usual hold the spodight. I have accordingly called his attention to the fact that a very good way to get into a young girl’s good graces is to lend her books. He has made good headway thereby, for it puts her under obligations to him. I am the chief gainer; for I dictate the choice of books, and I am always disinterested. This gives me a wide arena for my observations. I can give Edward whatever books I wish, since he is no judge of literature. Hence I dare go to any extreme I wish. Then when I visit her in the evening, I casu- ally pick up a book, turn over a few pages in it, read half aloud, com- mend Edward for his attentiveness. Last night I wished to test the vigor of her mind by an experiment. I was puzzled whether to let Edward lend her Schiller’s Poems, so that I might accidentally open it to Thekla’s song, which I would recite, or Burger’s Poems. I chose the latter, particularly because his “Lenore” is a little extravagant, however beautiful it otherwise is. I opened it at “Lenore,” read this poem solemn- ly, with all the pathos of which I was capable. Cordelia was moved; she sewed with a nervous energy, as if it were she William had come to fetch. I paused. The atint had listened without any apparent sympathy. She feared no Williams living or dead; nor, in addition, is her knowl- edge of German very good. However, I found myself quite in my ele- ment when I showed her the beautiful example of bookbinding, and began a conversation with her about the bookbinding profession. My purpose was to destroy in CordeUa the impression of the pathetic in the very moment of its inception. She became a little anxious, but it was

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clear to me that this anxiety did not tempt her, but made her uncom- fortable.

Today my eyes have for the first time rested upon her. Someone has said that sleep can make the eyelids so heavy that they close of them- selves; perhaps my glance has a similar effect upon Cordelia. Her eyes close, and yet an obscure force stirs within her. She does not see that I am looking at her, she feels it, feels it through her whole body. Her eyes close, and it is night; but within her it is luminous day.

Edward must go; he has reached the very end. At any moment I may expect him to go to her, and make a declaration of love. There is no one who knows this better than myself, who am his confidant, and who assiduously keeps him over-excited so that he can have a greater effect upon Cordelia. To allow him to confess his love is still too risky. I know very well that she will refuse him, but that will not end the affair. He will certainly take it very much to heart. This would perhaps move and touch Cordelia. Although in such a case I do not need to fear the worst, that she might start over again, still her self-esteem would possibly suffer out of pure sympathy. If this should happen, it frustrates my whole plan concerning Edward.

My relation to Cordelia is beginning to run dramatically. Something must happen, whatever it may be; I can no longer remain a mere ob- server without letting the moment slip. She must be taken by surprise, that is necessary; but if one would surprise her, one must be on the alert. That which might surprise someone in general would perhaps have no such effect on her. She must really be surprised in such a way that that which first causes her surprise is something that happens quite com- monly. Then it must gradually appear that this something surprising was implied in this. This is always the law for the interesting, and this law again controls all my actions with regard to Cordelia- If you always know how to surprise, you always win the game. You suspend for an instant the energy of the unconcerned, make it impossible for her to act, and that, whether one uses the ordinary or the extraordinary as means. I recollect with a certain degree of self-satisfaction a foolhardy experiment upon a lady of distinguished family. For some time I had

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been hanging around her in order to find an interesting contact, but in vain; then one day I met her on the street. I was certain that she did not know me, nor know that I belonged here in town. She was walking alone. I stole past her so that I could meet her face to face. I walked to- ward her on the wrong side of the path; she kept to the curb. At this moment I cast a sorrowful glance at her, I almost had tears in my eyes. I took off my hat. She paused. In a voice shaken with emotion, and with a dreamy look, I said: “Do not be angry, gracious lady; there is such an extraordinary resemblance between you and a person I love with all my soul, but who lives far away from me, that you must forgive my strange behavior.” She thought I was quixotic, and a young girl can well endure a little extravagance, especially when she feels superior and dares to smile at one. Just as I expected, she smiled, and this smile was indescrib- ably becoming to her. With aristocratic condescension she bowed to me and smiled. She resumed her walk, I walked a few steps by her side. A few days later, I met her, I presumed to bow. She laughed at me. . . . Patience is still an excellent virtue, and he who laughs last, laughs best.

One could think of several methods by which to surprise Cordelia. I might attempt to raise an erotic storm, powerful enough to tear up trees by the roots. By its aid I might try, if possible, to sweep her off her feet, snatch hpr out of her historic continuity; attempt, in this agitation, by stealthy advances to arouse her passion. It is not inconceivable that I could do this. A man could make a girl with her passion do anything he wished. However, that would be all wrong from the aesthetic stand- point. I do not enjoy giddiness, and this condition is to be recommended only when one has to do with a girl who can acquire poetic glamor in no other way. Besides, one misses some of the essential enjoyment, for too much confusion is also bad. Its effect upon Cordelia would utterly fail. In a couple of draughts I should have swallowed what I might have had the good of for a long time, moreover, what is worse, what with discretion I might have enjoyed more fully and richly. Cordelia is not to be enjoyed in over-excitement. I might perhaps take her by surprise at first, if I went about it right, but she would soon be surfeited, precisely because this surprise lay too close to her daring soul.

A simple engagement is the best of all the methods, the most expedi- ent. If she hears me make a prosaic declaration of love, item asking for her hand, she will perhaps believe her ears even less than if she listened

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to my heated eloquence, absorbed my poisonous intoxicants, heard her heart beat fast at the thought of an elopement.

The curse of an engagement is always on its ethical side. The ethical is just as tiresome in philosophy as in life. What a difference! Under the heaven of the aesthetic, everything is light, beautiful, transitory; when the ethical comes along, then everything becomes harsh, angular, infi- nitely boring. An engagement, however, does not have ethical reality in the stricter sense, as marriage does; it has validity only ex consensu gentium. This ambiguity can be very serviceable to me. It has enough of the ethical in it so that in time Cordelia will get the impression that she has exceeded the ordinary bounds; however, the ethical in it is not so serious that I need fear a more critical agitation. I have always had a certain respect for the ethical. I have never given any girl a marriage promise, not even in jest. Insofar as it might seem that I have done it here, that is only a fictitious move. I shall certainly manage it so that she will be the one who breaks the engagement. My chivalrous pride scorns to give a promise. I despise a judge who by the promise of liberty, lures an offender into a confession. Such a judge belittles his own power and ability.

Practically, I have reached the point where I desire nothing which is not, in the strictest sense, freely given. Let common seducers use such methods. What do they gain? He who does not know how to compass a girl about so that she loses sight of everything which he does not wish her to see, he who does not know how to poetize himself in a girl’s feel- ings so that it is from her that everything issues as he wishes it, he is and remains a bungler; I do not begrudge him his enjoyment. A bungler he is and remains, a seducer, something one can by no means call me. I am an aesthete, an eroticist, one who has understood the nature and mean- ing of love, who believes in love and knows it from the ground up, and only makes the private reservation that no love affair should last more than six months at the most, and that every erotic relationship should cease as soon as one has had the ultimate enjoyment. I know all this, I know, too, that the highest conceivable enjoyment lies in being loved; to be loved is higher than anything else in the world. To poetize oneself into a yoimg girl is an art, to poetize oneself out of her, is a masterpiece. Still, the latter depends essentially upon the first.

There is another method possible. I might arrange everything so as to have her become engaged to Edward. I continue, then, as the friend

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of the family. Edward would believe in me absolutely, he would really owe his happiness to me. Then I should gain by being more reserved. No, that is no good. She cannot become engaged to Edward without more or less belittling herself. That would make my relation to her more piquant than interesting. The everlasting prosaic that lies in an engagement is precisely the sounding-board of the interesting.

Everything is assuming greater significance in the Wahl household. One clearly notes that a mysterious animation is stirring beneath the daily routine, which must soon proclaim itself in a corresponding reve- lation. The Wahl household is preparing for an engagement. One who was only a superficial observer might perhaps anticipate a match be- tween the aunt and myself. What an extension of agricultural knowl- edge in the following generation might not come of such a match! Thus I would become Cordelia’s uncle. I am a friend of freedom of thought, and no idea is too preposterous for me to lack courage to enter- tain it. Cordelia fears a declaration of love from Edward, Edward hopes that such a proposal will decide everything. That would also give him self-confidence. However, in order to spare him the unpleasant conse- quences of such a step, I shall try to forestall him. I am hoping soon now to be rid of him; he is really in my way. I really felt it today. He looks so dreamy, ^so love-sick, that one almost fears that, like a somnambulist, he may stand up before the congregation and confess his love; so intuitively objective, that he docs not even approach Cordelia. I looked daggers at him today. As an elephant takes an object on his trunk, so I took Ed- ward on my eyes, tall as he is, and threw him over backward. Although he remained seated in his chair, I still believe that he had a correspond- ing sensation through his whole body.

Cordelia is not so assured in her manner toward me as she has been. She always approached me with a womanly assurance, now she vacil- lates a little, It has, however, no great significance, and I should not fin d it hard to bring everything back to the old footing. Still, I shall not do so. Only one more investigation, and then the engagement. There can be no difficulties about this. Cordelia in her surprise says yes, the aunt gives a hearty Amen. She will be beside herself with joy over such an agriculturally inclined son-in-law. Son-in-law! How we all become thick as inkle-weavers when we enter into this territory. I do not really

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become her son-in-law, but only her nephew, or, rather, volente deo, neither.

23rd day

Today I harvested the fruit of a rumor I had caused to circulate, that I was in love with a young girl. By the aid of Edward it had also reached Cordelia’s ears. She is curious, she watches me, but she does not, how- ever, dare to question me; and yet it is not unimportant to her to make certain, partly because it seems iucredible to her, partly because she might see in this a precedent for herself; for if such a cold-blooded scoflFer as myself could fall in love, then there could be no disgrace in her doing the same. Today I iatroduced the subject. I believe I can tell a story so that the point is not lost, item, so that it is not revealed too soon. To keep those who listen in suspense, by means of small incidents of an episodic character, to ascertain what they wish the outcome to be, to trick them in the course of the narration— that is my delight; to make use of ambiguities, so that the listeners understand one thing in the say- ing, and then suddenly notice that the words could also be interpreted otherwise — ^that is my art.

If one desires an opportunity to make certain observations, one should always make a speech. In conversation, the one concerned can better escape from one, can by means of questions and answers, better conceal the impression the words produce. I began my speech to the apnt with intense seriousness: “Am I to impute this rumor to the good will of my friends, or to the malice of my enemies, and who is there among us who does not have too many of both.'*” Here the aunt made a remark which I helped her with all my inight to spin out, so as to keep Cordelia, who was listening, in suspense, a suspense she could not put an end to, since I was talking with her aunt, and my mood was serious. I continued: “Or shall I ascribe it to an accident, a rumor generatio aequivoca” (Cordelia evidently did not understand this word; it only confused her, all the more because I laid a false emphasis upon it, winking at her significantly as I did so, as if the point lay here), “so that I who am accustomed to live in seclusion from the world, am become the object of gossip, in that they insist that I am engaged.” Cordelia now quite openly wanted to hear my explanation. I continued: “It might be attributed to my friends, since it must be regarded as good forttme to fall in love (she started) ; to my enemies, since it would be consida-ed very ridiculous if this happiness should fall to my lot (movement in the opposite direction) ; or to acci- dent, since there is not the slightest foundation for it; or to rumors geru-

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ratio aequivoca, since the whole thing must have originated in an empty head’s thoughdess intercourse with itself.” The aunt with true feminine curiosity was quick to try to find out who the lady might be to whom gossip had been pleased to link me. Every question in this direction was waved aside. The whole story made quite an impression upon Cordelia; I almost believe Edward’s stock rose a few points.

The decisive moment is approaching. I might address myself to the aunt in writin g , asking for Cordelia’s hand. This is indeed the ordinary procedure in affairs of the heart, as if it were more natural for the heart to write than to speak. What might decide me to choose this method is just the philistinism in it. But if I choose this, then I lose the essential surprise, and that I cannot give up. — ^If I had a friend, he might perhaps say to me: “Have you considered well this most serious step you are taking, a step which is decisive for all the rest of your life, and for another being’s happiness.?” One has that advantage when one has a friend. I have no friend; whether that is an advantage, I shall leave undecided; but I consider being free from his advice an absolute advan- tage to me. As to the rest, I have certainly considered the whole matter, in the strictest sense of the word.

On my side there is nothing now to obstruct the engagement. Conse- quendy, I go ahead with my wooing, though no one realizes jt but myself. Soon will my humble person be seen from a higher standpoint. I cease to be a person and become — z match; yes, a good match, the aunt will say. She is the one I am most sorry for; she loves me with such a pure and sincere agricultural love, she almost worships me as her ideal.

It is true that in my time I have made many declarations of love, and yet all my experience does not help me in the least here; for this declara- tion must be made in a very peculiar manner. What I must principally impress upon my mind is that the whole affair is only a fictitious move. I have held several rehearsals in order to discover wWch one would be the best approach. To make the moment erotic would be hazardous, since it would really anticipate that which will come later and unfold itself gradually. To make it very serious is dangerous; such a moment has great significance for a young girl, so that her soul can become as fixed in it as a dying man’s in his last will. To make it fr ankl y low- comic would be out of character with the mask I have hitherto used.

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and witii the one I intend to assume. To make it witty and ironic is risking too much. If it were with me as with people in general on such occasions, so that the chief thing is to elicit a litde yes, then it would be as easy as falling off a log. This is indeed important, but not of supreme importance; for although I have picked out this girl, although I have centered much attention, indeed my whole interest upon her, yet there are certain conditions under which I would not accept her yes. I simply do not care to possess a girl in the mere external sense, but to enjoy her in an artistic sense. Therefore my approach must be as artistic as pos- sible. The beginning must be as vague as possible, it must be a common- place. If she immediately looks on me as a deceiver, then she misunder- stands me; for I am not a deceiver in the ordinary sense; if she sees me as a faithful lover, then she is also mistaken in me. The point is, that in this scene her soul should be as little determinate as possible. A girl’s soul at such a moment is as prophetic as a dying man’s. This must be- prevented. My beloved Cordelia! I cheat you out of something beautiful, but it cannot be otherwise, and I shall compensate you as best I can. The whole episode must be kept as insignificant as possible, so that when she has accepted me, she will not be able to throw the least light upon what may be concealed in this relationship. The infinite possibility is pre- cisely the interesting. If she is able to predict anything, then I have failed very badly, and the whole relationship loses its meaning. That she might say yes because she loves me, is inconceivable; for she does ^t love me at all. The best thing is for me to transform the engagement from an act to an event, from something she does to something which happens to her, concerning which she must say: “God only knows how it really happened.”

31st day

Today I have written a love-letter for a third party. I am always happy to do this. In the first place it is always interesting to enter into a situa- tion so vividly, and yet in all possible comfort. I fill my pipe, hear about the relationship and the letters from the intended are brought out. The way in which a yoting lady writes is always an important study to me. The lover sits there like a fathead, he reads her letters aloud, interrupted by my laconic comments: She writes well, she has feeling, taste, caution, she has certainly been in love before, and so on. In the second place I am doing a good deed. I am helping to bring a couple of young people together; after that I balance accounts. For every pair I make happy, I select one victim for myself; I make two happy, at the most only one

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unhappy. I am honorable and trustworthy. I have never deceived any- one who has taken me into his confidence. Litde fools always fail there. Well, it is a lawful perquisite. And why do I enjoy this confidence.? Because I know Latin and attend to my studies, and because I always keep my little affairs to myself. And do I not deserve this confidence ? Indeed I never misuse it.

August 2.

The moment came. I caught a glimpse of the aunt on the street, and so I knew she was not at home. Edward was at the custom-house. Conse- quendy there was every likelihood of Cordelia’s being at home alone. And so it was. She sat by her work-table occupied with some sewing. I have very rarely visited the family in the forenoon, and she was there- fore a litde disturbed at seeing me. The situation became almost emo- tional. She was not to blame for this, for she controlled herself fairly well; but I was the one, for in spite of my armor, she made an uncom- monly strong impression upon me. How charming she was in a simple, blue-striped calico house-dress, with a fresh-picked rose at her bosom — a fresh-picked rose, nay the girl herself was like a freshly picked blos- som, so fresh she was, so recendy arrived; and, too, who knows where a young girl spends the night.? In the land of illusions, I believe, but every morning she comes back, and hence her youthful freshness. She looked so/oung, and yet so fully developed, as iE Nature, like a tender and opi&£nt mother, had just now let go her hand. It was as if I had witnessed the farewell scene. I saw how the loving mother embraced her in farewell. I heard her saying: “Go out into the world, my child, I have made everything ready for you. Take this kiss as a seal upon your lips, it is a seal which guards the sanctuary; no one can break it, imless you yourself will it, but when the right one comes, then you will know him.” And she pressed a kiss upon her lips, a kiss unlike a htunan kiss which always takes something, but a sacred kiss which gives every- thing, which gives the girl the power of the kiss.

Wonderful Nature, how profound and mysterious thou art; thou ^ givest words to a man, and to a woman the eloquence of the kiss ! This kiss was upon her lips, and the farewell blessing on her forehead, and the joyous salutation in her eyes; therefore she looked at once so much at home, for she was indeed the child of the house, and so much a strangefj for she did not know the world, but only the loving mother who unse^p watched over her. She was really charming, childlike, and yet adorned with a noble maidenly dignity that inspired respej:t. — ^How-

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ever, I was soon again dispassionate and solemnly stolid, as is proper when one would do the significant as if it were the insignificant. After a few general remarks, I moved a little nearer to her and began my peti- tion. A man who talks like a book is exceedingly tiresome to listen to; sometimes, however, it is quite appropriate to speak in that way. For a book has the remarkable quality that you may interpret it as you wish. One’s conversation also acquires the same quality, if one talks like a book. I kept quite soberly to general formulas. It cannot be denied that she was as surprised as I had expected. To describe how she looked is difficult. Her expressions were so variable, indeed much like the still unpublished but announced commentary to my book, a commentary which has the possibility of any interpretation. One word, and she would have laughed at me, one word, and she would have been moved, one word, and she would have fled from me; but no word crossed my lips, I remained stolidly serious, and kept exactly to the ritual.— “She had known me so short a time.” Good heavens! such difficulties are encountered only in the narrow path of an engagement, not in the primrose path of love.

Curiously enough. When in the days preceding I surveyed the affair, I was rash enough and confident enough to believe that taken by sur- prise, she would say yes. That shows how much thorough preparation amounts to. The matter is not settled, for she neither said yes, nor no, but referred me to her aunt. I should have foreseen this. HowWr, I am still lucky, for this outcome is even better than the other. '

The aunt gives her consent, about that I never had the slightest doubt. Cordelia accepts her advice. As regards my engagement, I do not boast that it is romantic, it is in every way very matter of fact and common- place. The girl doesn’t know whether to say yes or no; the aunt says yes, the girl also says yes, I take the girl, she takes me — ^and now the story begins.

3rd day

So now I am engaged; so is Cordefia, and that is all she needs to know about the whole matter. If she had a girl friend she could talk freely with, she might perhaps say: “I don’t really understand what it all means. There is something about him that attracts me, but I can’t really make out what it is. He has a strange power over me, but I do not love him, and perhaps I never shall; on the other hand I can stand

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it to live with him, and can therefore be very happy with him; for he certainly will not demand so much if one only bears with him.” My dear Cordelia! Perhaps he may demand more, in return for less endur- ance.— Of all ridiculous things imaginable, an engagement is the most ridiculous. Marriage, after all, has a meaning, even iE this meaning does not please me. An engagement is a purely human invention which by no means reflects credit upon its inventor. It is neither one thing nor the other, and it has as much to do with love as the scarf which hangs from a beadle’s back has to do with a professor’s gown. Now I am a member of this honorable company. That as not without significance, for, as Trop says, it is only by first being an artist that one acquires the right to judge oAer artists. And is not a fiance also a make-believe artist.?

Edward is beside himself with rage. He is letting his beard grow, he has hung away his dark suit, which is very significant. He insists on talking with Cordelia in order to describe my craftiness to her. It is an affecting scene: Edward unshaven, carelessly dressed, shouting at Cor- delia. Only he caimot cut me out with his long beard. Vainly I try to bring him to reason. I explain that it is the aunt who has brought about the match, that Cordelia perhaps has a warmer feeling for him, that I am willing to step back if he can win her. For a moment he wavers, wonders^hether he should not shave his beard in a new way, buy a new black s®, then the next instant he abuses me. I do everything to keep on good terms with him; however angry he is with me, I am certain he will take no step without consulting me; he does not forget how helpful I have been to him in my role as mentor. And why should I wrest his last hope from him, why break with him .? He is a good man; who knows what may happen in the future .?

What I now have to do is, on the one hand, to get everything in order for getting the engagement broken, thus assuring myself of a more beautiful and significant relation to Cordelia; on the other hand, I must improve the time to the uttermost by enjoying all the charm, all the loveliness with which nature has so abundantly endowed her, enjoy- ing mjself in it, still with the self-limitation and circumspection that prevents any violation of it. When I havq,brought her to the point where she has burned what it is to love, and what it is to love me, then the engagement breaks like an imperfect mold, and she belongs to me. This

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is the point at which others become engaged, and have a good prospect of a boring marriage for all eternity. Well, let others have it.

As yet everything is in statu quo\ but how can any fianc6 be luckier than I ? No miser who has found a piece of gold is happier than I am. I am intoxicated with the thought that she is in my power. A pure, innocent femininity, transparent as the sea and as profound, with no concepts about love! Now she is to learn its power. Like a king’s daughter who has been raised from the dust to the throne of her fore- fathers, so shall she be installed in the kingdom where she belongs. But this must happen through me; and when she learns to love, she learns to love me; when she develops the rule, its paradigm gradually develops, and this is myself. When she feels the entire significance of love, she expends this in loving me, and when she suspects that she has learned this from me, then her love is doubled. The thought of my joy so overwhelms me that I almost lose my senses.

Her soul is not dissipated nor relaxed by the undefined emotions of love, a thing which keeps many yovmg girls from ever learning to love, that is to say, to love decisively, energetically, totally. They hold in their consciousness an indefinite, nebulous image which is supposed to be an ideal, according to which the actual is to be tested. From such half- measures something emerges wherewith one may manage hpe’s Chris- tian way through the world. — ^Now as love awakens in Cordelia’s soul, I scrutinize it, listen to it as it issues from her in all its varied moods. I ascertain how it has taken shape in her, and fashion myself into likeness with it. And though I am even now immediately engrossed with the story of the love pulsing through her heart, yet outwardly I still meet her advances as deceptively as possible. After all, a girl loves only once.

Now I am in lawful possession of Cordelia, I have the aunt’s consent and blessing, the congratulations of friends and relatives; that ought to be enough. So now all the hardships of war are over, the blessings of peace begin. How silly! As if the aunt’s blessing and the congratulations of friends could put me in possession of Cordelia in the more profound sense; as rf love made such a difference between war and peace, and did not rather, as long as it lasts, itself proclaim a con^at, even if the weapons are different The difference really depends on whether it is

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fought cominus or eminus. The more a love affair has been fought eminusy the more regrettable; for it makes the hand to hand contest less important. A hand-clasp, a touch of the foot, belongs to the close com- bat, something which it is well known Ovid both warmly commends and jealously disparages— to say nothing of a kiss, an embrace. He who fights eminus generally must rely on his eye alone, and yet if he is an artist, he will know how to use this weapon with such virtuosity that he achieves almost the same results. He can let his eye rest upon a^girl with a desultory tenderness which affects her as if he had accidentally touched her; he will be able to hold her as firmly with his eye as if he held her fast in his embrace. However, it is a fault or a misfortune for one to fight too long eminus, for such a struggle is constantly only a symbol, not the enjoyment. Only when the struggle is fought cominus, does everything attain its true importance. When love no longer fights, then it has ceased. I have practically not fought eminus and therefore I am not at the end, but at the beginning; I am bringing out my weapons. It is true I am in possession of her, that is, in a legal and bourgeois sense; but that means nothing at all to me, I have far higher ideals. It is true that she is engaged to me; but if I were to infer from this that she loved me, I should be disappointed, for after all she is not in love. I am in lawful possession of her, and yet I do not possess her, just as I can possess a girl without being in lawful possession of her.

Auj heinltch errbthender Wange

Leuchtet des Herzens Gluhen.

She sits on the sofa by the tea table, I in a chair by her side. This posi- tion has the advantage of being intimate and yet detached. So tremen- dously much depends upon the position, that is, for one who has an eye for it. Love has many positions, this is the first. How regally Nature has endowed this girl; her pure soft form, her deep feminine innocence, her clear eyes — all these intoxicate me. I pay her my respects. She cheer- fully greets me as usual, still a little embarrassed, a litde uncertain, the engagement still makes our relationship somewhat different, just how she does not know. She shook hands with me, but not with her usual smile. I returned the greeting with a slight, almost imperceptible pres- sure. I was gentle and friendly without being erotic. — She sits on the sofa by ^e tea table. I sit in a chair by her side. A glorified solemnity diffuses itsflf ov«r the situation, a soft morning radiance. She is silent; nothing disturbs the stillness. My eyes steal softly over her, not with

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desire, in truth that would be shameless. A delicate fleeting blush passes over her, like a cloud over the meadow, rising and receding. What does this blush mean? Is it love? Is it longing, hope, fear; for is not the heart’s color red? By no means. She wonders, she is surprised — not at me, that would be too litde to offer her; she is surprised, not at herself, but in herself, she is transformed within. This moment demands still- ness, therefore, no reflection shall disturb it, no intimation of passion interrupt it. It is as if I were not present, and yet it is just my presence that furnishes the conditions for her contemplative wonder. My being is in harmony with hers. When she is in this condition, a young girl is to be worshipped and adored in silence, like some deities.

It is indeed fortunate that I have my xmcle’s house. If I wished to give a young man a distaste for tobacco, I should take him to a smoker. If I wish to give a girl a distaste for being engaged, I need only bring her here. As in a tailors’ guildhall one looks only for tailors, so here one looks only for engaged couples. It is a terrible company to fall into, and I cannot blame CordeUa for becoming impatient with it. When we are assembled en masse, I believe we muster ten couples, besides the extra battalions which great festival days bring to the capital. TTien we en- gaged couples can thoroughly enjoy the pleasures of enga^ments. I meet with Cordelia at the alarm post in order to disgust her Vith this love-smitten obviousness, this love-sick awkwardness of craftsmen. In- cessantly throughout the evening one hears a sound as if someone wcjfe going arovmd with a fly-swatter — ^it is the lovers kissing. There is a genial unrestraint in this house; no one even seeks a dark comer. No, they all sit about a big round table. I decided to treat Cordelia the same way. To do this, I must do violence to my own feelings. It was really outrageous of me to allow myself to offend her innate femininity in this way. I reproached myself for it very strongly, even when I was deceiving her. Generally I can assure any girl who entrusts herself to me, a perfect aesthetic conduct: only it ends with her being deceived; but this is con- sistent with my aesthetics, for either the girl deceives the man, or the man deceives the girl. It would certainly be interesting if we might get some literary research worker to count up in fairy stories, sagas, folklore, and mythologies, whether it is the man or the girl who is more fre- quently faithless.

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I cannot regret the time that Cordelia has cost me, although it is con- siderable. Every meeting has demanded long preparation. I am watch- ing the birth of love within her. I am even almost invisibly present when I visibly sit by her side. My relation to her is that of an unseen partner in a dance which is danced by only one, when it should really be danced by two. She moves as in a dream, and yet she dances with another, and this other is myself, who, insofar as I am visibly present, am invisible, insofar as I am invisible, I am visible. The movements of the dance require a partner, she bows to him, she takes his hand, she flees, she draws near him again. I take her hand, I complete her thought as if it were completed in herself. She moves to the inner melody of her own soul; I am only the occasion for her movement. I am not amorous, that would only awaken her; I am easy, yielding, impersonal, almost like a mood.

What does an engaged couple usually talk about ? So far as I know they busy themselves in getting mutually acquainted with the tiresome family connections of their respective families. What wonder then that the erotic is lost to sight. They do not understand making love to the nth degree, in comparison with which all other stories are lost sight of; one should never permit one’s self to love thus, even if one is married ten tim^ Even if I do have an aunt called Mary, an uncle named Christopher, a father who was a major, and so forth, all such informa- tion is irrelevant to the mysteries of love. Aye, even one’s own past life is nothing. A young girl usually does not have much of importance to reveal in this respect; if she has, then it may perhaps be worth while to listen to her, but, as a rule, not to love her. Personally I want no his- tories; I have seen enough of them; I seek the immediate. That is the infinite wonder of love, that the individuals first exist for one another at that moment.

A little confidence must be aroused in her, or, rather, a doubt must be removed. I do not really belong to the class of lovers who love one another out of respect, marry each other out of respect, bear children out of respect, and so on; but yet I well understand Aat love, especially as long a^ passion is not aroused, demands that the one who is its object, should not aesthetically oflend against the moral sense. In this respect love has it own dialectic. Thus, while from the moral standpoint, my

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relation to Edward was far more reprehensible than my behavior toward the aunt, I should find it far easier to justify the former to Cordelia than the latter. She has as yet said nothing, but still I have found it best to explain to her the necessity for my having approached her in this man- ner. The circumspection I used flatters her pride, the secretiveness with which I managed everything fascinates her. It might seem that I have here betrayed too much erotic knowledge, so that I contradict myself when later I find it necessary to imply that I have never been in love be- fore. However, that is nothing. I am not afraid to contradict myself as long as she does not notice it, and I gain what I want. Let scholarly dis- putants take pride in avoiding every contradiction; a young girl’s life is too exuberant not to have contradictions in it, and consequently it makes contradictions necessary.

She is proud, and at the same time she has no real conception of the erotic. Whereas she now, to a certain degree, defers to me intellectually, yet it is conceivable that when the erotic begins to assert itself, she may take it into her head to turn her pride against me. She is principally concerned about her own significance as woman. That it why it was easy to arouse her pride against Edward. This pride, however, was en- tirely unmotivated because she had no conception of love. If she acquires this, then she will have acquired true pride; but a residue of tl^ unmo- tivated pride might easily disturb her. It is then conceivable that she might turn against me. Although this might not make her regret having assented to our engagement, she would readily see that I had made a fairly good bargain; she would realize that it was not a proper begin- ning on her part. Should this dawn upon her, she might venture to defy me. That is the way it should be. That proves to me how deeply she is moved.

Sure enough. Even from far down the street I see this charming, at- tractive, litde head stretching as far as possible out of the window. It is the third day that I have noticed it. ... A young girl certainly does not stand at the window for nothing, she probably has her own good reason. . . . But, for heaven’s sake, I beg you not to stretch so far out of the window; I bet you are standing on a chair round; I infer that from your position. T hink how terrible it would be if you fell down on your

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head, not for me, of course, for I hold myself outside the case, but for him, him, for there certainly must be a him. . . . Well, of all things! Away down there comes my friend. Licentiate Hansen, walking in the middle of the street. There is something unusual in his appearance, an uncommon haste; if I am right he is being borne on the wings of long- ing. Can he be coming to this house? And I not know it. . . . My pretty maiden, you have disappeared. I imagine that you have gone to open the door for him. . . . You might as well come back again, for he really is not

coming into the house How do I know that ? I can tell you how

He said so himself. If the wagon that drove past had not been so noisy, you could have heard him yourself. I said to him just en passant'. “Are you going in here ?” He replied in so many words : “No.” — Now you can really say farewell, for the licentiate and I are going walking. He is embarrassed, and embarrassed people are usually garrulous. Now I shall talk with him about the preferment he is seeking. . . . Farewell, my pretty maiden, we are going to the custom-house. When we have reached it, I shall say to him : “Confound you, you have taken me out of my way. I ought to be up on Western Street.” — See now, here we

are again What constancy! she is still standing by the window. Such

a girl ought to make a man happy. . . . And why am I doing all this ? you ask. Because I am a low-minded fellow who takes pleasure in teas- ing others? By no means. I do it out of regard for you, my worthy maiden. In the first place. You have waited for the licentiate, longed for him, 'and so when he finally comes he is doubly welcome. In the second place. When the licentiate now comes into the house, he will say: “We were almost caught that time by that accursed fellow standing by the door when I wanted to come in. But I was clever, I lured him into a long talk about the living I am trying to get, and I walked him up and down, here and there, and finally clear out to the custom-house. I can promise you he noticed nothing.” So what? So you think more of the licentiate than ever. For you have always thought that he had a remarkable mind, but that he was clever . . . aye, now you see it your- self. And you have me to thank for it. — But now something else occurs to me. Their engagement cannot yet have been announced, otherwise I should have heaijd of it. The girl is beautiful and pleasing to look at, but she is young. Perhaps her insight is not yet mature. Is it not con- ceivable that she is thoughtlessly planning to take a very serious step ? It must be prevented; I must talk with her. I owe her that, for she is certainly a very attractive girl. I owe it to the licentiate, for he is my friend. So far as that goes, I owe it to her, for she is my friend’s intended.

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I owe it to her family, for it is certainly a very respectable one. I owe it to the whole human race, for it is a good deed. The whole human race! Great thought, inspiring deed, to act in the name of the whole human race, to possess such general authority 1 Now for Cordelia. I can always make use of a mood, and the girl’s beautiful yearning has really affected me.

So now the first war with Cordelia begins, in which I flee, and thereby teach her to triumph in pursuing me. I constantly retreat before her, and in this retreat, I teach her through myself to know all the power of love, its unquiet thoughts, its passion, what longing is, and hope, and impa- tient expectation. As I thus set all this before her in my own person, the same power develops correspondingly in her. It is a triumphal proces- sion. I lead her in it, and I also am the one who dithyrambically sings praises for her victory, as well as the one who shows the way. She will gain courage to believe in love, to believe that it is an eternal power, when she sees its mastery over me, sees my emotions. She will beUeve me, partly because fundamentally what I do teach is true. If this were not the case, then she would not believe me. With every movement of mine, she becomes stronger and stronger; love is awakening in her soul, she is becoming initiated into her significance as a woman. Hitherto I have not set her free in the ordinary meaning of the word. I do it now, I set her free, for only thus will I love her. She must never suspect that she owes this freedom to me, for that would destroy her self-confidence. When she at last feels free, so free that she is almost tempted to break with me, then the second war begins. Now she has power and passion, and the struggle becomes worth while to me. The temporary results may be what they will. If she becomes dizzy with pride, if she should break with me, oh, well, she is free; but she shall yet be mine. That the engagement should bind her is foolishness; I will have her only in her freedom. Let her forsake me, the second war is just beginning, and in this second war I shall be the victor, just as certainly as it was an illusion that she was the victor in the first. The more abundant strength she has, the more interesting for me. The first war was a war of liberation, it was only a game; the second is a war of conquest, it is for life and death.

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Do I love Cordelia? Yes. Sincerely? Yes. Faithfully? Yes — ^in an aesthetic sense, and this also indicates something important. What good would it do this girl to fall into the hands of some numskull, even if he were a faithful husband ? What would she then become ? Nothing. Someone has said that it takes a litde more than honesty to get through the world. I should say that it takes something more than honesty to love such a girl. That more I have — ^it is duplicity. And yet I really love her. Rigidly and abstemiously I watch over myself, so that every- thing there is in her, the whole divinely rich nature, may come to its unfolding. I am one of the few who can do this, she is one of the few who is fitted for this; are we not then suited to one another?

Is it sinful of me that instead of looking at the preacher, I fix my eye on the beautiful embroidered handkerchief you hold in your hand? Is it sinful for you to hold it thus ? It has your name in the corner. . . . Your name is Charlotte Hahn? It is so fascinating to learn a lady’s name in such an accidental manner. It is as if there were a helpful spirit who mysteriously made me acquainted with you. ... Or is it perhaps not accidental that the handkerchief was folded just right for me to see your name ? . . . You are disturbed, you wipe a tear from your eye, the handkerchief again hangs carelessly down. ... It is evident to you that I am looking at you, not at the preacher. You look at the handkerchief,

you notice that it has betrayed your name It is really a very innocent

matter that one should get to know a girl’s name. . . . Why do you take it out on the handkerchief, why do you crumple it up ? Why are you angry? Why angry at me? Listen to what the preacher says: “No one should lead a man into temptation; even one who does so unwittingly, has a responsibility, he is even in debt to the other, a debt which he can discharge only by increased benevolence.” . . . Now he says Amen. Outside the church door dare you let the handkerchief flutter loosely in the wind ... or have you become afraid of me ? What have I done ? . . . Have I done more than you can forgive, more than you dare remember — in order to forgive ?

A two-fold movement becomes necessary in relation to Cordelia. If I constantly flee before her superior force, it makes it possible for the

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erotic in her to become too diffused and vague for the deeper woman- liness to hypostatize itself. Then, when the second war began, she would not be able to offer resistance. She may be asleep to her victory, but she has it; but, on the other side, she must constandy be awake. Then, when for an instant it seems to her that her victory has been wrested from her, she must learn to hold it fast. In this conflict her womanhood is ma- tured. I might either use conversation to inflame or a letter to cool, or vice versa. The latter is by all means to be preferred. I then enjoy her most intense moments. When she has received a letter, when she has absorbed its sweet poison in her blood, then a word is enough to make her love break forth. The next moment irony and coldness awaken doubt, but yet not suflSciently to nullify her sense of victory, rather she feels it increased through the reception of the next letter. Irony does not lend itself well to expression in a letter, for one runs the risk of her not understanding it. GHmpses only of one’s ardent feelings may be allowed to enter into conversation. My personal presence prevents extravagance of mood. When I am only present in a letter, she can easily endure me, to a certain extent she confuses me with a miiversal being who lives in her love. In a letter, too, one can better let oneself go; in a letter I can throw myself at her feet beautifully, a thing that would certainly make me look like a fool if I were actually to do it, and would destroy all the illusion. The contradiction in these movements will evoke and develop, strengthen and consolidate her love, in one word, tempt it.

These letters must not assume a strongly erotic coloring too early. In the beginning it is best for them to have a general character, contain a single suggestion, remove a single doubt. Occasionally they may also suggest the advantage an engagement gives in keeping people away by some trickery. What imperfections an engagement otherwise has, she shall have plenty of opportunities to discover. In my uncle’s house all the travesties necessary can always be found. The intimate erotic she cannot develop without my assistance. When I refuse this, and let its caricature worry her, then she will soon become tired of being engaged, still without realizing that I am the one who made her tired of it.

A httie note today describing the condition of my soul will give her an insight into how it stands with herself. It is the correct method, and I always have method. I have you to thank for that, you dear girls, whom I formerly have loved. I owe it to you that my soul is so attuned that I can be whatever I wish to Cordelia. I remember you with grati-

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tude, the honor belongs to you. I shall always acknowledge that a young girl is a born teacher, from whom one can always learn, if nothing else, how to deceive her — ^for one learns this best from the girls themselves; no matter how old I may become, I shall never forget that everything is first really over for a man when he has got so old that he can learn nothing from a young girl.

My Cordelia!

You say that you had not imagined that I was like this, but neither had I imagined that I could become like this. Does not the change lie in yourself? For it is conceivable that I am not really changed, but that the eye with which you look at me is changed. Or does that change He in me ? It lies in me, for I love you; it lies in you, for it is you I love. Proudly and inexorably I considered everything by the calm, cold light of rea- son, nothing terrified me; even if a spirit had knocked at my door, I should calmly have taken the candle and opened the door. But lo, it was not wraiths I opened to, not pale, nerveless forms, it was to you, my Cordeha; it was life and youth and health and beauty who entered in. My arm trembled, I could hardly hold the fight steady. I retreat before you, and cannot refrain from fixing my eyes upon you, cannot refrain from wishing I might hold the fight steady. I am changed; but how, why, in what does this change consist? I do not know. I know no better definition, no richer predicate to use than this, when I very mysteriously say about myself: I am changed.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

Love loves secrecy — an engagement is a revelation; it loves silence — an engagement is a public notice; it loves a whisper, an engagement is a proclamation from the housetops; and yet an engagement, with my Cordelia’s help, may be an excellent trick for deceiving the enemies. On a dark night there is nothing more dangerous to other ships than hanging out a lantern, which is more deceptive than the darkness.

Thy Johannes.

She sits on the sofa by the tea table. I sit by her side; she holds my arm, her head weighed down by many thoughts rests on my shoulder; she is

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SO near me, and yet so far away. She resigns herself to me, md yet she does not belong to me. Even yet she resists me, but this is not subjectively reflective, it is the ordinary feminine resistance, for woman’s nature is renunciation in the form of resistance. — She sits on the sofa by the tea table, I sit by her side. Her heart is beating, yet without passion; her bosom moves, yet not in disquiet; sometimes she changes color, yet in an easy transition. Is that love.? By no means. She listens, she under- stands. She listens to the winged word, she understands it as her own; she listens to another’s speech as it echoes through her; she understands this echo also, as if it were her own voice, which is man if est to her and to another.

What am I doing.? Do I fool her.? Not at all; that would not help me. Am I stealing her heart? By no means; I really prefer that the girl I love should retain her heart. Then what am I doing? I am creating for myself a heart in the likeness of her own. An artist paints his beloved ; that gives him pleasure; a sculptor fashions his. I do this, too, but in a spiritual sense. She does not know that I possess this picture, and therein lies my real deception. Mysteriously have I secured it, and in this sense I have stolen her heart, just as when Rebecca was called upon to steal Laban’s heart, she craftily took away from him his household gods.

Environment and setting still have a great influence upon one; there is something about them which stamps itself firmly and deeply in memory, or rather upon the whole sold, and which is therefore never forgotten. However old I may become, it will always be impossible for me to think of Cordelia amid surroundings different from this little room. When I come to visit her, the maid admits me to the hall; Cor- delia herself comes in from her room, and, just as I open the door to enter the living-room, she opens her door, so that our eyes meet exaedy in the doorway. The living-room is small, comfortable, little more than a cabinet. Although I have now seen it from many different viewpoints, the one dearest to me is to see it from the sofa. She sits there by my side; in front of us stands a round tea table, over which is draped a rich tablecloth. On the table stands a lamp shaped like a flower, which shoots up vigorously to bear its crown, over which a delicately cut paper shade hangs down so lightly that it is never still. The form of the lamp re- minds one of oriental lands, the movement of the shade of the mild

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oriental breezes. The floor is concealed by a carpet woven from a certain kind of osier, which immediately betrays its foreign origin. For the mo- ment I let the lamp become the keynote of my landscape. I am sitting there with her outstretched on the ground, under the lamp’s flowering. At other times I let the osier rug evoke ideas about a ship, about an officer’s cabin — we sail out into the middle of the great ocean. When we sit at a distance from the window, we immediately see the great circle of the horizon. This adds to the illusion. When I sit by her side, then I describe these things as pictures which pass as lightly over reality as death walks over one’s grave.

Environment is always of great importance, especially for the sake of memory. Every erotic relation should always be lived so that one can easily reproduce a picture of it, in all the beauty of the original scene. To make this successful one must be especially observant of the surround- ings. If one does not find them as one wants them, then one must make them so. In the case of Cordelia and her love, the environment was en- tirely suitable. What a different picture appears to me when I think about my litde Emily, and yet, again, how suitable was the environ- ment. I cannot imagine her, or rather, I only remember her in the little garden room. The door stood open, a little garden in front of the house cut off the view, forcing the eye to stop there, to pause at the boldly inviting highway that vanished in the distance. Emily was charming, but more insignificant than Cordelia. Her environment, too, suited her. The eye was held to earth, it did not rush boldly and impatiently for- ward, it rested in this little foreground. Even the highway which ro- mantically lost itself in the distance only emphasized this, so that the eye traversing the stretches lying before it, turned back again into this garden in order to traverse the same stretches again. The apartment was of the earth. Cordelia’s environment must have no foreground, but only the infinite boldness of far horizons. She must not be of the earth, but ethereal, not walking but flying, not forward and back, but everlast- ingly forward.

When a man is himself engaged, he is straightway in itiated with a vengeance into all the foolishness of the engaged. Some days ago Licen- tiate Hansen turned up with the attractive young girl he has become engaged to. He confided to me that she was charming, which I knew before, that she was very young, which I also knew; finally he confided to me that this was exactly the reason he had chosen her, so that he

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might shape her according to his ideals which were ever floating before his mind. Ye gods, what a silly licentiate, — and a healthy, blooming, joyous girl! Now I am a fairly old practitioner, yet I should never ap- proach a young girl otherwise than as Nature’s Venerabile, and learn first from her. Insofar as I can have any formative influence upon her, it is by repeatedly teaching her what I have learned from her.

Her soul must be set in motion, agitated io every possible direction; not, however, piecemeal and by sudden gusts, but totally. She must dis- cover the infinite, experience what it is that lies nearest to man. This must she discover, not by the way of thought, which for her is the wrong way, but in imagination, which is the real mode of communication be- tween her and me; for what is but a part with man, is the whole with woman. Not by the toilsome labor of thought should she work toward the infinite, for woman is not born for intellectual work, but she should grasp it through imagination and the easy way of the heart. The infinite is just as naturally a part of a young girl as is the conception she holds that all love must be happy. A young girl has above all, wherever she turns, the infinite about her, and the transition is a leap, but, it is well to note, a feminine not a masculine leap. Why are men generally so clumsy.? When a man would leap, he first takes a run, makes lengthy preparations, measures the distance with his eye, takes several running starts, becomes afraid, and turns back again. At last he jumps and falls in. A yoimg girl leaps in a different fashion. In mountainous regions one often sees twin peaks towering above the mountain range. A yawn- ing chasm separates them, terrible to gaze down into. No man would dare this leap. A young girl, however, so the mountain folk say, did venture it, and for this reason it is called the Maiden’s Leap. I can readily believe it, as I believe everything remarkable about a yoimg girl, and it is intoxicating to me to hear the simple mountain folk talk about it. I believe everything, believe the miraculous, am amazed at it only in order to believe, as the only thing in the world which has astonished me is a young girl, the first and the last. And yet, such a leap is for a young girl only a hop, while a man’s leap always becomes ridiculous, because however far he straddles, his exertion at once becomes nothing, compared with the distance between the peaks, and yet it acts as a sort of measuring stick.

But who could be so foolish as to imagine a young girl’s taking a run- ning start.? One can indeed imagine her running, but then the running

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is itself a game, a pleasure, an unfolding of charm, whereas the concep- tion of a preliminary run separates those things which belong together in a woman. A run, in fact, has its own dialectic, which is contrary to woman’s nature. And now the leap; who here dares again to be so un- gracious as to separate what there belongs together ? Her leap is a float- ing through the air. And when she has reached the other side, she stands there again, not exhausted by the exertion, but more beautiful than ever, instinct with feeling, she wafts a kiss over to us who stand on this side. Young, new-born like a flower which has shot up from the root of the mountain, she swings out over the abyss, so that it almost turns us dizzy. . . . What she must learn is to go through all the movements of infinity, to sway, to lull herself in her moods, to confuse poetry and reality, truth and romance, to be tossed about in the infinite. When she becomes familiar with this confusion, then I set the erotic in motion, then she becomes what I wish and desire. Then is my duty ended, my labor; then I take in my sail, then I sit by her side, and under her sail we travel forward. And in truth, when this girl is first erotically intoxi- cated, I shall have enough to do in sitting by the rudder to moderate the speed, so that nothing comes too early, nor in an unlovely manner. Sometimes I may take in a little sail, but in the next moment we rush forward again.

Cordelia becomes more and more indignant whenever we go to my uncle’s house. She has several times requested that we should not go there again; there is no help for her, I always know how to find an excuse. Last night when we left she pressed my hand with unusual pas- sion. She had probably felt tortured at being there, and it was no won- der. If I did not always get some amusement out of watching the artifi- ciality of these artistic performances, it would be impossible for me to stand it. This morning I received a letter from her wherein she, with more wit than I 'had expected from her, ridiculed the engagements. I have kissed that letter; it is the dearest one I have received from her. Rightly so, my Cordelia, this is the way I wish it.

It happens quite curiously that on Eastern Street there are two confec- tioners whose places are exactly opposite one another. On the first floor to the left lives a little maiden or matron. She is usually hidden behind

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a curtain which screens the windowpane where she sits. The curtain is made of very thin material, and if anyone knows the girl, or has seen her often, he will, if he has good eyesight, easily be able to recognize every feature, while to one who does not know her, or does not see well, she will appear only as a dark shadow. The latter is to a certain degree the case with me; the former the case with a young officer who appears in the offing every day precisely at noon, and looks up at this window. I really first noticed this beautiful telegraphic relation because of the curtain. There are no curtains for the rest of the windows, and such a single curtain covering only one pane, is usually a sign that some very retiring person sits behind it. One forenoon I stood at the window of the confectionery across the street. It was exactly twelve o’clock. With- out paying any attention to the passers-by, I stood looking fixedly at this curtain, when suddenly the dark shadow behind it began to move. A feminine head appeared in profile at the next pane, so that it curi- ously turned toward the curtain. Thereupon the fair owner of the head nodded in a very friendly way, and again hid herself behind the curtain.

First and foremost, I decided that the person she greeted was a man, for her greeting was too passionate to be occasioned by the sight of a girl friend; in the second place, I decided that he whom she greeted must be coming from the other direction. Thus she had placed herself exactly right to be able to see him a long distance away, aye, she could even greet him while concealed by the curtain. . . . Very well, at pre- cisely twelve o’clock, the hero in this litde love scene appears, our gal- lant lieutenant. I am sitting in the shop of the confectioner who lives on the ground floor of the building whose first floor is occupied by the young lady. The lieutenant already had his eyes fixed upon her. Take care now, my friend, it is not so easy a matter to bow gracefully to the first floor. On the whole, he is not so bad— well developed, erect, a handsome figure, hooked nose, dark hair, the tricorn is very becoming to him. Now for a push! the knees gradually begin to knock together a little from standing too long in one position. It makes an impression on the eyes comparable to the feeling a man with a toothache has when the teeth are left in the mouth too long. If a man centers his whole power in his eyes and directs it to the first floor, it soon takes too much strength from the legs. I beg your pardon. Lieutenant, for intercepting that heaven-directed glance. It was impertinent, I know that well enough. One cannot call this glance very significant, rather insignifi- ranf, and yet very promising. But these many promises evidently rise too strongly to the head; he totters, to use the poet’s word about Agnete,

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he wavers, he falls. That is tough, and if anyone asked me, I should say it ought never to happen. He is too good for that. It is really fatal, for when a man would impress a lady as a cavalier, he must never fall. If he would be a cavalier, he must conduct himself as such. If on the other hand, he only appears as a great intellect, then all such things are mat- ters of indifference; he may sink into himself, he may collapse, if then he actually falls, there is nothing at all remarkable about it. . . . What an impression this incident might make upon my little miss !

It is unfortunate that I cannot be on both sides of the Dardanelles at the same time. I could of course post an acquaintance on the other side of the street, but, partly, I always prefer to make my own observations, partly, I never know what there might be in it for me, and in such a case it is well never to have a confidant, since then one must waste a great deal of time finding out what he knows, and confusing him about the matter. ... I am really getting tired of my good lieutenant. Day after day he shows up in full uniform. It is really a terrible constancy. Is such a quahty becoming to a soldier.? Dear Sir, don’t you carry side arms.? Ought you not to take the house by storm? and the lady by vio- lence ? Of course, if you were a student, a licentiate, a curate who lives on hope, that would be a different matter. Still, I forgive you, for the girl pleases me the more I look at her. She is pretty, her brown eyes are full of mischief. When she is awaiting your arrival her appearance is enhanced by a higher beauty, indescribably becoming to her. Therefore I infer that she must have a ^reat deal of imagination, and imagination is the natural rouge of beautiful women.

My Cordelia!

What is longing? Language and the poets rhyme it with the word prison {Laengsel—Paengsel). How absurd! As if only a prisoner could know longing. As if one could not long when one is free. If I were set free, how would I not long. And on the other side, I am free, yes, free as a bird, and yet how do I not long! I long when I am going to you, I long when I leave you, even when I sit by your side, I am longing for you. Can one then long for what one has .? Aye, when one considers that in the next moment one may not have it. My longing is an eternal im- patience. Only when I had lived through all eternities and assured my- self that at every moment you belonged to me, would I return to you, and with you live through all eternities, and not even have the patience

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track of a young girl; one needs to have an eye on every finger. It was a nymph, Cardea, who devoted her life to fooling men. She lived in a wood, lured her lover to its thickest copse, and disappeared. She wished to fool Janus also, but he fooled her instead; for he had eyes in the back of his head.

My letters do not fail of their purpose. They develop her mentally, if not erotically. For that purpose I must not use letters but notes. The more the erotic is to come out, the shorter they should be, but the more positively they should stress the erotic side. However, in order not to make her sentimental or soft, irony must again stiffen her emotions, while yet giving her an appetite for the nourishment dearest to her. The notes vaguely and remotely suggest the absolute. As soon as this suspi- cion begins to dawn in her soul, the relation is ruptured. By my resist- ance the suspicion takes form in her soul, as if it were her own thought, her own heart’s impulse. This is just what I want.

My Cordelia!

Somewhere in this town there lives a little family consisting of a widow and her three daughters. Two of the latter go to the Royal Kitchen to learn to cook. It was about five o’clock on- an afternoon in spring, the door of the living-room opened softly, a spying glance stole about the room. There was no one; only a young girl sat at the piano. The door stood ajar, so one could listen unobserved. It was no artist who was playing; had it been, the door would have shut tight. She was play- ing a Swedish melody, sufiused with the impermanence of youth and beauty. The words mocked the girl’s own youth and beauty; her youth and beauty mocked the words. Which was right: the girl or the words ? The tones were so quiet, so melancholy, as if sadness were the arbitrator who should decide the question. — But it is wrong, this sadness. What coimection is there between youth and these reflections ? What fellow- ship between morning and evening! The tones quiver and tremble; the spirits of the sounding-board rise in confusion and do not under- stand one another— my Cordelia, why so violent! to what end this passion!

How far remote in time must an event be for us to remember it?

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How far must it be so that memory’s longing can no longer seize upon it? Most people have a limit in this respect: the things which lie too near them in time, they cannot remember, nor can they remember the more remote. I know no limit. What was experienced yesterday, I push back a thousand years in time, and remember it as if it had happened yesterday.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

I have a secret to confide to you, my confidante. To whom should I confide it? Echo? It would betray it. The stars? They are cold. People? They do not understand it. Only to you can I confide it; for you know how to keep a secret. There is a girl more beautiful than my soul’s dream, purer than the light of the sun, deeper than the depth of the sea, prouder than the flight of eagles— there is a girl — 01 incline your head to my ear and to my words, that my secret may slip into it— I love this girl more dearly than my life, for she is my life; more than all my desires, for she is my sole desire; more than all my thoughts, for she is my sole thought; more warmly than the sun loves the flowers; more fervendy than sorrow loves the secrecy of the troubled heart; more wistfully than the burning sands of the desert love the rain— I cling to her more tenderly than the mother’s eye fastens itself upon the child; more worshipfully than the pleading soul to God; more inseparably than the plant to its root.— Your head becomes heavy and thoughtful, it sinks down on your breast, your bosom rises to support it— my Cor- delia! You have understood me, you have understood me exactly, to the letter, no jot has been ignored. Shall I attune my ears and let your voice assure me of this? Could I doubt? Will you keep this secret? Dare I depend on you? Someone tells about men who in terrible crimes dedi- cate themselves to mutual silence. I have confided to you a seact which is my life, and my life’s content; have you nothing to confide in me, nothing which is so beautiful, so significant, so chaste, that supernatural forces would be set in motion if I betrayed it?

Thy Johaimes.

My Cordelia!

The heaven is overcast— dark rain clouds hang over it like dark brows above a passionate countenance; the trees of the forest move restlessly, tossed about by unquiet dreams. You are hidden from me in the forest. Behind every tree I perceive a feminine being who re-

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sembles you; if I come nearer, then it hides behind the next tree. Will you not reveal yourself to me? Unify yourself? Everything is in con- fusion before me; a solitary part of the woods loses its isolated outline, I see everything as a foggy sea, where everywhere feminine beings resembling you appear and disappear. I do not see you, you constantly move in the waves of intuition, and yet I am made happy by every single resemblance to you. Wherein does it lie — ^is it the rich unity of your being, or the poor manifold of my own ? — ^Is not loving you to love the world?

Thy Johannes.

It would really be interesting, if it were possible, to record exactly the conversations between Cordelia and myself. However easy this might seem to be, it is impossible; for if I were fortunate enough to remember every single word exchanged between us, still it would always be im- possible to express the contemporaneity which really forms the nerve center of the conversation, the surprised outbreak, the passionateness which is the life-principle of conversation. In general, I have naturally not prepared myself, siuce this would militate against the essential nature of conversation, especially of the erotic conversation. Only I al- ways have the contents of my letters well in mind, the moods which these might possibly evoke in her, always before my eyes. Naturally it would never occur to me to ask her whether she had read my letter. I can easily prove for myself that she has read it. I never talk with her direcdy about it, but I make mysterious allusions to it in the course of my conversation, pardy to fix one or another impression more firmly in her soul, pardy to wrest it from her and make her irresolute. Then she can reread the letter and get a new impression of it, and so on.

A change is taking place, and it is taking place in her. Should I try to characterize the condition of her soul at this moment, then I should say that it is pantheistically daring. Her glance betrays this immediately. It is daring, almost rash, in expectancy, as if the very moment demanded and was prepared to view the extraordinary. Like an eye that surveys itself, so her glance travels beyond that which appears immediately before it, and sees the marvelous. It is daring, almost rash in its ex- pectancy, but not in self-confidence; it is therefore dreamy and prayer- ful, not proud and commanding. She seeks the marvelous outside herself, she prays for it to appear, as if it was not in her own power to

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evoke it. This must be prevented, otherwise I get predominance over her too early. She said yesterday that there was something regal in my nature. Perhaps she will submit; otherwise it will not do. Certainly, my dear Cordelia, there is something kingly in my nature, but you do not suspect what it is I rule over as a kingdom. It is over stormy moods. Like Aeolus I hold them shut up in the mountain of my personality, and let now one, now another, go forth. Flattery wEl give her self- esteem; the difference between me and thee will be made valid; every- thing throws the responsibility on her. Great caution is needed in using flattery. Sometimes one must value himself very highly, yet so that there remains something still higher; sometimes one must set one’s self very low. The first is more correct when one is moving toward the spiritual, the second, when one moves toward the erotic. — Does she owe me anything? Nothing at all. Could I wish for her to? Not at all. I am too much a connoisseur — I have too much understanding of the erotic for any such foolishness. If this were actually the case I should endeavor with all my might to make her forget it, and hush my own thoughts about it to sleep. Every young girl is, in relation to the labyrinth of her heart, an Ariadne; she holds the thread by which one can find his way through it, but she has it, without herself knowing how to use it.

My Cordelia!

Speak — ^I obey. Your wish is a command. Your prayer is an all- powerful invocation, every fleeting wish of yours is a benefaction to me; for I obey you not like a servile spirit, as if I stood outside of you. When you command, then your will increases, and with it I myself; for I am a confusion of the soul which only awaits your word.

Thy Joharmes.

My Cordelia!

You know I talk to myself a great deal. I have found that the most interesting person of my acquaintance is myself. Sometimes I have feared that I might finally lack subjects for these conversations; now I no longer fear, now I have you. I talk, then, now and to all eternity about you with myself, about the most interestmg subject with the most

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interesting man.— Alas, I am only an interesting man, you the most interesting subject.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

Because I have loved you so short a time you almost seem to fear that I may have loved someone before. There are manuscripts on which the trained eye immediately suspects an older writing, which in the course of time has been superseded by insignificant foolishness. By means of chemicals, this later writing may be erased, and then the original stands out plain and clear. So your eye has taught me to find myself in myself. I let forgetfulness consume everything which does not concern you, and then I discover a very old, a divinely yoimg, original writing, then I discover that my love for you is as old as myself.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

How can a kingdom stand which is at strife with itself.? How shall I be able to survive, when I strive with myself.? What about? About you, in order, if possible, to find rest in the thought that I am in love with you. But how shall I find this rest? One of the striving powers will constandy persuade the other that he is most deeply and heartily in lovej the next moment the other will do the same. It would not trouble me gready if my war were external, if there was someone who dared to be in love with you, or dared to refrain from loving you, the crime is equally great; but this struggle in my own being consumes me, this one passion in its ambiguity.

Thy Johannes.

Just make yourself scarce, my little fisher-maiden; just hide yourself aqjong the trees; just take up your burden, it is becoming to you to bend over, aye, even as you are now doing, with a natural grace, under the load of fagots you have collected — ^that such a creature should bear such burdens! Like a dancer you reveal your beautiful form — slender waist, broad shoulders, not yet fully mature, that every registry clerk must admit. You perhaps believe that your beauty is not worth mentioning, you dunk that fashionable ladies are far more beautiful. Ah, my child! You do not know how much deception there is in the world. But start

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your journey with your burden on your shoulders, into the great forest, which probably stretches many, many miles into the country, up to the very foot of the blue mountains. You are perhaps not a real fisher- maiden, but an enchanted princess; you are the slave of a troll; he is cruel enough to make you fetch fagots from the forest. It is always this way in fairy stories; otherwise why should you go deeper into the for- est? If you are really a fisher-maiden, you should go down to your lodgings with your firewood, past me, as I stand on the other side of the road. — ^If you just follow the foot-path which winds invitingly through the trees, my eyes will find you; just look around at me, my eyes are following you; move me you cannot; no desire pulls me hence. I sit calmly on the railing and smoke my cigar. — Some other time— perhaps. Yes, your glance is roguish enough, when you half turn your head back that way; your graceful walk is inviting— Yes, I know it, I under- stand, where this path leads, — ^to the solitude of the forest, to the mur- mur of the trees, to the manifold stillness. Look, even heaven encourages you, it hides itself in the clouds, it darkens the background of the forest, it is as if it pulled down the curtain for us.— Farewell, my pretty fisher- maiden, live well. Thanks for your favor, it was a beautiful moment, a mood, not strong enough to move me from my firm place on the railing, but still rich in inward emotion.

When Jacob had bargained with Laban about the pay for his services, they agreed that Jacob should watch the white sheep, and as a reward for his work, should have the ringstraked and piebald lambs which were born in his flock. Then he laid mottled sticks in the water, and let the sheep look at them. — So I place myself everywhere before Cordelia, she sees me constandy. It seems to her mere attentiveness on my part; per- sonally I know, however, that her soul is losing interest in everyone else, that there is developing within her, a spiritual desire which sees me everywhere. '•

My Cordelia!

How could I forget you? Is my love then a work of memory? Even if tifnp expunged everything else from its tablets, even expunged mem- ory itself, my relation to you would continue to live, you would still not

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be forgotten. As if I could forget you! What should I then remember? I have even forgotten myself to remember you; if I then forget you, then I come to remember myself; but at the moment I remember myself, I must at that same moment remember you. As if I could forget you! What would happen then? There is a picture dating from antiquity. It represents Ariadne. She is leaping up from her couch and gazing earnesdy toward a ship which is departing under full sail. By her side stands Cupid with unstrung bow, and dries his eyes. Behind her stands a winged and helmeted figure. It is usually assumed that this figure represents Nemesis. Imagine this picture. Imagine it a little changed. Cupid docs not weep, and his bow is strung; or were you then become less beautiful, less victorious, because I had become mad? Cupid smiles and bends his bow. Nemesis does not stand inactive by your side, she also draws her bow. In that picture we see in the ship a maiily figure who is busily occupied. We assume that it is Theseus. Not so in my pic- ture. He stands on the stern, he looks longingly back, he stretches out his arms, he has repented, or, rather, his madness has left him, but the ship bears him away. Cupid and Nemesis both aim at him, and arrows fly from both bows; their aim is true; one sees, one understands, that they have both hit the same place in his heart, as a sign that his love was the Nemesis which avenged.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

People say that I am in love with myself; I don’t wonder; for how could they notice that I am in love, since I love only you; how could anyone suspect it, since I love only you ? I am in love with myself, why ? Because I am in love with you; for I love you truly, you alone, and everything which belongs to you, and so I love myself because this my- self belongs to you, so if I cease to love you, I cease to love myself. What is, then, in the profane eyes of the world an expression of the greatest egoism, is for your initiated eyes an expression of purest sympathy; what is for the profane eyes of the world an expression for the most prosaic self-preservation, is in your sacred sight an expression for the most enthusiastic self-annihilation.

Thy Johannes.

What I had most feared was that her whole development process might take too long a time. I see, however, that Cordelia is making such

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great strides forward that it becomes necessary for me to use all my power to restrain her spirit, to set everything in movement. Not for all the world must she become faint too early, that is to say, before the timp! when time is past for her.

When one is in love, one does not follow the public highway. It is only marriage which plods along the middle of the king’s highway; when one is in love and walks from N0ddebo, one does not follow the path by Esrom Lake, even though that is really only a hunting road; but it is smooth, and love prefers to smooth its own way. One penetrates deeper into Grib’s forest. And when one thus wanders arm in arm, when each one understands the other, then that becomes clear which before was obscurely amusiitg and painful. The lovers do not suspect that anyone is present. — Consequendy, this beautiful beech tree becomes a witness to your love; under its crown you first confessed your love. You remembered everything so clearly : the first time you saw each other, the first time you clasped each other’s hand in the dance, the first time you separated from each other iu the morniug hour, when you would admit nothing about yourself, to say nothing of another. — ^It is still entertaining to listen to these repetitions of love. — ^They fell on their knees under the tree, they pledged each other inviolable love, they sealed the pact with a kiss.— These are fruitful moods which must be squandered on Cordelia. . . . Consequendy this beech became a witness. O well, a tree is a proper wit- ness, but still it is not enough. Well, you think, heaven was also a witness, but heaven without something else is a very abstract idea. Look, therefore, there was indeed a witness. — Ought I to stand up, let them know that I am here No, perhaps they would know me, and that would spoil the game. Should I, when they leave, stand up and let them know someone was present? No, that is inexpedient. Silence shall rest over their secret —as long as I wish. They are in my power, I can separate them when I will. I am privy to their secret; only from him or from her, can I have learned it— from her, that would be impossible— consequendy, from him— that is abominable! Excellent! And yet it is almost malicious. O well, now that I can really see them, I can get a definite impression of her, which normally I cannot otherwise get as I like it, so there is nothing else for it.

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My Cordelia!

I am poor — ^you are my riches; dark — you are my light; I own noth- ing, want nothing. And how could I own anything. It is a contradiction to say that he can own something who does not own himself. I am as happy as a child, who can and should own nothing. I own nothing; for I belong only to you; I am not, I have ceased to be, in order to be yours.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

Mine, what does this word signify? Not what belongs to me, but what I belong to, what contains my whole being which is mine, insofar as I belong to it. My God is not the God who belongs to me, but the God to whom I belong, and so again, when I say my native land, my home, my calling, my longing, my hope. If you had not been immortal before, then would this thought that I am thine, break through Nature’s accustomed course.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

What am I ? The unassuming herald who attends upon your triumph; the dancer who supports you when you lightly and gracefully leap into the air; the greensward on which you rest for a moment when you are tired of flying; the bass voice which is heard under the soprano ecstasy, helping it to rise ever higher— what am I? I am the force of gravity which holds you to the earth. What am I ? Body, mass, earth, dust and ashes — ^You, my Cordelia, you are soul and spirit.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

Love is everything. For this reason, to one who loves, everything ceases to have significance in itself, and has it only in the interpretation that love affords. If there was some fianc^ who found that he cared about another girl, it would probably make him feel like a criminal, and she would be greatly troubled. You, on the contrary, wotfld, I know, see in such a circumstance an act of homage, for you know it would be impossible for me to love another; it is my love for you that casts its splendor over my whole life. When then I care for someone else, is it not in order to persuade myself that I do not love her, but only you— that would be audacious; but since my whole soul is filled with

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you, life takes on another significance for me, which becomes a myth about you.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

My love consumes me. Only my voice is left, a voice which has loved itself in you, everywhere whispers to you that I love you. 0 1 perhaps it tires you to listen to my voice. Everywhere it encompasses you; like a manifcdd, inconstant compassing, I lay my reflected soul around your pxjre deep being.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

One reads in ancient tales that a river fell in love with a maiden. So my soul is like a river that loves you. Sometimes it is peaceful and reflects your image deeply and quiedy; sometimes it imagines that it has cap- tured your image; then its waves rise up to prevent your escaping; sometimes the surface ripples sofdy, playing with your image; some- times it has lost il^ then its floods are black with despair. — Such is my soul ; like a river which has fallen in love with you.

Thy Johannes.

To tell the truth: without having an unusually vivid imagination, one could conceive of a more convenient, comfortable, and above all, a more suitable conveyance; to ride with a peat-cutter really creates a sensation. In a pinch, however, one accepts it with thanks. One goes out for a walk on the highway; one seats one’s self in the cart; one rides a mile and meets no one; two miles, all goes well; one feels quiet and secure; really one can take in the scenery better from this point of view than when one is walking; one has gone almost three miles— now who would have expected to meet anyone from Copenhagen so far out here on the high- way.? And it is someone from Copenhagen, you are sure, not a man from the countryside; he has quite a distinguished manner, so decisive, so observant, so appraising, and so little derisive. Yes, my dear girl, you are in an uncomfortable position, you look as if you were sittmg on a tray, the wagon-box is so shallow there is no room for your feet . . . But it is your own fault; my carriage is entirely at your service; I ven- ture to offer you a much less inconvenient place, if it would not embar-

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rass you to sit by my side. If it does, I will turn over the whole carriage to you, sit in back in the driver’s seat myself, pleased at being permitted to convey you to your destination. . . . The straw hat does not adequately protect you against a side glance. It is useless for you to bend your head down, I can still admire your lovely profile. Is it not presumptuous for a peasant to bow to me? But it is indeed quite proper for a peasant to bow to a distinguished man. — ^You do not get off with that; here is a tavern, yes, a station, and a peat-cutter is in his way too pious to neglect his devotions. Now I shall leave him. I have an unusual tip with which to please the peat-cutter. O! may I also he fortunate enough to please you. He cannot resist my offer, and when he has accepted it, then he cannot resist the reality of it. If I cannot, then my servant can. . . . He has gone into the taproom, leaving you alone in the shelter on the wagon. Heaven only knows what the girl is. Could she be a little middle class girl, perhaps the daughter of a parish clerk? If so, she is tmcom- monly pretty, and dressed in unusual taste. The clerk must have a good living. It has just occurred to me that she may be a little aristocrat who is tired of riding in her carriage, and perhaps went for a little hike in the country, and now has embarked on a little adventure. It is possible, such things are not unheard of. The peasant does not know anything; he is a beast who only knows how to drink. Aye, aye, let him drink, the beast, I do not begrudge it to him. . . .

But what do I see ? It is neither more nor less than Miss Jespersen, the daughter of the wholesaler. Heaven preserve me, we two ^ow each other. I met her once on Broad Street; she was riding backwards, she could not get the carriage window up; I took off my glasses, and then had the satisfaction of following her with my eyes. It was a very cramped position; there were so many in the carriage she could not move, and she probably did not dare to make an outcry. Her present situation is just as embarrassing. It is clear that we two are predestined for each other. She is a very romantic little girl, and she has set out on her own account— There comes my servant with the peat-cutter. He is dead drunk. It is disgusting. They are an abominably depraved lot, these peat-cutters. Alas, yes! And yet there are worse men than peat-cutters. — See, now you will just have to do the driving. Now that it becomes necessary for you to drive the horses, it is quite romantic. You refuse my invitation. You insist that you are a very good driver. You do not deceive me. I can see well enough how cunning you are. When you have gone a litde ways, then you will jump out, you can easily find a hiding place in the woods. — ^My horse must be saddled. I follow you on

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horseback. — There, see ! Now I am ready, now you can feel safe against any attack. — ^Don’t be so terribly afraid, or I’ll turn back immediately. I only want to frighten you enough to furnish the occasion for enhancing your natural beauty. You don’t know that I was responsible for your peasant getting drunk, and I have not allowed myself to make a single ofEensive remark. Even yet everything can be all right; I shall certainly give the affair such a comic turn that you will laugh at the whole story. I only desire a little setding of accounts with you. Never believe that I would take any young girl off her guard. I am a friend of freedom, and whatever does not come to me freely, I never trouble myself about. “You will certainly see yourself that you cannot continue your journey in this manner. I myself am going hunting, that is why I am on horseback. My carriage is ready at the tavern. If you are willing, it shall instantly over- take you and take you where you want to go. Unfortunately, I carmot have the pleasure of attending upon you, for I am bound by a hunting promise, and that is sacred.” You accept— in a moment everything will be all right. Now you see you do not need to be embarrassed at the thought of seeing me again, or, at least, not more so than is becoming to you. You can be amused at the whole affair, laugh a little, and think a little about me. More I do not ask. This may not seem very much, but it is enough for me. It is the beginning, and I am especially strong on beginnings.

Last evening the aunt had a little party. I knew Cordelia would have her knitting-bag with her, so I had hidden a little note in it. She dropped it, picked it up, read it, and showed both embarrassment and wistfulness. One should never fail to take advantage of such opportunities. It is incredible how much it can help. The note had nothing of importance in it, but it became infinitely significant to her when she read it tmder such circumstances. She had no chance to talk with me; I had arranged it so that I had to escort a lady home. Consequently Cordelia had to wait until today. It is always best to give an impression time to sink into her soul. It always looks as if I were very attentive. This gives me the advantage of everywhere being in her thoughts, of everywhere surpris- ing her.

Love still has its own dialectic. I was once in love with a young girl. Last summer in the theater in Dresden, I saw an actress who strikingly

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resembled her. Because of that I desired the pleasure of her acquaint- ance; then I discovered that there was really not a very great resem- blance. Today I met a lady on the street who reminded me about that actress. Now the story can go on as long as she wishes.

Everywhere my thoughts encompass Cordelia, I dispose them like guardian angels about her. Like Venus riding in her chariot drawn by doves, so Cordelia sits in her triumphal chariot, and I harness my thoughts like winged creatures. She sits there joyous, rich as a child, powerful as a goddess; I walk by her side. Truly a young girl is still and remains Venerabile of nature and the whole of existence. No one knows this better than myself. The only pity is that this glory is so short-lived. She smiles at me, she greets me, she beckons to me as if she were my sister. A single glance reminds her that she is my beloved.

Love has many positions. Cordelia makes good progress. She is sitting on my knee, her arm, soft and warm, encircles my neck; she rests upon my breast, light, without bodily weight; her soft form hardly touches me; like a flower her graceful figure twines about me, freely as a ribbon. Her eyes are hidden behind her lashes, her bosom is of a dazzling white- ness like snow, so smooth that my eye cannot rest upon it, would glance off, if her bosom did not move. What does this agitation mean? Is it love? Perhaps. It may be its anticipation, its dream. It still lacks energy. She embraces me elaborately, as the cloud the glorified, casually as a breeze, softly as one caresses a flower; she kisses me as dispassionately as heaven kisses the sea, sofdy and quietly as the dew kisses a flower, solemnly as the sea kisses the image of the moon.

So far I should call her passion a naive passion. When the change comes, and I begin to draw back in earnest, then she will really muster all her resources in order to captivate me. She has no way to accomplish this except by means of the erotic, but this will now appear on a very different scale. It then becomes the weapon m her hand which she swings against me. Then I have the reflected passion. She fights for her own sake because she knows that I possess the erotic; she fights for her own sake in order to overcome me. She develops in herself a higher form of the erotic. What I taught her to suspect by inflamin g her, my coldness now teaches her to understand, but in such a way that she believes she discovered it herself. Through this she will try to take me

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by surprise j she will believe that her boldness has outstripped me, and that she has thereby caught me. Then her passion becomes determinate, energetic, conclusive, logical; her kiss total, her embrace firm.— In me she seeks her freedom, the more firmly I encompass her, the better she finds it. The engagement is broken. When this happens, then she needs a little rest, so that this wild tumult may not bring out something un- seemly. Then her passion gathers itself again, and she is mine.

As formerly in the time of Edward of blessed memory, I supervised her reading indirectly, so now I do it directly. That which I furnish her I regard as the best food for thought: myths and fairy stories. Still, she is free in this as in everything. I listen to everything she says. If there has been nothing before, then I introduce something first.

When the servant girls go to the Deer Park in the summer time, it generally affords them but a meager pleasure. They go only once a year, and feel, accordingly, that they ought to celebrate. So they put on hat and shawl, and disfigure themselves in every way. Their gayety is wild, unseemly and lascivious. No, then I prefer Frederiksberg Park. They come here on Sunday afternoon, and I, too. Everything here is seemly and decent, the jollity itself has a quieter and finer stamp. In general, the man who has no appreciation of servant girls, loses more by it than they do. Their multitudinous host is really the most beautiful civil guard we have here in Copenhagen. If I were king I know what I would do — ^I would not review the troops of the line. If I were one of the city’s aldermen, I should immediately move to have a committee appointed whose business it would be, in every possible way, by insight, by advice and admonition, and by suitable rewards, to encourage the girls of the servant class to make a beautiful and meticulous toilet. Why should beauty go to waste, why should it go through life unnoticed? Let it at least once a week show itself in the most favorable fight! But above all let us have taste, restriction. A servant girl ought not to be dressed like a lady, so far I agree with PoMevennen, but the reasons assigned by this respectable sheet are altogether fallaciotis. Could we look forward to so desirable a flowering of the servant class, would not this in turn have a beneficial effect upon our own daughters? or am I too daring, when I descry a future for Denmark which may truly be rai led matchless? If I were only so fortunate as to be living when this golden age comes, I could employ the whole day in the streets and by-

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ways with a good conscience, just to rejoice in the pleasures o£ the eye. How enthusiastic my thought has become, so bold, so daring, so patri- otic! But it must be remembered that I am here in Frederiksberg Park, where the servant girls come on Sunday afternoon, and I, too.

First come the coimtry lassies, hand in hand with their sweethearts; or in another pattern, all the girls hand in hand in front, all the men behind; or in still another pattern, two girls and one man. This host constitutes the setting; they usually stand or sit under the trees in the great square in front of the pavilion. They are sound, full of health; only the color contrasts are a litde too strong, both in their dress and their complexions. Now come the girls from Jutland and Fyen: tall, rank, a little too stalwart of budd, their dress a little careless. Here there would be much for the committee to do. There is not wanting a repre- sentative for the Bornholm division: clever cooks, but not very approach- able, either in the kitchen or in Frederiksberg; there is something proud and repellent about them. Their presence here has a certain contrast value, and I should regret missing them here, but I rarely have anything to do with them.

Now come the troops of the center, the girls from Nyboder. Of mod- erate height, plump, a rounded figure, a delicate complexion, gay, happy nimble, gossipy, a litde given to coquetry, and above all, bareheaded. Their dress may readily approximate a lady’s, but two conditions must be observed: they must not wear a shawl but a kerchief, and no hat — ^at most, a smart litde cap; preferably they should be bareheaded - - - Why, how do you do, Marie; to think that I should meet you here. It is a long time since I saw you last. I suppose you are still in service at the Counsellor’s? — “Yes” — ^It is a very good place, is it not.? — ^“Yes” — ^But you are so alone out here, have you no one to keep you company ... no sweetheart . . . perhaps he hasn’t the time today, or perhaps you are waiting for him ?— What, you are not engaged ? Impossible I The prettiest girl in Copenhagen, a girl who is in service at the Counsellor’s, a girl who is an example and an ornament to all servant girls, who knows how to dress so neady and ... so richly. What a dainty litde handkerchief you have in your hand, of the finest cambric . . . and look, with em- broidery around the edge; I’ll wager it cost ten marks . . . and you may be sure that there is many a fine lady who does not own its equal . . . French gloves ... a silk parasol. . . . And such a girl not engaged. . . . Why, it is absurd. If I remember righdy, was it not Jens who thought quite a litde of you, you know whom I mean, Jens, the wholesaler’s Jens, who lived on the second floor ... I see I struck it right. . . . Why,

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then, didn t you become engaged? Jens was a handsome fellow, he had a good situation, and in course of time the Counsellor’s influence would have made him a policeman or a fireman, it wouldn’t have been at all a bad match ... I am afraid you must have been at fault, you have been too hard on him. . . . “No, but I foimd out that Jens had been engaged to a girl before, and that he had not treated her right at all.” — Well, well, who could have believed that Jens was such a rascal . . . those

guardsmen ... ah, those guardsmen, they are not to be depended on

You did just right, a girl like you is really too good to be thrown at everyone. . . . You will make a better match some day, I will guarantee

that. How is Miss Juliannc? I have not seen her for a long time.

My pretty Marie might be so kind as to help me with a Utde informa- tion . . . because one has been unhappy in love one’s self, one need not be ■without sympathy for others. . . . There are so many people here. . . . I dare not talk with you about it j I am afraid that someone might spy on me. . . . Just a moment, my pretty Marie. . . . Ah, here is the place, here in this shaded walk, where the trees entwine themselves so as to hide us from others, where we see nobody, hear no human voice, only a soft echo of the music . . . here I dare speak of my secret. ... Is it not so, if Jens had not been a bad man, you would have walked here vrith him arm in arm, and listened to the happy music, and yourself have enjoyed a still higher happiness. . . . Why so moved— just forget Jens. . . . Will you then be unjust to me. . . . Why do you suppose I came out here. ... I came to meet you ... it was to see you that I came to the Counsellor’s . . . you must have noticed . . . every time I could, I always passed by the kitchen door. . . . You must be mine. . . . The banns shall be published from the pulpit. . . . Tomorrow evening I will explain everything to you ... up the backstairs, the door to the left, right across from the kitchen. . . . Goodbye, my pretty Marie, let no one know that you have seen me out here, or spoken with me, you know my secret. — She is really a beautiful girl; it is possible that something might be made of her.— If I once get a foothold in her chamber, I will take care of the b anns myself. I have always sought to develop the beautiful Greek self-sufi&ciency, and especially to make a priest superfluous.

If it were possible for me to stand behind Cordelia when she reedves a letter from me, it mi gh t be very interesting. Then I could easily find out how far she has, in the most essential sense, appropriated the erotic

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to herself. On the whole, a letter is always an invaluable means of mak- ing an impression upon a girl; the dead letter often has greater influence than the living word. A letter is a mysterious communication; you are master of the situation, you feel no pressure from anyone’s presence, and I believe a young girl would really rather be alone with her ideal, that i^ at a given moment, and particularly at the moment when it exerts the strongest influence upon her mind. Even if her ideal has found a suffi- ciently complete expression in a certain beloved object, there are still moments when she feels that there is something excessive in the ideal, which reality lacks. This great feast of the atonement must be granted to her; only one must take care that it is used rightly, so that she does not turn away from it back to reality, weakened but strengthened. For that reason a letter is helpful, since through it, although invisible, one may be spiritually present in these sacred moments of consecration, while the idea that the real person is the author of the letter, creates a natural and easy transition back to reahty.

Could I become jealous of Cordelia ? Damnation, yes! And yet, in an- other sense, no! For if I saw, for instance, that even if I won in my fight against the other, her nature would be disturbed and not what I desired,— then I would give her up.

An ancient philosopher has said that if a man were to record accu- rately all of his experiences, then he would be, without knowing a word of the subject, a philosopher. I have now for a long time lived in close association with the community of the engaged. Such a relationship ought then to bear some fruit. I have considered gathering all the mate- rial into a book, entitled: Contribution to the Theory of Kissing, dedi- cated to all tender lovers. It is, too, quite remarkable that no such work on this subject exists. If, then, I am fortunate in being prepared, I also remedy a long-felt want. Could this lack in literature be due to the fact that philosophers do not consider such matters, or that they do not understand them? I am able to offer one suggestion immediately. The perfect kiss requires a man and a girl as the participants. A kiss between men is tasteless, or has what is worse, a bad taste. Next, I beHeve a kiss comes nearer the idea when a man kisses a girl than when a girl kisses a man. When in the course of years there has come about an indifference in this relation, then the kiss has lost its significance. This

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is true about the domestic kiss of marriage with which married people dry each other’s lips in lieu of a napkin, as they say, “you are welcome.” If the difference in age is very great, then the kiss is without idea. I remember in a girl’s school in one of the provinces, the senior class had a peculiar byword: “to kiss the judge,” an expression connoting only agreeable ideas. It had originated in this way: The schoolmistress had a brother-in-law who lived in her house. He was an elderly man, had been a judge, and took advantage of his age to kiss the young girls. The kiss ought to be the expression of a definite passion. When a brother and sister who are twins kiss each other, it is not a true kiss. This also holds true of kisses given during Christmas games, as well as of the stolen kiss. A kiss is a symbolic action which is unimportant when the feeling it should indicate is not present, and this feeling can only be present under certain conditions.

If one wishes to classify the kiss, then one must consider several principles of classification. One may classify kissing with respect to the sound. Here the language is not sufficiendy elastic to record all my observations. I do not believe that all the languages in the world have an adequate supply of onomatopoeia to describe the different sounds I have learned to know at my uncle’s house. Sometimes it was smacking, sometimes hissing, sometimes sticky, sometimes explosive, sometimes booming, sometimes full, sometimes hollow, sometimes squeaky, and so on forever. One may also classify kissing with regard to contact, as in the close kiss, or the kiss en passant, and the clinging kiss. . . . One may classify them with reference to the time element, as the brief and the prolonged. With reference to the time element, there is still another classification, and this is the only one I really care about. One makes a difference between the first kiss and all others. That which is the sub- ject of this reflection is incommensurable with everything which is included in the other classifications; it is indifferent to sound, touch, time in general. The first kiss is, however, qualitatively different from all others. There are only a few people who consider this; it would really be a pity if there was but one who had thought about it.

My Cordelia!

A good answer is like a sweet kiss, says Solomon. You know I am bad about asking questions, I am almost taken to task for it. That happens ‘because people do not imderstand what I ask; for you and you alone

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tmderstand what I ask, and you and you alone, understand how to answer, and you and you alone understand how to give a good answer; for a good answer is like a sweet kiss, says Solomon.

Thy Johannes.

There is a difference between spiritual love and physical. Hitherto I have chiefly tried to develop the spiritual in Cordelia. My physical pres- ence must now be something different, not only an accompanying mood, it must he a temptation. I have in these days been constantly preparing myself by reading the celebrated passages in Fhaedrus con- cerning love. It electrifies my whole being, and is an excellent prelude. Plato really understood about love.

My Cordelia!

A Roman has said about an attentive disciple, that he hung on his master’s lips. To love, everything is a symbol, and in turn the symbol is again reality. Am I not a diligent, an attentive disciple.? But you do not say a word.

Thy Johannes.

If someone other than myself were guiding this development, he would probably be too clever to allow himself to be guided. If I were to consult an initiate among the engaged, he would probably declare with a haughty gesture of erotic boldness: “I seek in vain in these positions of love for the sonorous figures in which the lovers talk about their love.” I should answer: “I am glad that you do seek m vain; for figures of speech simply do not belong within the intrinsic limits of the erotic, not even if one includes the interesting. Love is far too substantial to be satisfied with nonsense; the erotic situations far too important to be filled up with nonsense. They are silent, still, in definite outlines, and yet eloquent as the music of Memnon’s statue. Eros gestures, he does not speak; or, insofar as he does, it is a mysterious hint, a symbolic music. Erotic situations are always either plastic or picturesque; but for two people to talk together about their love is neither plastic nor picturesque.

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Tile substantial engagement, however, always begins with such small talk, which later becomes the connecting thread in their garrulous mar- riage. This small talk also furnishes assurance that their marriage will not lack the dowry Ovid speaks about: dos est uxoria lites.

If there is talking to be done, it is sufficient for one to do it. The man ought to do the talking, and therefore he ought to be in possession of some of the powers that lay in the girdle of Venus, with which she be- guiled men: conversation and sweet insinuating flattery. ... It by no means follows that Eros is silent, or that it would be erotically incorrect to converse, but the conversation itself should be erotic, not lost in edifying observations about the purpose of life, and so on, and it should always be essentially regarded as a rest from the erotic act, a pastime, not as the highest. Such a conversation, such a conjabtdatio, is quite divine in its nature, and I never weary of talking with a young girl. That is to say that I can get tired of talking with some certain girl, but never of talking with a young girl. That is just as impossible for me as to get tired of breathing. That which is the essential characteristic of such a conversation is its vegetative flowering. The conversation is held down to earth, it has no essential objective, and the accidental is the law for its movement — even the mention of a daisy and its growth.

My Cordelia!

“Mine— Thine” these words enclose like a parenthesis the impover- ished content of my letters. Have you noticed that the distance between its arms is growing shorter.? Oh, my Cordelia! It is beautiful that the emptier the parenthesis becomes, the more significant it becomes.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

Is an embrace an appeal to arms.?

Thy Johannes.

Generally Cordelia keeps silent. This has always pleased me. She has too deep a feminine nature to worry one with hiatuses, a f^hion of speech particularly characteristic of women, and one which is inevitable

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when the man who should provide the preceding or the following limiting consonant, is equally feminine. Sometimes, however, a single brief utterance betrays how much there is in her, and then I can help her. It is as if behind a man who with an unsteady hand drew a single line sketch, there was standing another who constantly brought some- thing bold and well rounded out of this. Even she is surprised, and yet it seems to be her own. So I watch over her, over every casual remark, every loosely dropped word, and when I give it back to her, it always becomes something more significant, something she both knows and does not know.

Today we were at a party. We had not exchanged a word with each other. We were leaving the table; a servant came in and informed Cor- delia that a messenger wished to speak with her. This messenger was from me, he brought a letter which explained the meaning of a remark I had made at the table. I had managed to introduce it into the general table conversation so that Cordelia, although she sat at a distance from me, must necessarily overhear it and not imderstand it. The letter was calculated with this in mind. Had I not been fortunate enough to give the conversation this turn, then I should have been ready at the right time to confiscate the letter. When she returned to the room, she had to tell a little fib. Such things consolidate the erotic mystery, without which she cannot progress on her appointed way.

My Cordelia!

Do you believe that he who lays his head on a fairy hillock sees the image of a fairy in his dreams ? I do not know, but I do know this, that when I rest my head upon your breast, and then do not close my eyes, but peep up through my eyelids, then I see an angel’s face. Do you be- lieve that he whok head reclined on a fairy hillock cannot lie quiet? I do not believe it; but I know that when my head rests on your bosom, I am moved too strongly for sleep to close my eyes.

Thy Johannes.

Jacta est dea. Now the change begins. I was with her today, quite car- ried away by an idea that has always engaged my thought. I had neither

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eyes nor ears for her. The idea was interesting in itself, and it fascinated her. Besides, it would have been wrong to begin this new plan of action by treating her coldly. Now when I have left her and the idea no longer interests her, she will readily discover that I was different from what I used to be. That she should come to realize this change when she is by herself, makes it more painful to her; it acts more slowly but more earnestly upon her. She cannot immediately flare up, and so when the opportunity does come, she has already imagined so much that she can- not find expression for it all at once, but will retain a residuum of doubt. Unrest increases, the letters cease, the erotic nourishment is diminished, love is ridiculed as laughable. Perhaps she gets along for a short time, but in the long run, she cannot endure it. Then she wishes to captivate me by the same means I had used with her, by means of the erotic.

In the matter of breaking off an engagement, every little maiden is a born casuist, and although the schools offer no courses in it, still every girl is ready with an excellent answer, when the question is, under what circumstances an engagement ought to be broken. This really ought to be a routine question in the school examinations of the senior year; and, while I know that the discussions one otherwise gets in girls’ schools are very monotonous, yet I am certain that here one would not lack variety, since the problem itself offers a wide range for a girl’s acumen. And why should not a girl be given an opportunity to sharpen her wits in the best manner possible ? And does not this afford her an q)portu- nity to show that she is mature enough — ^to be engaged ? I once had an experience which interested me very much. In a family where I some- times visited, the elders were away one day, and the two young daugh- ters had invited a group of their girl friends for a forenoon coffee party. There were eight in all, ranging from sixteen to twenty years old. They had probably not expected any visitors; indeed, the maid had orders to say they were not at home. However, I went in, and realized clearly that they were a little surprised. Heaven only knows what eight young girls like that really talk about in such a solemn synodical meeting. Married women, too, sometimes assemble in similar meetings. They of course discuss pastoral theology; especially the important question as to whether it is proper to let the maid go alone to the market; whether it is better to have an account with the butcher, or to pay cash; whether it is probable that the cook has a sweetheart, and how best to discourage his coming so that he won’t interfere with her duties

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I took my place in this beautiful circle. It was very early in spring. The sun sent a few scattered rays as harbingers of its coming. Inside everything was still wintry, and this made the sunbeams so welcome. The coffee on the table gave forth its rich aroma — ^and the young girls themselves were happy, healthy, blooming, frolicsome; for their anxiety was soon allayed, and, too, what was there to be afraid of; after all they had the strength of numbers. I succeeded in turning their attention and their talk to the question as to the conditions under which an engage- ment ought to be broken. While my eye amused itself by flitting from one flower to another in this garland of girls, amused itself by resting now on one, now on another beauty, while my outer ear reveled in the enjoyment of their musical voices, my inner ear listened to their obser- vations on the question. A single word often enabled me to get a deep insight into a girl’s heart and its history. How seductive the way of love is, and how interesting to investigate how far along this way the indi- vidual has come. I constantly stimulated them; cleverness, wit, aesthetic objectivity, combined to make the relationship freer, and yet everything was kept within the bounds of strictest decorum. While we thus jested in the easy give and take of conversation, there slumbered the possibil- ity of causing these good children an unfortunate embarrassment. This possibility lay in my power. The girls themselves neither knew nor sus- pected it. Through the easy play of the conversation, every moment held this possibility in abeyance, just as Scheherazade held the death warrant away by her story telling.

Sometimes I carried the conversation to the verge of sadness; some- times I let wantonness run wild; sometimes ! tried them in a dialectical game. And what other subject contains so many possibilities in itself, however one looks at it? I constantly suggested new themes. I told about a girl who was forced by the cruelty of her elders to break her engagement. The unhappy collision almost brought tears to their eyes. I told them about a man who had broken his engagement, and who had given two reasons for doing so, first, that the girl was too big, and, sec- ond, that he had not gone on his knees to her when he proposed. When I objected that these were insufi&cient reasons, he answered that they were sufficient to accomplish what he wanted; certainly no one can give a logical answer to that. I presented for the consideration of the assem- bly a very difficult case. A young girl broke her engagement because she felt convinced that she and her sweetheart were not suited to each other. The lover tried to bring her to reason by assuring her of how much he loved her; then she would answer him: “Either we are suited to each

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Other, and there is a real sympathy between us, so that you will see we are not suited to each other; or we are not suited to each other, and then you will see that we are not suited to each other.” It was quite gratifying to see how the girls racked their brains over this puzzling story, and yet I could clearly see that there were one or two of them who really understood it; for on the question of whether to break an engagement or noq every girl is a born casuist. I really believe it would be easier for me to dispute with the devil himself than with a young girl, when the question is under what circumstances one ought to break an engagement.

Today I was with G>rdelia. With the speed of thought, I adroitly directed the conversation to the same subject we had considered yester- day, in order again to arouse ecstasy within her. “There is something I really should have said yesterday; it occurred to me after I had gone.” That succeeded. As long as I am with her she enjoys listening to me; when I have gone, she realizes that she has been cheated, and that I am indeed changed. In this way one extends his credit. This method is un- derhanded, but very adequate, like all indirect methods. She can very well argue to herself that the things I talk about can really engross me, that they even interest her for the moment, and yet I defraud her of the real erotic.

Oderint, dum metuant, as if only fear and hate belong together, while fear and love have nothing to do with one another, as if it is not fear that makes love interesting. What is that in the love with which we embrace nature, is there not a secret fear and terror in it, because this beautiful harmony stems from lawlessness and wild confusion, its se- curity from insecurity? But just this anxiety is most fascinating. So, too, with love when it wishes to be interesting. At the bottom of tiiis, there ought to brood the deep fearful night from which the flower of love springs forth. So the chalice of the water lily rests on the surface of the water, while thought fears to plunge down into the profound blackness where it has its root.— I have noticed that she always calls me mne when she writes to me; but she lacks the courage to say it to me. Today I begged her to do it, vdth all the insinuating and erotic warmth pos- sible. She started to do so; an ironic glance, indescribably swift and brief, was enough to make it impossible for her, although my lips urged her with all their might. This mood is entirely normal.

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She is mine. I do not confide this to the stars, as use and custom pre- scribes. I do not really see how this information can interest those distant spheres. Neither do I confide it to any human being, not even to Cor- delia. This secret I keep for myself alone, whisper it to myself, as it were, even in my most secret conversations with myself. The attempted re- sistance on her part was not particularly strong; on the contrary, the erotic energy she is developing is admirable. How interesting she is in this deep passionateness, how great she becomes, almost supernaturally so! How supple she is in evasion, how pliant in insinuating herself wherever she discovers a vulnerable point. Everything is in movement, but in these elemental storms I find myself precisely in my element. And yet she is by no means unbeautiful even in this commotion, not distracted in her moods, nor dissipated in the elements. She is always an Aphrodite, except that she does not rise up in naive charm, nor in im- maculate serenity, but is influenced by the strong heart throbs of love, while she retains unity and poise. She is completely erotically equipped for the struggle, she fights with the darts of her eyes, with the command of her brows, with the secretiveness of her forehead, with the eloquence of her bosom, with the dangerous allurement of the embrace, with the prayer on her lips, with the smile on her face, with all the sweet longing of her entire being. There is a power in her, an energy, as if she were a Valkyrie; but this erotic force is in turn tempered by a certain languish- ing weakness which is breathed out over her. — She must not be held too long at this peak, where only anxiety and unrest can hold her steady, and prevent her from falling. With such emotions she will soon feel that the engagement is too narrow, too confining. She even becomes the tempter who seduces me to go beyond the usual limitation, so she be- comes conscious of it herself, and for me that is the principal considera- tion.

Now she lets drop numerous remarks which clearly indicate that for her part she is tired of our engagement. They do not pass my ear un- heeded, they are the scouts of my plans in her soul, who give me enlight- ening hints; they are the ends of the thread by which I weave her into my plan.

My Cordelia!

You complain about the engagement. You think our love does not need an external bond which exists only to hinder. In that I immediately

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recognize my wonderful Cordelia! In truth, I admire you. Our external union is only a separation. And yet there is a wall between us that separates us like Pyramus and Thisbe. Even now the consciousness of men is disturbing. Only in contrast is there liberty. When no outsider suspects the love, then it first gets significance. When every stranger believes that the lovers hate each other, then first is love happy.

Thy Johannes.

Soon the engagement will be broken. She herselE is the one who breaks it, in order, if possible, in releasing me to bind me more strongly, as flowing locks entangle more than those which are bound up. If I were the one to break the engagement, then I should miss this erotic somer- sault which is so seductive to look at, and so certain an indication of the daring of her spirit. This is the main thing to me. Add to this the fact that the whole incident might cause me a great many unpleasant conse- quences, because of its effect upon other people. I should be blamed, hated, detested, although unjusdy so. For might it not be very advan- tageous to many? There are many little maidens, who, in default of an engagement, would be quite satisfied with having been almost en- gaged. That is always something, even if, if I must become primitive, it hurts a little, for when one has pushed one’s self forward to get a place on the list of expectancy, then one is exactly without expectancy; the higher a man rises, the more he goes forward, the less there is to expect. In the world of love, the ancient principle regarding advancement is still in force. So it happens that such a little maiden is tired of retaining an unshared property; she wants her life to be affected by some event. But what is there comparable to an unhappy love affair, especially when the one by her side can take the matter so lighdy. Consequendy, she de- ludes herself and her neighbor into thinking that she has been deceived, and since she is not eligible for admission to a Magdalen hospital, she takes lodgings by the side of it, in a tear-producing drama. Then she hates me, as in duty bound.

In addition, there is also another division of those who have been wholly, or half, or three-quarters deceived. In this class there are many degrees, ranging from those who have a ring to appeal to, to those who hang their hats on the squeezing of the hand at a country-dance. Their wounds are torn open again by this new pain.^ regard their hate as a surplus. But all these hates are naturally like so many secret loves to my

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poor teart. A king without a country is a laughable figure; but a war of succession between a crowd of pretenders to a kingdom without a country — this outstrips itself as the most laughable of all. Consequently, I ought to be loved and taken care of by the fair sex as a pawn shop. A real fianc^ can only take care of one, but such a diffuse possibility as I am can tolerably well provide for as many as may be. All this finite non- sense I become free from, and I also have the advantage of afterwards being able to appear in an entirely new role. The girls yvill pity me, sympathize with me, sigh for me; I strike in in exactly the same key, and in this way I may also catch something.

Strangely enough, I notice now with dismay that I am getting the indicative sign which Horace wished on all faithless girls — z black tooth, and a front tooth at that! How superstitious we still can be. The tooth disturbs me extraordinarily. I can’t really stand any allusion to it; that is a weak side I have. While in other respects I am fully armed, here even the veriest bungler can give me a shock, which goes deeper than he thinks, when he touches on the tooth. I do everything possible to make it white, but in vain. I say with Palnatoke:

I rub it by day and night.

But I caimot erase this dark shadow.

Life still holds an extraordinary amount of mystery. Such a little circumstance can disturb me more than the most dangerous attack, the most painful situation. I would let them extract it, but that would inter- fere with my voice and its effectiveness. Still, if I let them take it out, I will have a false one set in; it will be false to the world; the black one was false to me.

It is capital that Cordelia is so set against an engagement Marriage will always be an honorable institution, even diough it has the tedium of enjoying in the early years part of the honor which should belong to the later years. A betrothal, on the other hand, is a purely human inven- tion, and, as such, so remarkable and ridiculous that it is quite natural that on one side, a yoimg girl in the whirl of passion should disregard it, and still, on the other side, feel its significance, feel her soul’s energy, like a higher circulatoiy system, present everywhere in herself. What is necessary here is to direct her, so that in her bold flight die loses sight of

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marriage, and of the main land of reality in general, so that her soul, just as much in her pride as in her fear of losing me, destroys an im- perfect human form, in order to hasten to something which is higher than humanity in general. As regards this, however, I do not greatly fear, for Cordelia’s way of life is already so ethereal and light that reality is to a large degree lost sight of. Besides I am always on board, and can always break out the sails.

Woman will always offer an inexhaustible fund of material for my reflection, an eternal abundance for observation. The man who feels no impulse toward the study of woman may, as far as I am concerned, be what he will; one thing he certainly is not, he is no aesthetician. This is the glory and divinity of aesthetics, that it enters into relation only with the beautiful; it has to do essentially only with the literature which is beautiful, with the sex which is beautiful. It makes me glad and causes my heart to rejoice when I represent to myself how the sun of feminine loveliness spreads out its rays in an infinite manifoldness, splitting itself up in a confusion of tongues, where each individual woman has her little part of the whole wealth of femininity, yet so that her other char- acteristics harmoniously center about this point. In this sense feminine beauty is infinitely divisible. But the particular share of beauty which each one has must be present in a harmonious blending, for otherwise the effect will be disturbing, and it will seem as if Nature had intended something by this woman, but had not realized her plan.

My eyes can never weary of surveying this peripheral manifold, these scattered emanations of feminine beauty. Each particular has its litde share, and yet is complete in itself, happy, glad, beautiful. Every woman has her share: the merry smile, the roguish glance, the yearning look, the drooping head, the exuberant spirits, the calm sadness, the deep fore- boding, the melancholy, the earthly homesickness, the unhallowed movements, the beckoning brows, the questioning lips, the mysterious forehead, the ensnaring curls, the concealing lashes, the heavenly pride, the earthly modesty, the angelic pmrity, the secret blush, the light step, the graceful airiness, the languishing posture, the dreamy yearning, the inexplicable sighs, fhe willowy form, the soft outlines, the luxuriant bosom, the swelling hips, the tiny foot, the dainty hand.— Each woman has her own, and the one does not merely repeat the other. And when I have gazed and gazed again, considered and again considered this multitudinous variety, when I have smiled, sighed, flattered, threatened.

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desired, tempted, laughed, wept, hoped, feared, won, lost — then I shut up my fan, and gather the fragments into a unity, the parts into a whole. Then my soul is glad, my heart beats, my passion is aflame. This one woman, the only woman in all the world, she must belong to me, she must be mine. Let God keep heaven, if I can keep her. I know what I choose; it is something so great that Heaven itself must be the loser by such a division, for what would be left to heaven if I keep her ? The faithful Mohammedans will be disappointed in their hopes when in their Paradise they embrace pale, weak shadows; for warm hearts they caimot find, all the warmth of the heart is concentrated in her breast; they will yield themselves to a comfortless despair when they find pale lips, dim eyes, a lifeless bosom, a limp pressure of the hand; for all the redness of the Hps, and all the fire of the eye, and all the restlessness of the bosom, and the promise of the hand, and the foreboding of the sigh, and the seal of the kiss, and the trembling of the touch, and the passion of the embrace — all — ^all, are concentrated in her, and she lavishes on me a wealth sufl&cient for a whole world, both for time and eternity.

Thus I have often reflected upon this matter; but every time I con- ceive woman thus, I become warim, because I think of her as warm. And though in general, warmth is accounted a good sign, it does not follow that my mode of thinking will be granted the respectable predi- cate that it is solid. Hence I shall now for variety’s sake attempt, myself being cold, to think woman as cold. I shall attempt to think woman under her category. Under what category must she be conceived .? Un- der being for an other. But this must not be understood in the bad sense, as if the woman who is for me, is also 'for another. Here as always in abstract thinking, it is essential to refrain from every reference to ex- perience; for else I should in the present case, have experience in the most curious manner, both for me and against me. Here as always, ex- perience is a most curious person, and its nature is always to be both for and against. Woman is therefore being for an other. Here again, but from another side, it will be necessary not to let oneself be disturbed by experience, which teaches that it is a rare thing to find a woman who is in truth a being for an other, since a great many are in general abso- lutely nothing, either for themselves or for others. Woman shares this category with nature, and, in general, with everything fe minin e. Na- ture as a whole exists only for an other; not in the teleological sense, so that one part of nature exists for another part, but so that the whole of nature is for an Other — ^for the Spirit. In the same way with the par- ticulars. The life of the plant, for example, imfolds in all naivet^ its

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hidden charms, and exists only for an other. In the same way a mystery, a charade, a secret, a vowel, and so on, has being only for an other. And from this it can be explained why when God created Eve, He let a deep sleep fall over Adamj for woman is the dream of man. In still another way the story teaches that woman is a being for an other. It tells, namely, that Jehovah created Eve from a nb taken from the side of man. Had she been taken from man’s brain, for example, woman would indeed still have been a being for an other; but it was not the intention to make her a phantasy, but something quite different. She became flesh and blood, but this causes her to be included under nature, which is essentially being for an other. She awakens first at the touch of love; be- fore that time she is a dream. Yet in her dream life we can distinguish two stages: in the first, love dreams about her; in the second, she dreams about love.

When woman is determined as virginity, she is thereby characterized as being for an other. Virginity is, namely, a form of being, which, in- sofar as it is a being for itself, is really an abstraction, and only reveals itself to an other. The same characterization also lies in the concept of female innocence. It is therefore possible to say that woman in this con- dition is invisible. As is well known, there existed no image of Vesta, the goddess who most nearly represented feminine virginity. This form of existence is, namely, jealous for itself aesthetically, just as Jehovah is ethically, and does not desire that there should be any image, or even any conception of one. This is the contradiction, that the being which is for an other is not, and becomes visible, as it were, first by the inter- position of an other. Logically, this contradiction will be found to be quite in order, and he who knows how to think logically will not be dis- turbed by it, but will be glad in it. But whoever thinks illogically will imagin e that whatever is a being for another, exists, in the finite sense in which one can say about a particular thing: that is something for me.

This being of woman (for the word existence is too rich in meaning, since woman docs not persist in and through herself) is rightly de- scribed as charm, an expression which suggests plant life; she is a flower, as the poets like to say, and even the spiritual in her is present in a vegetative manner. She is wholly subject to nature, and hence only aesthetically free. In a deeper sense she first becomes free by her relation to man, and when man courts her properly, there can be no question of a choice. Woman chooses, it is true, but ^ this choice is thought of as the result of a long deliberation, then this choice is unfeminine. Hence it is, that it is a humiliation to receive a refusal, because the individual

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in question has rated himself too high, has desired to make another free without having the power. — In this situation there is deep irony. That which merely exists for another has the appearance of being pre- dominant: man sues, woman chooses. Woman is in the idea the van- quished, man the victor, and yet the victor bows before the vanquished; and yet this is quite natural, and it is only awkwardness, stupidity, and lack of erotic sensibility, to seek to set one’s self above that which im- mediately reveals itself in this fashion. It has also a deeper ground. Woman is, namely, substance, man is reflection. She does not therefore choose independently; man sues, she chooses. But man’s courtship is a question, and her choice only an answer to a question. In a certain sense man is more than woman, in another sense he is infinitely less.

This being for an other is the true virginity. If it makes an attempt to be a being for itself, in relation to another being which is being for it, then the opposition reveals itself in an absolute coyness; but this oppo- sition shows at the same time that woman’s essential being is being for an other. The diametrical opposite to absolute devotion is absolute coy- ness, which in a converse sense is invisible as the abstraction against which everything breaks, without the abstraction itself coming to life. Femininity now takes on the character of an abstract cruelty, the cari- cature in its extreme form of the intrinsic feminine brittleness. A man can never be so cruel as a woman. Consult mythologies, fables, folk- tales, and you will find this view confirmed. If a natural principle is to be described, whose mercilessness knows no limits, it will always be a feminine nature. Or one is horrified at reading about a young woman who callously allows all her suitors to lose their lives, as so often hap- pens in the folk-tales of all nations. A Bluebeard slays all the women he has loved on their bridal night, but he does not find his happiness in slaying them; on the contrary, his happiness has preceded, and in this lies th^e concrete determination; it is not cruelty for the sake of cruelty. A Don Juan seduces them and runs away, but he finds no happiness at all in running away from them, but rather in seducing them; conse- quently, it is by no means this abstract cruelty.

Thus, the more I reflect on this matter, I see that my practice is in perfect harmony with my theory. My practice has always been impreg- nated with the theory that woman is essentially a being for an other. Hence it is that the moment has here such infinite significance; for a being for an other is always the matter of a moment. It may take a longer, it may take a shorter time before the moment comes, but as soon as it has come, then that which was originally a being for an other

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assumes a relative being, and then all is over. I know very well that husbands say that the woman is also in another sense a being for an other, that she is everything to her husband through life. This is some- thing that we must leave to the husbands. I really believe that it is something which they mutually delude one another into believing. Every class in life generally has certain conventional customs, and espe- cially certain conventional lies. Among these must be reckoned this sailor’s yarn. To understand it at the moment is not so easy a matter, and he who misunderstands it, naturally acquires such a boredom for the rest of his life. The moment is everything, and in the moment, woman is everything; the consequences I do not understand. Among these consequences, is also the begetting of children. Now I fancy that I am a fairly consistent thinker, but if I were to think myself crazy, I am not a man who could think this consequence; I simply do not under- stand it; to understand it probably one must be a husband.

Yesterday Cordelia and I visited a family at their summer home. The party spent most of the day in the garden, where we passed the time in all sorts of physical exercises. Among other things, we played Ring. I took the opportunity, when another swain who had been playing with Cordelia, had gone away, to take his place. What a wealth of charm she revealed, even more seductive than usual, as a result of the beautifying exercise! What graceful harmony in the self-contradiction of her move- ments. How light she was — ^like a dance over the meadows! How vig- orous, yet without needing opposition, deceptive, until her poise ex- plained everything. How lyrical her appearance, how challenging her glance. The play itself had naturally a special interest for me. Cordelia appeared not to notice it. A remark I made to one of the q)ectators about her beautifxil form in exchanging the rings, struck like-a light- ning flash down into her soul. From that moment a higher radiance rested over the entire situation, a deeper significance impregnated it, a higher energy pulsed through her being. I held both rings on my stick. I paused a moment, I exchanged a few words with the bystanders. She understood this pause. I again tossed the rings to her. Soon after she caught both of them on her stick. -As if inadvertently she tossed them both into the air at once, so high that it was impossible for me to catch them. This toss was accompanied by a glance full of boundless audacity. Someone tells the story of a French soldier who had taken part in die Russian campaign, whose leg was amputated because of gangrene. As

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soon as the painful operation was finished, he grabbed the leg by the foot, threw it in the air, and shouted: Vive V empereurl With the same kind of a look, she threw both rings into the air, even more gracefully than before, and said as if to herself: Long live love! I found it inad- visable to let her run away in this mood, or to leave her alone in it, for fear of the exhaustion that so often follows it. I therefore remained quite calm and urged her to continue playing, abetted by the spectators, as if I had noticed nothing. Such a procedure gives her more elasticity.

If, in our time, one could expect any support in such an undertaking, then I should pose the prize question: aesthetically considered, which is the more modest, a young girl or a young matron, the ignorant or the informed; to which does one dare grant more freedom? But such in- vestigations do not interest our serious age. In Greece such an inquiry would have aroused general attention; the whole state would have been set in ferment, especially the young maids and matrons. No one in our age would believe this, but neither will anyone now believe, if one were to tell them, about the well-known contest between two Greek girls, and the extremely thoroughgoing investigation it occasioned. And yet everyone knows that Venus bore a surname as a result of this ccxntest, and everyone admires the statue of Venus which has immortalized her. A married woman has two periods in her life when she is interesting, first of all, her youth, and then again, long after, when she has become much older. But she has also, one must not deny her this, a moment when she is even more charming than a young girl, inspires even more respect; but it is a moment which is rarely met with in life, it is rather a picture for the imagination which need not be seen in life, and which perhaps never is seen. I think of her then, healthy, vigorous, well developed; she holds a child on her arm, on whom her whole attention is focused, in whose contemplation she is lost. It is a picture which one might call the most charming human life has to offer, it is a myth of nature which must therefore be seen artistically, not in actuality. There should never be many figures in the picture, no setting, which is only disturbing. If one goes into our churches one often has an opportunity to see a mother approaching with a child in her arms. Disregarding now the disconcerting wail of the child, the anxious thoughts m the expectation of the parents for the future of the little one, occasioned by this childish cry, aU the surroundings, are already so confused that, even if everything else were perfect, the effect is still lost. One sees the father.

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which is a great fault, since it destroys the myth, the enchantment; one sees horrenda refero — ^the sponsors’ earnest chorus, and one sees — simply nothing. The conception, as a picture of fantasy, is the most charming of all. I do not lack boldness and briskness, nor rashness enough to venture an assault — but if I saw such a picture in reality, I would be defenseless.

How Cordelia engrosses me! And yet the time is soon over; always my soul requires rejuvenescence. I can already hear, as it were, the far distant crowing of the cock. Perhaps she hears it too, but she believes it heralds the morning. — Why is a young girl so pretty, and why does it last so short a time ? I could become quite melancholy over this thought, and yet it is no concern of mine. Enjoy, do not talk. The peqple who make a business of such deUberadons, do not generally enjoy. However, it can do no harm to think about it; for this sadness, not for one’s self but for another, makes one a litde more attractive in a masculine way. A sadness which darkens like a veil of mist deceptively over the manly strength, is one of the things contributing to the masculine erotic. This corresponds to a certain melancholy in women.— When a girl has first given herself entirely, then is everything over. Even now I approach a yotmg girl with a certain anxiety, with a rapid pulse, because I feel the eternal power that lies in her nature. In the presence of a married woman I have never experienced it. The slight resistance she tries to offer is nothing. It is as if one should say that a married woman’s cap is more becoming than a young girl’s uncovered head. For that reason Diana has always been my ideal. Her pure virginity, her absolute inde- pendence, has greatly engaged my attention. But while she has indeed occupied me, I have always kept a suspicious eye upon her. I readily admit that she has not really deserved all the praise for her virginity that she has received. She knew that her role in life depended on her preserving her virginity. It happens that in a philological comer of the world, I had heard mumblings that she had an idea of the terrible birth pains her mother had gone through, and this had frightened her. I can- not b ]a»np Diana. I only say with Euripides: I would rather go to war three than to bear one child. I could not really fall in love with Diana, but I do not deny that I would give much for a conversation with her, for what I might call a heart to heart talk with her. She must be accustomed to various kinds of deception. My good Diana has re- vealed in one way and another a breadth which makes her far less

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naive even than Venus. I am not interested in spying on her in her bath, not at all, but I would like to spy on her with my questions. I£ I sur- reptitiously contrived a rendezvous where I feared for my victory, then I would prepare myself, arm myself, set all the spirits of love in motion, to converse with her.

It has often been the subject of my reflection as to what situation, what moment should be regarded as the most seductive. The answer to t h is naturally depends upon what one desires, how one desires it, and how one is developed. I consider it the wedding day, and especially at a definite moment on that day. When she then stands decked out as bride, and all her magnificence pales before her beauty, and she herself turns pale, when the blood almost stops, when her bosom rests, when the eye falters, when the foot gives way, when the maiden trembles, when the fruit ripens; when heaven exalts her, when earnestness strengthens her, when the promise sustains her, when prayers bless her, when the mrytle wreath crowns her; when the heart throbs, when the eyes are downcast, when she hides herself in herself, when she belongs not to the world, but wholly to one; when her bosom swells, when creation sighs, when the voice fails, when the tear starts, before the riddle is explained, when the torch is lighted, when the bridegroom waits — ^then has the moment come. Soon it will be too late. There is only one step left, but this is exactly enough for a false step. This moment makes even an insignificant girl significant, even a little Zerlina becomes a signifi- cant object. Everything must be unified, the greatest contrasts be united in the moment; if there is something lacking, especially one of the chief contrasts, the situation immediately loses a part of its seductiveness. There is a well-known engraving. It represents a penitent. She looks so young and innocent, that on account of her and her confessor, one is almost embarrassed at wondering what she can really have to confess. She raises her veil a little, she looks out into the world as if seeking something she might perhaps later have an opportunity to confess, and of course one understands that it is nothing more than duty, out of respect for — ^the father confessor. The situation is really seductive, and since she is the only figure in the piece, there is nothing to prevent one thinking that the church wherein all this takes place is so spacious that a great many preachers could all preach here at the same time. The situation is highly seductive, and I have no objections to disposing myself in the background, especially if the girl does not object. How-

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ever, it seems to be a highly subordinate position, for the girl seems in both senses to be only a child, and consequently there must be time before her moment comes.

Have I been constantly faithful to my pact in my relation to Cordelia ? That is to say, my pact with the aesthetic. For it is this which makes me strong, that I always have the idea on my side. This is a secret, like Samson’s hair, which no Delilah shall wrest from me. Simply and directly to betray a young girl, that I certainly could not endure; but that the idea is set in motion, that it is in its service that I act^ to its service that I dedicate myself, that gives me a strictness toward myself, abstemiousness from every forbidden enjoyment. Has the interesting always been preserved ? Yes, I dare say it freely and openly in this secret conversation with myself. Even the engagement was interesting, exactly because it did not ofier that which one generally understands by the interesting. It preserved the interesting by the fact of the outward ap- pearance being in contradiction to the inner life. Had I been secretly bound to her, then it would have been interesting only in its first poten- tialities. This is, however, interesting in another potentiality, and there- fore for her first becomes the interesting. The engagement is broken, but in such a way that she herself breaks it, in order to raise herself to a higher sphere. So it should be; this is, in fact, the form of the interesting which will occupy her most.

Sept. 16.

The bond burst; longing, strong, daring, divine, she flies like a bird which now for the first time gets the right to stretch its wings. Fly, bird, fly! In truth if this royal flight were a withdrawal from me, then my pain would he infinitely deep. As if Pygmalion’s love were again turned to stone, so would this be for me. Light have I made her, light as a thought, and why should not this, my thought, belong to me! That would be a cause for despair. A moment earlier it would not have mattered, a moment later it would not trouble me, but now— now— this now, wtuch is an eternity to me! But she does not fly away from me. Fly, then, bird, fly; soar proudly on your wings, glide through the soft realms (rf the air, soon I shall be with you, soon I shall hide myself with you in a pro- found solitude!

The aunt was somewhat taken aback by the news. However, she is too detached to wish to coerce Cordelia, although I, partly to lull her to

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a sounder sleep, partly to fool Cordelia a little, have made some attempt to get her to interest herself in my behalf. As for the rest, she shows me much sympathy; she does not suspect how much reason I have for deprecating all sympathy.

She has received permission from her aunt to spend some time in the country; she will visit a family. It happens very fortunately that she cannot immediately give herself up to excessive moods. She will still, for some time, be kept tense by all kinds of external criticism. I maintain a desultory communication with her by means of letters, so our relation- ship is sustained. She must now be strengthened in every way; espe- cially, it is best to permit her to make a few eccentric flights to show her contempt for mankind in general. Then when the day for her depar- ture arrives, a trustworthy man will appear as coachman. Outside the gate my confidential servant will join them. He will accompany her to her destination, and remain with her to render attention and assistance in case of need. Next to myself I know no one who is better fitted for this than John. I have myself arranged everything out there as tastefully as possible. Nothing is lacking which can in any way serve to delude her soul, and to soothe it with a sense of well-being.

My Cordelia!

The fire alarm of the individual families has not yet united in the confusion of a general alarm of the capital. Individual solos you have probably already had to endure. Consider the whole assembly of tea and coffee drinkefs; consider the lady president who furnishes a worthy counterpart to that immortal president Lars in Claudius, and you have a picture of and a conception about and a measure for what you have lost and with whom; the judgment of good people.

With this letter follows the celebrated copper print which introduces President Lars. I could not get it by itself, and so I bought the whole of Claudius, tore this out, and threw the rest away; for otherwise how could I dare to trouble you v?ith a gift which would have no signifi- cance for you at this time; how should I not do my utmost to procure something which might be acceptable to you, if only for a moment; how could I permit more to be mingled in a situation than belongs to it ?

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self tinder the sea with this well-spring. Is the time of changes past? Answer: Is the time of love over? With what can I compare your pure deep soul, which has no connection with the world, except by a well- spring? And have I not said to you that I am like a river which has fallen in love ? And since we are separated, am I not plunging under the sea to be united with you? There under 'the sea we meet again, for first in this depth do we really belong together.

Thy Johannes.

My Cordelia!

Soon, soon, you are mine. When the sun closes its spying eye, when history is over and the myths begin, then I not only fling my cloak about me, but I fling the night about me like a cloak, and hasten to you, and harken to find you, not by the sound of footfalls, but by the beating of your heart

Thy Johannes.

In these days when I cannot be with her personally whenever I wish, I have been disturbed by the thought that it may occur to her to con- sider the future. So far it has not happened, for I have known how to drug her aesthetically. Nothing less erotic can be imagined than this talk about the future, which is usually the result of one’s having noth- ing with which to fill the present. If only I am present, then I have no such fear, for I can make her forget both time and eternity. If a man does not imderstand how to put himself in rapport with a girl, he should never attempt to deceive, for then it will be impossible to escape the two rocks: questions about the future, and a catechization about fidelity. Hence it is quite proper that Gretchen should conduct such an examination of Faust, since he had been imprudent enough to display his chivalry; and against an attack from this source, a girl is always armed.

Now I believe everything is in order for her reception; she must not lack occasion to admire my memory, or, rather, she must get no time to admire it. Nothing is forgotten which could have any significance for her, and, on the other hand, nothing is included which might directly remind her of me, while still I am everywhere invisibly present. The

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effect will, however, depend for a great part on how it first strikes her. With regard to this my servant has received most particular instructions, and he is in his way a perfect virtuoso. He knows how to drop a r emar k accidentally and casually when so ordered; he knows how to be igno- rant, in short, he is invaluable to me. — ^The arrangement is everything she might wish. If she sits in the center of the room, she can look out in both directions past the foreground; on both sides it stretches away to an infinite horizon, she is alone in a wide sea of air. If she comes nearer a broad bank of windows on the one side, there, far on the horizon is a forest curving like a wreath, limiting and enclosing. That is the way it should be. What does love love.? — ^An enclosure; was not Paradise itself an enclosed place, a hill toward the east? But it closes itself too tightly about one, this ring — she comes nearer the window, a placid lake lies humbly concealed between its higher shores, a boat lies at the water’s edge. A sigh from the fullness of the heart, a gust from the thought’s unrest — it loosens itself from its moorings, it glides over the surface of the lake, softly moved by the gentle breezes of inexpressible longing; one disappears into the mysterious solitude of the forest, cradled on the surface of the lake which dreams of the deep shadow of the woods.

One turns to the other side, where the sea spreads out before the sight with nothing to limit it, filled with thoughts which nothing re- strains. — What does love love? Infinitude. What does love fear? Limita- tion.— Beyond this large room there is a smaller one, or rather a cabinet, for whatever that room in the Wahl house purported to be, this is it. The likeness is delusive. A carpet woven by Vidier covers the floor; before the sofa stands a little tea table, a lamp upon it which matches the one at home. Everything is the same, only richer. This difference I allow myself in the room. In the salon stands a piano, a very simple one, but reminiscent of the one found at the Jansens. It is open; on the music- rest a litde Swedish melody stands open. The door into the entry stands ajar. She comes in at the door at the back of the room, as John has been instructed. Her eye takes in at once the cabinet and the piano. Memory awakens in her; at that moment John opens the door. The illusion is perfect. She goes into the cabinet. She is pleased, I am sure of that As she glances at the table, she sees the book. Just then John picks it up as if to lay it to one side, as he casually adds: “The master must have for- gotten this, when he was out here this morning.” Thus she learns for the first time that I had already been out there in the morning. Next she looks at the book. It is a German translation of the well-known work by Apuleius: Amor and Psyche. It is not poetry, but it should not

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be; for it is always an insult to a young girl to offer her a poetical work, as if in such, a moment she were not poetical enough to absorb the poetry which lies immediately concealed in the facts, and which has not been predigested in another’s thought. People generally do not con- sider this, but it is true. She will read the book, and thereby its purpose is attained. When she opens to the place where it was last read, there she will find a litde sprig of myrtle; she will also find that this signifies a little more than being a mere book mark.

My Cordelia!

What, frightened? When we keep together, then are we strong, stronger than the world, stronger even than the gods themselves. You know there once lived a race of people on the earth who were indeed men, but who were each self-sufficient, not knowing the iimer union of love. Yet they were mighty, so mighty that they would storm heaven. Jupiter feared them, and divided them so that from one came two, a man and a woman. Now, if it sometimes happens that what had once been united, are united again in love, then is such a union stronger even than Jupiter. They are not only as strong as the individuals were, but even stronger, for love’s union is an even higher imion.

Thy Johannes.

Sept. 24.

The night is still — the clock strikes a quarter before twelve. The watchman by the gate blows his benediction out over the countryside, it echoes back from Bleacher’s Green — ^he goes inside the gate — he blows again, it echoes even farther. — ^Everything sleeps in peace, everything except love. So rise up, ye mysterious powers of love, gather yourselves together in this breast! The night is silent — only a lonely bird breaks this silence with its cry and the beat of its wings, as it skims over the dewy field down the glacial slope to its rendezvous — accipio omen! How portentous all nature is! I read the omen in the flight of birds, in thek cries, m the playful flap of the fish against the surface of the water, in their vanishing mto its depth, in the distant baying of the hounds, in a wagon’s faraway rumble, in footfalls which echo in the distance. I do not see specters in this night hour; I do not see that which has been, but that which will be, in the bosom of the sea, in the kiss of

DIARY OF THE SEDUCER 371

the dew, in the mist that spreads out over the earth, and hides its fertile embrace. Everything is symbol, I myself am a myth about myself, for is it not as a myth that I hasten to this meeting? Who I am has nothing to do with it. Everything finite and temporal is forgotten, only the eternal remains, the power of love, its longing, its happiness. Now my soul is attuned like a bent bow, now my thoughts lie ready like arrows in my quiver, not poisoned, and yet able to blend themselves with the blood. How vigorous is my soul, sound, happy, omnipresent like a god. — ^Her beauty was a gift of nature. I give thee thanks, O wonderful Nature! Like a mother hast thou watched over her. Accept my gratitude for thy care. Unsophisticated was she. I thank you, you human beings, to whom she was indebted for this. Her development was my handiwork — soon I shall enjoy my reward.— How much have I not gathered into this one moment which now draws nigh. Damnation — ^if I should fad!

I do not yet see my carriage. — I hear the crack of the whip, it is my coachman.— Drive now for dear life, even if the horses drop dead, only not a single second before we reach the place.

Sept. 25.

Why cannot such a night be longer? If Alectryon could forget him- self, why cannot the sun be equally sympathetic? Still, it is over now, and I hope never to see her again. When a girl has given away every- thing, then she is weak, then she has lost everything; for a man guilt is a negative moment, for a woman it is the value of her being. Now all resistance is impossible, and only as long as that is present is it beautiful to love; when it is ended there is only weakness and habit. I do not wish to be reminded of my relation to her; she has lost the fragrance, and the time is past when a girl suffering the pain of a faithless love can be changed into a heliotrope. I will have no farewell with her; nothing is more disgusting to me than a woman’s tears and a woman’s prayers, which alter everything, and yet really mean nothing. I have loved her, but from now on, she can no longer engross my soul. If I were a god, I would do for her what Neptune did for a nymph, I would change her into a man.

It was, however, really worth while to show whether one might not be able to poetize himself out of a girl, so that one could make ha » proud that she would imagine that it was she who tired of the relation- ship. It could become a very interesting epilogue, which, as a matter of observation, might have psychological interest, and along with that en- rich one with many erotic observations.

NOTES

The abbreviation Sml. Pap refers to Kierkegaard’s Samlede Paptra, collected papers.

PAGE

I Young] Night Thoughts, IV, verse 629.

3 The familiar philosophical proposition] in the Hegelian philoso- phy.

5 Xerxes] who had the Hellespont whipped when his first bridge was destroyed by a storm. Herodotus vii. 35.

7 Diapsdmata] AuxijiakfiaTa, interlude, used in the Greek transla- tion of the Psalms of David, about the musical interludes intro- duced between the different sections of the text, at the per- formance in the synagogue.

ad se tpsum\ to himself; Latin version of the Greek title to the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.

9 April 7, 1834] actually did fall on Monday.

10 Diogenes Laertius] Author of Lives of 'Eminent Philosophers, 1 , 13. See Bticks’ translation.

10 J0cher] i8th century German author of a biographical dictionary.

10 Moreri] author of a historical dictionary, i8th century.

11 The White Ijidy'] a Danish opera based on Scott’s The Monastery.

14 The verse is from Pelisson. Kierkegaard probably got it from

Lessing’s Scattered Observations Concerning the Epigram.

15 Phalaris] tyrant of Agrigentum. Cicero De officiis ii. 7; iii. 6.

16 Dean Swift] Jonathan Swift, English satirist, died insane, 1745.

16 Dr. Hartley] English philc«opher and psychologist, 1705-1757.

17 Cornelius Nepos] Roman historian, ist century b.c.

17 a sheva] in Hebrew grammar, two dots placed under a consonant to neutralize the following vowel.

17 Daghesh lene'] Hebrew grammar, a point placed in a letter to indicate its degree of hardness.

19 Lynceus] mythological hero, reputed to have had unusually sharp eyes.

19 sigh of the giants] mythology. The giants, overcome by the gods, were supposed to have been imprisoned under volcanic moim- tains, whence came outbreaks and noises.

19 doubter is a whip top] Mc/xaGrtyca/iwos, whipped. The word is used in the Greek translation of the Old Testament, Job 15, ii.

21 my birthright] Genesis 25, 29.

NOTES

373

PAGE

21 Virgil] During the Middle Ages the Roman poet was regarded as a sorcerer.

21 the Reverend Jesper Morten] reminiscent of Baggesen’s ]eppe.

23 Apis] myth. Sacred bull of Memphis.

23 that dwarf] Kierkegaard, Samlede Papirer I 62.

24 idem per idem\ the same in the same.

24 immortal overture] to Mozart’s Don Juan.

25 Psyche’s future child] myth. According to Apuleius, Cupid told

Psyche their child would be immortal if she kept the secret of its paternity, only human if she betrayed it.

27 Parmeniscus] a Pythagorean, about whom the story mentioned is

related by Athenaetis xiv. 614.

28 Du Ust vollbracht, etc.] “Thou art fulfilled, thou nightwatch of

my life.”

29 Luneberger pig] Sml. Papirer III 174.

29 The Knights] Dialogue between Demosthenes, Athenian general,

and Nicias, a statesman. In the play Aristophanes represents them as slaves of Demus, who personifies the Athenian people. The translation used in the text is that of J. H. Frere.

(32) A.Tjixoo’Oevrjs. irdiov operas; irdbv rjyel yap deov's;

Nixiias. eyarye.

Lrqp.ocrdiin)^. iroC^ ')(p<iip€i/o^ r€Kp,it)pi^;

Nikw?. 07117 deouTLv i)($p 6 <i eiju.’. ovk cikotcds;

(35) ATipo<r 9 eurj 9 . e? 'npoa’Pi^dt,^^ pe.

30 die the death] allusion to Genesis 2, 17.

30 Tautology] Here Kierkegaard ascribes to A the teaching of the philosopher Stilpin, who denied the possibility of asserting any- thing about anything else.

30 the infinite judgment] Treschow, General Lo^ci the so-called infinite (propositions) with negative subject or predicate.

30 if you marry] Diogenes Laertes ascribes a similar utterance to

Socrates, ii. 33.

31 aeterno modo] Spinoza, Ethics V 40.

32 Sintenis] German author of a book of devotions.

32 weeping in Elysium] Virgil, Aeneid vi 426.

32 angel of death] Exodus 12, 23 £f.

33 apothecary] 1838-1843, Kierkegaard lived on Nytorv street, Copen-

hagen, next to an apothecary shop. Sml. Pap. 1 95, IV 223.

374

NOTES

PAGE

37 optimate] in Rome the political designation for the aristocratic

party; here used metaphorically because of its similarity to “optimist.”

38 kingdom of the gods] reminiscent of what Kineas, the emissary

of King Pyrrhus to Rome, said about the Roman senate. Plutarch, Pyrrhus, 19.

39 school of aestheticians] C. H. Weisse, System der Aestheti\, 1830.

40 Batrachomnomachi\ The Bcade between the Frogs and Mice,

mock epic, formerly attributed to Homer.

40 reception piece] term applied to the paintings an artist must produce to secure admission to the Academy of Arts.

40 whom no cloud takes away] Romulus was supposed to have vanished from earth in a cloud. Livy i. 16; Sml. Pap. 1 327.

43 eo ipso'l by the same.

47 Horace] Letters i. 6, 45 : “poor is the house where there is not much that is both above and beneath (the notice of the master of the house).”

50 insofar as it happened] namely, when he fell in love with Psyche. 52 praeterea censeo] “in addition I resolve,” Cato’s oft-reiterated demand for the destruction of Carthage.

52 proselyte at the gate] the heathen were so called who had accepted

certain of the Jewish religious doctrines, and in return obtained certain privileges among the Jews.

53 Diana] goddess of childbirth.

54 Karrihaturen des Heiligsten] treats of the relations of sight and

hearing to the other lower senses.

58 story by Achim v. Arnim] Owen Tudor.

58 instar omnium^ as good as any.

59 Irish March of the Elves\ treats of a changeling, the litde Bag-

piper, who bewitched everything, animate and inanimate, by his playing. See Der Kleine Sackpfei§er, by the Grimms.

61 opera seria] serious opera, without dialogue.

61 et apparet sublimis] and appears to be floating in the air. Virgil’s

Georgies i. 404.

62 like Thor] Norse myth. Thor’s contest with Utgard-Loki.

62 a single speech] Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro, Act I, Sc. 5; “She is woman,” spoken by Cherubino to Susanne.

62 about Don Juan] in Leporello’s list.

NOTES

375

PAGE

65 vent, vidi, vta] I came, I saw, I conquered. Caesar’s laconic report

of his victory over Pharnaces.

66 farmer in Horace] Letters i. 2, 42: “The farmer stands and waits

for the river to flow by.”

66 David] I Samuel, 16, 14 ff.

67 the man who caused the fish] perhaps refers to the Danish poet

Hauch’s poem, “The Mountain Maiden.”

69 Dr. Hotho] H. G. Hotho, German art historian, .1802-1873.

71 sub una specie\ under one form; sub utraque specie, under two

forms.

72 offence appears] a-KavdaXov.

73 There is a folkbook] History of Dr. Faustus, etc. Book found

among S.K’s books. See Papirer I 278.

73 future privat-docent] ironical reference to scholars who consult secondary rather than original sources. Sml. Pap. II 41, 223.

73 Tribler’s widow] E. M. Tribler, bookbinder of Copenhagen, Sml.

Pap. II 42, 152.

74 the few stanzas] Poems by Gottfried August Burger.

76 fifty daughters] mythology.

78-79 pur che porti, etc.] “If she only wears a petticoat, you know well what he does.” See “The List,” Don Juan.

79 the Danish translator] an arrangement of Don Juan, adapted to

Mozart’s music by L. Kruse.

80 Achim V. Arnim] “Don Juan was so versatile he could talk him-

self loose from the devil through the devil’s grandmother.”

82 the lesser mysteries] preparatory cdebration in Athens, before the celebration of the great festival of the mysteries at Eleusis.

85 Heiberg’s Don Juan] a puppet show, Copenhagen, 1814.

85 Prof. Hauch] author of two dramas, ^egory the Seventh and Don

Juan.

86 as ballet] ballet by Galleotti, 1781.

89 son of a very distinguished man] Molide, Don Juan, Act IV, Sc. 6.

90 Gusmann] Elvira’s servant.

95 qua] quality of, as.

97 The White Lady] See note, page ii.

97 in sensu eminentiori] in a higher sense.

104 thank the gods] referring to a saying of Plato who among the three things for which he thanked the gods, should have men-

NOTES

tioned the fact that he was born a man not a woman. Lactantius Institut iii. 19, 17.

vml star dentro, etc.] “he will be inside with the fair sex ” from the servants’ aria.

as a Jeronimus] See Holberg’s The Lying-In Room, Act V, Sc. 6.

the familiar champagne aria] Act I, Sc. 15.

Symparanekromenoi] hviJb'irapavexpa^iievot,, “the fellowship of buried lives” (Geismar). Sml. Papirer II 245; II 188.

Aristotle] Poetics.

David] I Chronicles, Chap. 21.

the augurs] It was about the Etruscan prophets and soothsayers, not the Roman augurs, that Cato said that he could not under- stand how they could look at each other without laughing. Cicero De devinatione ii. 51; De natura deorum i. 71.

French statesman] Thiers.

thought and character] hiavoui koX r^dos, Poetics Chap. 13. In the same place, action, or plot, not character, is indicated as the aim (reXos) of tragedy. “The actions do not therefore take place to depict character, but one uses characters for the sake of the action.”

guilt] afiapria, Aristotle’s Poetics Chap. 6.

Pelagian] Pelagius, opponent of Augustine; denied the doctrine of hereditary sin.

Grabbe] Chr. D. Grabbe, Don Juan und Faust, Frankfort, 1829.

Aristotle] Poetics Chap. 6.

Hegel] Lectures on Esthetics X 531.

It is a fearful thing] Hebrews 10, 31.

say about Jehovah] Exodus 20, 5; 34, 7.

those terrible imprecations] Leviticus 20; Job 20.

Philoctetes^ tragedy by Sophocles.

self-contradiction in his pain] Philoctetes v. 732; Sml. Pap. Ill 274.

vis inertiae^ the force of inertia.

Labdakos] grandfather of Oedipus.

Jocasta] mother of Oedipus, whom he had married.

quern deus vult, etc.] whom the god would destroy, he first makes mad.

Robert the devil] Sml. Pap. 1 87.

NOTES

377

PAGE

126 H0gne] son of King Gjukes’ queen Grimhilda and a troll.

127 captatio benevolentiae] an attempt to predispose the listener or the

judge favorably.

128 virgo mater'\ virgin mother, virgin Mary.

129 O mockery of my woe] (850) ta> Suoravos,

out ’ €v fipOTOii, ovT iv v^Kpouri /LtCToiKos, ov C^anv, ov davovcri.

The translation used in the text is that of Campbell, Oxford Uni- versity Press.

130 quod non volvit, etc,] “which she does not meditate upon in her

heart.” Not an exact translation.

133 as Hercules had predicted] Sophocles The Trachinim Maidens verse 1159.

136 Gestem liebi icj{\ Lessing, Songs from the Spanish. S.K. Sml.

Tap. Ill 80.

137 formed no far-reaching plans] reminiscent of Horace Odes i. 4, 15.

138 Men say] I Kings 19, 11-12.

138 that wild vortex] Certain Greek philosophers, called the Atomists, assumed a constant whirling motion in the atoms of the universe.

138 breath of our nostrils] Psalms 18, 16.

138 eternal mother] Hesiod’s Theogony makes night the daughter of Chaos, and mother of the higher regions of the sky and of the day.

141 Veronica] Christian legend. A woman of Jerusalem who gave her handkerchief to Christ on His way to Golgotha. It is alleged that on it was left an image of His face.

144 Proteus] Odyssey iv. 450 ff.

144 like thieves] reminiscent of Horace, Letters i. 2, 32.

145 Saul came] I Samuel, Chap. 28.

145 nomina appelatival common nouns,

151 that ancient sage] Simonides. Cicero De natura deorum L 60,

151 incorruptible essence] I Peter 3, 4.

151 ecclesia pressal ecclesiastical suppression.

156 She had been a nun] Don Juan, Kruse’s adaptation. Act I, Sc. 6.

157 “as a tiger”] Ochlenschlager’s Aladdin.

162 she does not conceal a dagger] like Elvira in Kruse’s Don Juan. 162 Dido] Virgil Aeneid vi. 469.

NOTES

378

PAGE

163 of modern philosophy] Hegelianism.

164 “it neither speaks out,” etc. owe X^et owe KpvTrra, dXXoL crqpaC-

veL, said by Heraclitus about the oracle at Delphi.'

165 the required obol] the small coin which the Greeks placed in a

dead man’s mouth as Charon’s fee for ferrying him over the Styx.

173 Goethe has somewhere said] Wilhelm Meister’s Lehrjahre.

176 Florine] Backstrom, Swedish Folklore, “The Blue Bird.”

179 Somewhere in England] Worcester. Chateaubriand mentions this. 179 the poet’s word] Pram, Heroic Odes, 1785.

179 not pursued by the Furies] like Orestes pursued by the Eumenides.

179 who live withdrawn] d<^a)ptflr/AWoi segregati, cast out, separated.

180 happy he] referring to the thought frequently expressed in Greek

literature: “The greatest happiness is not to be born; the next, if one is born, to die as soon as possible.”

180 of having to cry] Solon had warned Croesus against the dangers

of success; later, falling into the hands of Cyrus, Croesus called upon Solon.

181 Hegel’s systematic writings] Fhaenomenolo^e des Geistes.

181 Clemens Brentano] The Three Huts. (“The third nut is death.”) 184 of Ancaeus] king of Samos. iroXXd fiera^v ireXei /cvXikos /cal XctXeos oLKpov. Just as he was about to drink of the new wine, he was killed by a wild boar.

184 Latona] who must wander about the earth before she could give birth to Apollo and Diana.

184 Hyperborean darkness] The Hyperboreans were supposed to live

back of the north wind. See Thomas Moore’s “Song of the Hyperboreans.”

185 Niobe] was changed into stone through grief over the death of

her children.

186 the Lord took] Job i, 21.

189 Heiberg’s translation of Scribe’s comedy was published in 1832. 191 Wessel] “About a Jewish Maiden.”

191 the greatest contradictions] referring to Plato’s Phaedo 60 b.

191 stumbling block to the Jews] I Corinthians i, 23.

194 Pelagian autocrat] See note page 117.

199 we call a poet a prophet] the Latin votes means both poet and prophet.

NOTES

379

PAGE

201 Hamann] German scholar and writer on theology, 1730-1788.

202 publici juris] right of publication.

203 “a little maiden”] said by Derviere about his daughter “who had

the run of the house in her wooden shoes.”

205 talks about sympathies] Emmeline says to her father, who says he

could not recognize the assumed Charles, “Oh, you! that is a different matter, but I who am in sympathy with him, can never be deceived.”

206 a highly attractive cavalier] Thus Charles, in the person of Rin-

ville, describes himself to Emmeline.

213 the augmenting Wehmiiller] a character in a novel by Clemens

Bretano, Alarm in the Night, wherein a painter is described who attempted to produce a national fade from a composite picture of many people.

214 to recall an old story] When King Philip III of Spain saw a

student reading with expressions of great amusement, he said: “Either this student is a simpleton, or he is reading Don Quixote.”

219 desideratur] non-existent.

222 the spirit of the ring] reminiscent of the spirit of the lamp in Aladdin.

225 Hinc illae lacrimae] hence these tears.

226 in effi^e] figuratively.

233 Chremylos is a poor Athenian citizen, Karion is his slave.

235 panis and circenses] food and entertainment, according to Juvenal,

the Roman citizen’s sole desire. Satires x. 81.

236 In ancient times] Saxo Grammaticus tells this in the beginning of

book 6, Gesta Danorum.

236 zum Gebrauch fur Jedermann] for the use of everyone.

236 man being a social animal] Aristotle’s definition. Politics i. i, 9.

237 otium est pulvinar, etc.] idleness is the devil’s pillow.

238 the later boredom] “acquired immediacy”; sec first line of para-

graph.

239 Antonine was wiser] Marcus Aurelius Meditations vii. 2:

ava^mvdi croi e^eoTtp: tSe iraKiv rd rr pay para, ws edpa ~~344~~

~~Geert Westphaler, 242 GeneraUo aequivoca, 307 Genius, 39; sensual, 51, 57, 60; as seduction, 70-84~~

~~Goethe, Clavigo, 145, 146, 148, 149; Faust, 45, 168, 171, 258; on Hamlet, 173 Graces, The three, 281~~

~~Greek, consciousness, 51; life, 75; love psy- chical, 50, 76; sculpture, 46 Gnef, 33; immediate, 14 1; inventive, 144;~~

~~secretive, 139. See also: Reflective Grief Guilt, absolute, 121; ethical, 117; metaphysical category, 121; personal, 120; tragic, 117, 122, 123, 129, 130~~

~~Hamlet, 173 Happiness, 28, 32, 33~~

~~Harmony, a cosmos, 37; test of classic, 38, 39 Hegel, on the aesthetic, 39; on content, 42; on compassion, 119-20; unhappy conscious- ness, 1 81~~

~~Heiberg, 85, 88, 106 Hercules, 76, 133 Hiatuses, 349 Homer, 37, 39» 40, 44, 45 Hope, 182, 183, 184, 240 Human nature, 28 Hustlers, 19-20, 237~~

~~Idea, 42, 43, 44, 45; bound up with medium, 53-54~~

~~Idleness, 237 Immediacy, 56, 57~~

~~Immortality, 27 Immortals, 38, 40, 46 Incarnation, 51 Inspiration, 194 Interjection, 238~~

~~Irony, 98, 219, 222, 224, 226, 227 Isolation, 1 14, 1 15~~

~~Jacob, 335 Job, 186~~

~~Johannes the Seducer. See: Cordelia; Letters;~~

~~Meditations of the Seducer; Seducer, The Joy, 15, 32, 33, 139~~

~~Kiss, The, 310~~

~~Kissing, 315; Contribution to the Theory of,~~

~~346-47~~

~~Knights, The, 232~~

Language, addressed to the ear, 54; clement in nme, 56; essence of idea, 53; involves reflection, 56; sensuous, a mere instrumen- tality, 54; spiritually determined, 53 Laugh, 20, 27, 30, 32, 34, 304 Laughter, 16 Lenore, 74, 302

Leporello, 71, 74, 75, 97, loi, 106, 107-09 Lessing, on poetry and art, 138 Letters, Cordelia to Johannes, 258, 259; Johan- nes to Cordelia, 322, 328, 329, 330-31, 333-34, 335-36, 338-39, 347-48, 349, 35°, 354, 366, 367-68, 370

~~Life, 18, 19, 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28, 29, 30, 149~~

List of the Seduced, 77, 107-08 Longmg, 34, 328, 365, 369 Love, 19, 34, 50, 76-77; deception a paradox to, 147; fought cominus or eminus, 314; a passion flower, 198; positions of, 342; sym- pathetic, 147; as temptation, 348; wonder of, 316 Lynceus, 19

~~Ma^c Flute, The, 63-64, 67 Maiden’s Leap, 325-26~~

~~Man, of hope, 182, 183; of memory, 182, 183;~~

~~unhappiest, 179-88 Margaret, i68, 176 Marie Beaumarchais, 145-56 Marriage, 243-45; ethical reality, 305 Media, as bases for classification of classic, 43-46, 53-56~~

~~Meditations of the Seducer, 268-93, 298-317, 319-20, 321, 323-26, 330, 332-33, 341-43, 345-47, 348-49, 349-50, 350-54, 355-66, 367, 368-70, 370-71~~

~~INDEX~~

~~Melancholy, i6, 115 Memory, 32, 182-84, 185, 188 Mercury, 34 Mettehli 284~~

~~Middle Ages, representative idea, 70-71 Moline, 85, 87, 88 ff.~~

~~Monologue, breach of dramatic situation, 106;~~

effusiveness of, 203, 222 Mountain of Venus, 72 Mo2art, 37, 38, 40, 45, 46, 47, 52, 59, passim Music, 24, 33; alone can express sensual genius, 45; expresses the immediate, 56; imperfect as spiritual medium, 57, 59, in Figaro, 63; in Magic Flute, 66 Musical-erotic, 47, 49, 51 Musical structure of Don Juan, 94-110 Myson, 10 Mystery, 21

~~Nepos, Cornelius, 17~~

Occasion, 191-96, 199, 202 Occasional Sketches (“a little extra line out”) 257; chronologically arranged, a. Incident of the Mirror, 260-62; b. Adventure on Eastern Street, 262-64; c. At the Exhibition, 265-67; d The Green Cloak, 267-68; e. In- cident of the Umbrella, 272-73; t An Experiment in Foolhardiness, 303-04; g. The love-letter, 309; h. Affair of the Licentiate, 317-19, 324-25; L Incident of Charlotte Hahn, 320, 329; j. At the Confectioners', 326-28; k. The Fishermaiden, 334-35; k Grib's Forest, 337; m. The Peat-cutter, 339-41; n. Maidservants in Frederiksberg Park, 343-45; o. On Breaking an Engage- ment, 351-53 Oedipus, 127 ff.

~~Opera, Don Juan, immediate action, 98; epic moment, 107; keynote, 97, 102-05, 110; lyric moment, 108-09; passion, 95. See also: Don Juan '~~

~~Opera seria, 61 Optimatc, 37~~

~~“Overture, The Immortal,” 24, 102-05 Ovid, 349~~

~~Page, The, 60, 62, 63, 81 Pamela, 206 Pantheism, 230, 239 Papageno, 63 ff.~~

~~Paradox, I 47 » I 49 > 244~~

~~Parastatic body, 255 Parmeniscus, 27~~

~~Passion, 22, 26, 99, 149, 158, 1^1 Pathos, 149~~

~~3^5~~

~~Perfection, 22 Philoctetes, 122 Plato, 348~~

~~Pleasure, 25, 33, 241~~

~~Poet, definition, 15; inspired, 197-98; prophet,~~

~~199~~

~~Poetry, distinguished from art, 138 Politievennen, 343 Possibility, 33, 200 Posthumous papers, 124 Preciosa, 272 n.~~

~~Prometheus, 240 Proteus, 144 Psyche, 25, 275~~

~~Reality, 25, 27, 253 Reason, 26 Reasons, 20~~

~~“Recognition” scene, 219 Red Sea, 22~~

Reflection (reflective thought), destroys the immediate, 56; double, 119, 253, 254; im- plied by pain, 120; in Philoctetes, 122-23; shows sensual as sin, 73 Reflective Grief, causes, 140-41; dialectical difficulty, 147; ended by resolution of will, 148; invisible, 146; lacks repose, 139; object of not identical with, 156; seeks its object, 146. See also: Dialectics of Reflective Grief. Religious and ethical, 118 Remembering, 26, 240-42. See also; Memory Remorse, 121 Renewal of youth, 21

~~Representative idea, concentrated in individual, 50; introduced by Christianity, 51; realized by Middle Ages, 70; seeks comic relief, 71 Rinvilic, 209, 210, passim Romance, 18 “Rotation,” 239~~

~~Rotation Method, 234-47, 240, 243, 244~~

~~Salmon, 33 Scribe, 197, passim Second Stage, 63-68 Secretary, The, 4-5~~

Seducer, The, difference between immediate and reflective, 87; nature of 253; methods, 254; results to him, 255. See also: Don Juan Sensuality, posited by Christianity, 49 Sentimentality, 33 Seven Sages, 10 Sganarelle, 89 ff.

~~Shadowgraphs, 137-76 Sheva, 17~~

~~Sm, 16, 22; kingdom of, 73; not an aesthetic category, 117, 118~~

~~INDEX~~

~~386~~

~~Solon, 180 Sophocles, 122~~

~~Sorrow, 17, 120, 121, 122, 123 Stage, 58, 59, 60 Stillness, 25, 315 Suffering, 15, 120 22 Symparanekromenoi, 113 n, passim Sympathy, 27, Hegel, 11920~~

~~Tammo, 65 ff Tautology, 30, 40 Tedium, 29 See also Boredom Third Stage, 68 70 Thor, 62 Time, 20~~

~~Tragedy, ancient and modern, 113145 116, contrast, 120, 130~~

~~Tragic, The, 113, gentle, 118, 121, quiet, 1 17 See also Guilt~~

~~Unhappiest Man, The, 179 88, not one who fears death, 180, is not present in himself, 1 81, types, 183-87~~

~~Unhappy Consciousness, 181~~

~~Venerabtle^ 325, 342 Veromca, 141 View of life, 19 Virgil, 21~~

~~Wandering Jew, 180 Wehmuller, augmenting, 213 White Lady, The, gy Wine, 33~~

~~Wise Men of Gotham, 8~~

~~Wish, 17, 39~~

~~Witch of Endor, 145~~

~~Woman, as bride, 363, destiny, 281, essay on, 357 61, mteresting, 362, love, 244~~

~~Xerxes, 5~~

~~Youth, 34~~

~~Zephyrs, The, 293 98 Zerlina, 78, 79~~

~~LIST OF NAMES MENTIONED IN THE TEXT~~

~~Apuleius, 369~~

Aristophanes, 29, 115, 232, 233 Aristode, 113, 116, 117, 119 *

~~Arnim, Achim v , 58, 80 Axel, 37~~

~~Baggesen, 246 Brentano, Clemens, 181 Burger, 74, 302 Byron, 86, 88~~

~~Cuvier, 260~~

~~David, 66, 114 Diogenes Laertius, 10~~

~~Epaminondas, 133 Euripides, 363~~

~~Frydendall, 196, 228~~

~~Goethe, 45, 73, 145, 146, 148, 149, 168, 170, 171, 172, 173, 215, 258 Grabbe, 117~~

~~Hamann, 20 x Hartley, 16 Hauch, 85~~

~~Hegel, 39, 42, II 9, 181 Heiberg, 85, 88, 91, 189~~

~~Heiberg, Madame, 196, 228 Holberg, 211~~

~~Homer, 37, 39, 40, 44, 45, 85 Horace, 47, 66, 356 Hotho, 69, 70, 78, 94~~

~~Jacob, 335 Job, 186 J0chcr, 10 Joseph, 268, 277~~

~~Kruse, 82, 160, 161~~

~~Laban, 235, 323 Lessing, 138~~

~~Mohere, 85, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 106, 107~~

~~M0ller, Poul, 197 Moren, 10~~

~~Mozart, 24, 37, 38, 40, 45, 46, 47, 48, 52, 57, 58, 59, 60, 62, 63, 64, 66, 67, 69, 77, 78, 80, 84» 85, 94, 95, 99, loi, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, no Musaeus, 85~~

~~Nepos, Cornelius, 17 Nourredin, 17~~

~~Ovid, 314, 349~~

~~INDEX~~

~~387~~

~~Parmeniscus, 27~~

~~Solon, 180~~

~~Phalans, 15~~

~~Sophocles, 122~~

~~Phister, 196, 228~~

~~Spinoza, 31~~

~~Plato, 348~~

~~Stage, 196, 229~~

~~Plotinus, 246~~

~~Steffens, 54 Swift, 16~~

~~Raphael, 37, 38~~

~~Samuel, 145~~

~~Saul, 66, 145~~

~~Tieck, 85, 260 Tischbem, 246~~

~~Schikaneder, 67~~

~~Schiller, 302~~

~~Scribe, 189, 195, 197, 200, 202, 203,~~

~~204,~~

~~Virgil, 21~~

~~205, 207, 209, 2II, 215, 216, 219, 222j~~

~~' 2^7~~

~~Wehmuller, 213~~

~~Sintems, 32~~

~~Wessel, 213~~

[edit]
VOLUME TWO by TRANSLATED BY WALTER LOWRIE[2]

EITHER /OR

EITHER/OR
By S0REN KIERKEGAARD

VOLUME TWO TRANSLATED BY WALTER LOWRIE

LONDON
HUMPHREY MILFORD, OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
1944

Copyright, 1944, by Pnnceton University Picss

Printed in the United States oj Anienca at Princeton University Pi ess Princeton, New Jetsey

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

O nly because it is an opportunity, perhaps the last chance I shall | have, to express my affectionate veneration for Professor David F. Swenson, have I undertaken to translate this volume. For I learned to my surprise after Dr. Swenson’s death that he had translated something, and in some instances a good deal, from most of the eight parts of the first volume of Either /Or\ and as Mrs. Swenson, wishing to salvage these precious fragments, undertook to complete the transla- tion of that volume, I could do no less than translate the second — for obviously the “Either” could not be published without the “Or.” In spite of the fact that S.K. published the second edition of Either /Or in one volume, it is too big a book for that, and now when the responsibil- ity for the English translation is divided between two persons, it is con- venient that it should be clearly divided by publishing the book, as originally it was published, in two volumes.
Although it is unusual, perhaps unique, to provide a preface for the second volume of a literary work, yet I had to say as much as I have said above. And having said that, I would say moreover that for me this task was not altogether an agreeable one. It is rather ironical that I, who had proposed to translate only and most definitely religious
works, being interested profoundly only in them, should have found myself obliged, by the fact that no other proficient laborers volunteered, to proceed backward and translate several of the “aesthetic” works, end- ing here with the first literary work which S.K. produced. Although Either /Or (especially the part contained in the first volume) is un- doubtedly a work of genius, and a work such as no man but S.K. could have produced, yet my experience as a translator who proceeds back- ward reveals a great discrepancy between this work and the works of S.K.’s maturity, with respect not only to the felicity and exactness of his expression, but also to the sheer weight and value of his thought. Having been accustomed to weighing his golden thoughts by troy measure, I find that avoirdupois scales are good enough for use here. In translating the last works I never ventured to think that I could im- prove upon S.K.’s careful choice of expression; but here there are many passages, especially in Judge William’s first letter, which could easily be improved by a mediocre translator. I go even so far as to say that the book would be improved by leaving out many passages, which not only are badly expressed but often are examples, and tedious examples, of argument for argument’s sake, which is the essence of sophistry. Of

VI

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

course I have not omitted any of them, neither have I yielded to the temptation of bettering them. But I protest here that, if in some in- stances the translation appears stupid or even incomprehensible, the original is no better. Inasmuch as I have been regarded by supercilious critics as an undiscriminating eulogist of S.K., I am not sorry to have an opportunity of saying this here. But I would say at the same time that this big book was written in such an incredibly short time, and in part under such unfavorable conditions, that we have no cause to won- der at its defects. That it was written in eleven months was S.K.’s boast — a very questionable boast. When we reflect how much else he was doing and suffering at that time this feat seems the more difficult and incredible. “Would to God it had been impossible” — as Dr. Johnson said when he heard a soprano praised for reaching the most difficult notes.
This is all I need to say by way of a preface. But I confess to a special liking for prefaces — at least for writing them. The author, having fin- ished his serious labor, can breathe freely, write the preface at his ease, and talk familiarly to the reader. As for the translator, it is the only op- portunity he has of writing in his own person. I can speak from ex- perience— -for have I not written twenty-six prefaces? Collected, they would make a tidy little volume. S.K.’s most amusing book was en- titled Prefaces. It will never be translated, for it deals in a free and easy way with allusions to contemporary affairs which cannot be explained without pedantry. In the preface to the Prefaces the pseudonymous au- thor, Nicholas Notabene, confides to the reader that he is not permitted to write a boo\ because his wife is jealous of his preoccupation with such work, and hence he resorts to the expedient of writing a volume of prefaces. But there are other good reasons for writing a sequence of prefaces, although one never sees it done except when public demand has required one or more successive editions — “enlarged and improved,” as the Germans say. Then the original preface is commonly preserved, and an indefinite number of prefaces follows it. Alas, I have never had this good fortune. But I have reflected that even without this popular demand for new editions there might be good reasons for accompany- ing a book with several prefaces.
Perhaps others beside me are accustomed to write a preface before a book is started in order to prescribe the aim — and then of course a very different one after the book is finished. If both were published, we should have an illuminating demonstration of the disparity between purpose and accomplishment. If only one preface is published, it ought

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

vii

to be for the convenience of the reviewers, seeing that they cannot al- ways be expected to find time to read the book. To this end it ought of course to be laudatory. The blurb on the dust cover is usually made out of that, and it is astonishing how the reviewers lap it up. It is perhaps for this reason I have commonly had a succes d’estime — which unfor- tunately has led to no other success. But in addition to this there surely ought to be a preface meant for the readers, and perhaps a special preface addressed, as are all of the prefaces to S.K.’s Edifying Discourses, “to that single individual...my reader.” One might well add a chatty auto- biographical preface with a portrait of the author, containing just what the public demands, which generally it gets less authentically, and perhaps less flatteringly, from the reviewer. Another preface might be devoted to the prospective critic, seeking to disarm him in advance. In- deed there is no end to the prefaces which might appropriately accom- pany every book. Since I am only a translator it would not be seemly for me to try out this experiment here. But precisely as the translator I must follow this with an introduction, which applies of course prin- cipally to this volume.

May it, igp Princeton

Walter Lowrie

CONTENTS

translator’s preface V
INTRODUCTION BY THE TRANSLATOR xi
AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 3
EQUILIBRIUM BETWEEN THE AESTHETICAL AND THE ETHICAL IN THE COMPOSITION OF PERSONALITY I3I
ULTIMATUM 279
NOTES 297

INDEX

302

INTRODUCTION BY THE TRANSLATOR

I n his Journal (IV A 43) S.K. expresses his “judgment upon Either /Or " — and it is not a modest one: “There was a youth, richly gifted as an Alcibiades. He went astray in the world. In his distress he looked about for a Socrates, but among his contemporaries he found him not. Then he begged the gods to transform him into one. And, lo, he who had been so proud of being an Alcibiades became so shamefaced and humbled by the grace of the gods that when he had received just what might properly have made him proud he felt himself inferior to all.”
Either /Or is undoubtedly a work of genius, but it is a very uneven work. It is by no means one of S.K.’s greatest books, although in some respects it is perhaps the most interesting, because of the great variety of its contents and its many purple patches. On the other hand, this very variety may be regarded as a defect, and the lack of variety in the second volume makes it tedious, the only spice it has being the interjections of the “young friend,” which hark back to S.K.’s aesthetic stage. In the Preface I have already remarked upon the serious defects in Judge William’s first letter exalting the aesthetic validity of marriage. A cer- tain dullness in both letters is accounted for only in part by the con- sideration that the Judge (and perhaps the worthy P. V. Jacobsen who stood as the model for this character) may have been a prosy person, as moralists commonly are, and that S.K. took pains to draw this figure true to type. It was difficult for S.K. to impersonate with great enthusi- asm the ethical stage as such, for he himself was well beyond this sphere, having leaped at once into the religious, and he never was of the opin- ion that the ethical could stand alone, or could stand securely with no other support than the vague religiousness which Judge William evinced.
S.K. says expressly that the last part of Either/Or (i.e. the second volume) was written first. That implies that this volume was written in part at least before he fled to Berlin from the scandal of his broken engagement, therefore during the two months of agony when he was employed in trying to induce Regina to “break it off,” pre- tending that he was a scoundrel. But at that time he was also preoccupied with the completion of his Master’s dissertation on The Concept of Irony and with the public defense of it. He does not tell us

Xil

INTRODUCTION

which part of the volume was written at that time, but there can be no doubt that it was the first letter dealing with marriage. For us there is an additional pathos in this defense of the aesthetic character of marriage when we reflect that he was depicting in glowing terms the beauty of marriage just at the time when he felt compelled to renounce this happiness. And die defects of this letter are explained, if they are not excused, by the tragic preoccupations of that time. There was, it is true, an objective reason for beginning the “Or” with the consideration of marriage; for, as S.K. remarked in his Journal (IV A 234), “marriage is the deepest form of life’s revelation,” and “it is the duty of every man to be married.” The aesthetic young man, S.K. says, was never revealed: in the first part only his casual moods were revealed; in the second only his external semblance whereby he would deceive people. S.K. also remarks (IV A 213) that the aesthetic life described in the first part came to grief upon time, and that for this reason the significance of time is stressed in the second part; also that the first part contains mel- ancholy (“for imagination is always melancholy”) and despair, and for this reason the second part teaches despair as a thing one must will, and teaches one to choose oneself — the way to overcome melancholy and despairA He explains too that “to choose oneself” js only another expression for the Socratic injunction “to know oneself?)
We have to suppose then that the second letter was written during the four months he spent in Berlin. It gives evidence of the metaphysical interests, particularly the refutation of Hegelianism, by which he was absorbed at that time. But a letter he wrote from Berlin to his friend Emil Boesen shows how multifarious and distracting were his occupa- tions there: “This winter in Berlin will always have great significance for me. I have got a great deal accomplished. When you consider that I have heard from three to four lectures daily, have a language lesson daily, and that I have got so much written [of Either /Or\ (and this in spite of the fact that at first I had to spend so much time writing out Schelling’s lectures, which I did in a fair copy), and got a great deal read — so one cannot complain. And on top of that, all my pains and all my monologues [about Regina]. I have a feeling that I have not long to live, but I am living for a brief term and so much the more intensely.”
In spite of all these distractions the Judge’s second letter is a solid contribution to modern thought. It deals in a novel way with many important themes which were to find moce adequate expression in his later writings, especially in the PostscripA^Xht Judge uses the phrase “either/or” with solemn significance, whereas the young friend, who

INTRODUCTION

xiii
has these words more frequendy in his mouth, frivolously takes them in vain. To the Judge they signify the vital importance of disjunction and choice. In this “passion for disjunction” he is in perfect agreement with S.K., who recognized that he was fitly called Either/Or, even if it was annoying to hear this name shouted after him by urchins in the street, and who at the end of his life wrote enthusiastically in one of the v numbers of the Instant (xiv, p. 106), “Either/Or is the key of heaven.” It is the exact opposite, he says, not only of “both — and,” but of Hegelian mediation.
Evidently S.K. was himself sharply aware of the defects of the letter in which the Judge defended marriage, for he seized the opportunity presented in the Stages to present this argument more fully, and he ' gave the Judge a chance to redeem himself. Yet when the Judge had said all he knew how to say, it is not to be supposed that he said just . what S.K. would have said had he been writing under his own name. For S.K. had something more to say, and something different (cf. my Introduction to the Stages, p. 6). But for all that, the Judge says a great deal about marriage, and a great deal that is very valuable, much that no one else has ever thought of saying; and m our day when, owing to the dissolution of our mores , this subject is necessarily much discussed, both by serious and by frivolous people, one might profitably turn to Judge William for instruction. I, as a minister of the Gospel with the obligation of talking seriously <6 every couple that comes to me to be married, being myself well instructed by Judge William, am prepared to talk to them hours on end — and to talk interestingly.
Only after S.K. had returned to Copenhagen early in March 1842 was he completely free to devote himself to Either /Or, and presumably the whole of the first volume was written then, in about five months. The whole manuscript had to be copied by a scribe in order to preserve the secret of his authorship, and the time required for this was doubtless not included in the eleven months. The book was published on Feb- ruary 20, 1843. It was “accompanied” by Two Edifying Discourses, pub- lished under his own name on May 16— the first of the series of religious discourses with which he accompanied all his pseudonymous works.
S.K. protested indignantly against the assumption that this book (especially the first volume) was made up of a lot of essays he had lying leady in his desk. We must take him at his word. And yet it is hard to resist the impression that, even if hardly anything except a few of the Diapsalmata had been written out beforehand, the various essays in-

XIV

INTRODUCTION

corporated thoughts which had already occupied his lively imagination in his “aesthetic” days and needed only to be spun out.
Of the many and various reasons S.K. alleges for writing this book- — a metaphysical interest, a religious purpose, as a “good deed” to Regina to “clarify her out of the engagement,” as “a necessary evacua- tion” — only the last accounts adequately for most of the matter in the first volume. He needed to get these things off his chest, or, as he said, to “expectorate” them. The religious, moral and metaphysical interests were expressed here and there, but principally they were expressed by the title of the book, which in a way is more important than the book itself. S.K. affirmed that the title is so essential that the book “is not only called Either/Or, but it is Either/Or,” and that if no title had been printed on it, the reader could have supplied it (IV B 59, p. 217). This in a way the public understood, though they were unable to perceive, how the book illustrated this in detail. And even we who are so much better informed about S.K.’s purpose do not find it any too easy to see how, as he affirmed, it “has one plan from the first word to the last, from the first Diapsalm to the conclusion of the Sermon” (IV A 214, 216). For his contemporaries it was the more difficult to detect a per- vading plan and purpose, because (as he acknowledged in The Point of View) this book was “a deceit,” even if it was meant, like the method of Socrates, to deceive people into the truth.
Although Either /Or produced a great sensation in Copenhagen, no- body was capable of understanding its subtle purpose, and so no one could adequately review it. The reviewers dwelt upon the immense size of the book, the amazing variety of its contents, and above all upon the mystery of its authorship. For this misunderstanding, or rather lack of understanding, S.K. was himself to blame, and yet he was furious. Furious especially at J. L. Heiberg, the arbiter elegantiarum , who wrote a long review in his Intelligensblade. Heiberg was scandalized by the size of the book and by the too great variety of its contents. Strangely enough, Heiberg, although he if any man was an aesthete, found the aesthetic part offensive and disgusting. It did not occur to him that it drew such an unfavorable picture of the aesthetic life and its conse- quences of melancholy and despair in order to warn men against it — to warn him personally of the end to which he was tending— and to throw the aestheticists into the arms of the ethicist. But it appears to me still more strange that he was profoundly attracted by the ethical part. He imagines a hypothetical reader: “One thinks, ‘Have I the time to read a book like that ? One may just as well leap into it as creep.’ With that

INTRODUCTION

acv

one literally leaps into the book, reads a little here and there to get a taste of it. One stumbles upon many piquant reflections, some of them perhaps are even profound, one doesn’t know for certain, for when one believes one has seen a point one is again disoriented. . . . One hastens on the ‘The Diary of the Seducer,’ for the title already gives a hint that this production must be more creative than critical. And in a way one does not find oneself disappointed in this expectation, but one is dis- gusted, offended and indignant, and one asks oneself, not whether it is possible that anyone can be like this seducer, but whether it is possible that the individuality of an author can be so constituted as to find pleas- ure in putting itself in the place of that character and elaborating it in its most secret thoughts. A glance at the book, and this possibility is substantiated. One closes the book and says, ‘ Bastal I have enough of the Either , I want to have nothing of the Or' However, one hears the Or enthusiastically discussed, and since on every page to which one chances to turn one sees lightning flashes of thought which suddenly illuminate whole spheres of existence, the readers have a presentiment that there must be an organizing power which makes of it all a veritable whole, they feel themselves incessantly under the influence of a rare and highly gifted mind which from a deep speculative spring draws up before their eyes the most beautiful ethical points of view, they are so captivated by this volume that they are unable to lay it down till they have finished it. . . . But the serious reader of whom I have been speaking will, out of respect for an author who has written such an Or, take up again the Either and carefully read it through.”
I confess that if a reviewer were to say something like this about a book of mine, I should not be “furious.” Perhaps not many readers in our age will speak so enthusiastically about the second part of Either /Or. I confess that the first part is more interesting to me. I am sure that many will find the second part dull, as they did the Stages, which has far fewer defects. I was not surprised to hear people say that they found Quidam’s Diary tedious, but I wondered that they expressed no en- thusiasm for “The Banquet.” Did not Brandes say that it could hold its own with Plato’s Symposium ? But, after all, I have to reflect that not many people in our day read the Symposium, and that those who do would perhaps pronounce it dull if they dared. After all, taste changes from age to age, and the tempo of our time is different.
Incidentally this volume has a singular interest for one who desires to know what sort of man S.K. was in his aesthetic stage, which corre- sponded precisely with his first seven years in the university. For he

XVI

INTRODUCTION

is graphically depicted in the descriptions Judge William gives of his “young friend” and in the lines which he ascribes to him. To that extent the second volume of Either /Or is autobiographical, almost in the same degree as the first. It is the self-portrait of a great artist; but it is the por- trait which he painted of himself after he had ceased to be what he was. In a short while, because of his tragic experience as a lover, he had changed so much that he had to paint from memory, not by looking in a mirror; and, having resolutely chosen the “or,” he is now addressing his earlier self through the mouth of Judge William, without by any means identifying himself with this amiable moralist.
In conclusion, I must speak of the Sermon with which the book ends. It is described as an Ultimatum . That means not merely a conclusion but a challenging conclusion. Evidently S.K. felt that for the sake of completeness he must make mention of the third stage, the religious. But lugged in as it was by the 'sermon it was barely mentioned as an addendum. Hence he could say later that “Either /Or goes no further than the ethical” — though we can see that the Judge was evidently a “Christian,” in the vague sort of way that most people are. One of the reasons for writing the Stages was to give due prominence to the reli- gious stage — although in that book the ethical stage has almost dropped out, and the religious stage is not depicted but suggested when we are shown the young man undergoing the metamorphosis which will evi- dently result in attaining the wings of faith. S.K. says of this sermon, as he might say of any good sermon, that “the aim of the sermon is not to lull, not to win a metaphysical view, but to clear for action”; and he said of himself, “This is what I am able to do at all times.”

EITHER /OR
A FRAGMENT OF LIFE
EDITED BY
VICTOR EREMITA

PART SECOND
Containing the papers of B Letters to A

Les grande s passions sont solitaires , et les transporter au desert, e*est les rendre a leur empire
CHATF AUBRIAND

COPENHAGEN, 1843 [FEB. 20]

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE

MY Friend,
The lines upon which your eye first falls were written last. The aim of them is to make still one more attempt to force into the form of a letter the copious inquiry which is remitted to you herewith. Thus these lines correspond with the concluding lines and along with them con- stitute an envelope, apprising you in an external way, as will many proofs of an internal character, that what you read is a letter. The thought that I was writing you a letter I was not willing to relinquish, partly because the time at my disposal does not permit the more careful composition which a dissertation demands, and partly because I was reluctant to let slip the opportunity of addressing you in the tone of earnest admonition which the form of a letter allows. You are so expert in the art of talking in perfecdy general terms about everything without letting yourself be moved by it, that I am not tempted to set in motion your dialectical powers. You know well how the Prophet Nathan be- haved with King David when the king was willing enough to under- stand the parable the prophet set forth but was not willing to understand that it applied to him. So to make the application plain Nathan said, ‘‘.Thou, O King, art the man.” Thus I too have constantly sought to remind you that what is said is about you, that to you it is addressed. Therefore, I have no doubt that in reading this you will constantly get the impression that it is a letter you are reading, even though you might be distracted from this thought by the fact that the form of the paper is not appropriate to a letter. As a public functionary I am accustomed to write upon a large sheet of paper. Perhaps this may be advantageous if in your eyes it should contribute to give my epistle a certain official character. The letter which you receive herewith is a rather big one. If it were to be estimated by the scales of the post office, it would be a precious letter; by the Troy weight of a subtile criticism it would per- haps turn out to be insignificant. I would therefore beg you not to em- ploy either of these scales: not that of the post office, for you do not receive it in order to forward it; not that of criticism, for I should be loath to see you render yourself guilty of a misunderstanding so gross and unsympathetic.
In case any man but you were to get sight of this investigation, it would certainly strike him as exceedingly strange and superfluous; per- haps if he were a married man he would exclaim with the joviality of a paterfamilias, “Yes, marriage is the aesthetic side of life”; if he were) a young man he would perhaps chime in rather confusedly and unre-i

6

THE “OR”

flectively, “Yes, love, thou art the aesthetic side of life”; but both of them would be unable to conceive how it could occur to me to wish to save the aesthetic repute of marriage. Indeed, instead of making myself meritorious in the eyes of actual or prospective husbands, I should pre- sumably incur their suspicion, for a defense is an indictment. And I should have you to thank for this, for I on my part have never doubted — and you, in spite of all your bizarre qualities, I love as a son, as a brother, as a friend; I love with an aesthetic love because some day you will perhaps succeed in finding a center for your eccentric movements;
I love you for the sake of your impetuosity, for the sake of your pas- sions, for the sake of your foibles ; I love you with the fear and trembling of a religious love because I see the devious paths you are treading, and because to me you are something quite other than a phenomenon. Yea, when I see you make a side spring, when I see you rear like a wild horse, throwing yourself on your haunches and then again plunging forward,
I then— well, I refrain from all useless pedagogical intervention, but I think of an unbroken horse, and see also the hand that holds the reins, see the whip of fate raised menacingly over your head. And yet when this investigation finally comes to hand you will perhaps say, “Yes, this is undeniably an immense task he has undertaken, but let us see then how he has resolved it.”
Perhaps I speak to you too mildly, perhaps I put up with too much from you, I ought perhaps to have availed myself more of the authority which in spite of your pride I actually exercise over you, or perhaps I ought not to have taken up this subject with you, for in many ways you are after all a terrible person, and the more one has to do with you the worse it is.'tYou are not really an enemy of marriage, but you abuse your gifts for irony and sarcasm by making mock of it.’ I am ready to con- cede that in this respect you are not sparring with the air, that you strike a sure blow, and that you have much observation at your disposal, but at the same time I would say that this perhaps is your defect. Pre- sumably you will reply that at any rate this is always better than travel- ing on the railway of triviality and losing oneself atomistically in life’s social throng. As I have remarked, one cannot say that you hate mar- M riage, for doubtless your thought has never yet got to that subject, at, least not without being scandalized by it, and so you must forgive me; for assuming that you have never thought the matter through. What' you have a predilection for is the first sensation of falling in love. You know how to submerge yourself in a dreamy and glowing clairvoyance of love. About your entire person you spin as it were a cobweb and then

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 7
lie in wait. But you are not a child, a consciousness just awakening , 1 and therefore your glance has a very different significance, but you are con- tent with that.(You love the accidental.^. smile from a pretty girl in a . situation which is interesting, a glance which you entrap, that is what you are on the lookout for, that is a theme for your idle imagination. You who always plume yourself upon being an observer must put up with it if you yourself become an object of observation. I will remind you of an instance which I observed. A pretty young girl who acci- dentally was seated beside you at table was too prim to bestow a glance upon you. It needs to be emphasized that the situation was accidental: you did not know her position, her name, her age, etc. For an instant you were puzzled as to whether this was merely prudery, or whether there was not mixed with it a little embarrassment which under the proper illumination might make an interesting situation. She sat oppo- site a mirror in which you could see her; she cast a shy glance at it with- out guessing that your eye had already taken up its abode there; she blushed when your eye met hers. Such sights you preserve as accurately and register as quickly as a daguerreotype, which as you know needs only half a minute even in the worst weather.
■ Ah! you are indeed a strange being, at one; momept a child, at an- other an old man, at one moment you are thinking with prodigious seriousness about the loftiest scientific problems, proposing to sacrifice your life to them, the next moment you are an amorous fool; From mar- riage, however, you are a long way off, and I hope that your good genius will keep you from getting into bad ways, for sometimes I sense in you a trace of wanting to play at being a little Zeus . 2 With your love you feel yourself so superior that doubtless you imagine every girl might count herself fortunate to be your sweetheart for a week. Your amorous stud- ies you then for the time being carry on in conjunction with studies aesthetical, ethical, metaphysical, cosmopolitical, etc.\One cannot really become angry with you. Evil has in you, as it had in the medieval con- ception, a certain seasoning of good nature and childishness. JWith re- \ gard to marriage you have always behaved merely as an observer. There is something treacherous in wishing to be mejrely an observer. How * often — yes, I am willing to admit it — how often you have diverted me, but how often you have tormented me too with your tales of how you have wormed yourself into the confidence now of this and now of an- other husband in order to see how deeply he was stuck in the marriage bog. To worm your way into the confidence of people— for that you really have great gifts, that I will not deny, nor will I deny that it is

8

THE “OR”

quite entertaining to hear you relate the results of it and to witness your exuberant joy every time you are in a position to announce a really fresh observation. But, honestly speaking, your psychological interest lacks seriousness and is rather a hypochondriac curiosity.
Now for the matter in hand.lThere are two things I must especially regard as my task: to show the aesthetic significance of marriage; and to show how the a estheti c element in it may _be held fast in spite of the manifold obstacles of actual life. In order, however, that you may aban- don yourself with the more security to the edification which this little treatise may possibly procure you, I will let a little polemical prelude precede my discussions, and in it take due account of your sarcastic ob- servations. But with that I hope also that I shall have paid due tribute to the piratical states and can then calmly pursue my calling; for after all I am within my calling when I who am a married man fight in behalf of marriage— pro arts et foots . 3 I assure you I take this matter so much to heart that I, who ordinarily do not feel tempted to write books, might actually be tempted to do so, if only I might hope to save a single mar- riage from the hell into which perhaps it has precipitated itself, or to render a few people more capable of realizing the most beautiful task prpposed to men.
vAs a precautionary measure I will occasionally allude to my wife and my relation to her— not as though I presumed to represent our marriage as the normative example, but partly because the poetical descriptions which are purely fanciful have no very special convincing power, and partly because I count it of importance to show that even in common- place situations it is possible to preserve the aesthetically ou have known me for many years, you have known my wife for five, you find her quite pretty, or rather attractive, and so do I; and yet I know very well that she is not so pretty by day as in the evening, that a certain sad, almost ailing trait vanishes only in the course of the day, and that it is forgotten when in the evening she can really lay claim to be charming. I know very well that her nose is not the perfection of beauty, that it is too small; but it turns itself saucily to the world, and I know that this little nose has given occasion to so much pleasant banter that, if it were within my jurisdiction, I would never wish for her a more beautiful one. This is a much deeper appreciation of the significance of the accidental in life than that about which you are so enthusiastic. I thank God for all this good and forget the weak points.
This, however, is of minor importance. But there is one thing for which I thank God with my whole soul, namely, that she is the only

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE

9
o ne I ha ve ever loved, Jjhe first one; and there is one thing for which I pray God with my whole heart, that He will give me strength never to • want to love any other. This is a family prayer in which she too takes part; for every feeling, every mood, acquires for me a higher signifi- cance for the fact that I make her a partaker of it. All feeling, even the. highest religious emotions, are able to assume an easy air when people always agree in them. In her presence I am at once priest and congrega- tion. And if sometimes I might be unkind enough not to be mindful of this good and ungrateful enough not to give thanks for it, she will then remind me of it. Look you, my young friend, this is not the coquetry of the first days of love-making; it is n ot an essay in experimental eroti- cism, as when in the period of his engagement pretty much every man has proposed to himself and to his fiancee the question whether she has been in love before, or whether he himself has loved anyone before; (but this is the downright seriousness of life, and yet it is not cold, uncomely, unerotic, unpoetic. And truly I take it very much to heart that she really loves me and that I really love her — not as though in the course of years our marriage might not attain as much solidity as most others, but the point with me is to renew constantly the first love, and this again in such . a way that for me it Has just as much religious as aesthetic significance; for to me God has not become so supermundane that He might not concern Himself about the covenant He himself has established betwixt man and woman, and I have not become too spiritual to feel also the significance of the worldly side of life. And all the beauty inherent in, the pagan erotic has validity also in Christianity, insofar as it can be combined with marriage}. This renewal of our first love is not merely a sad reflection or a poetic recollection of something that has been ex- perienced — that sort of thing produces fatigue, but this is action. Gen- erally, the moment comes soon enough when one has to be content with recollection. One ought as long as possible to keep love’s fresh spring open!
I On the other hand, you are actually living by robbery. You sneak up to people unobserved, steal their happiest moment from them, thrust this shadowgraph into your pocket, like the tall man in the story of Peter Schlemihl, 4 and take it out when you wish to. You say maybe that the persons concerned lose nothing by this, that they perhaps often do not themselves know which is their most beautiful moment.(You think, on the contrary, that they ought to be obliged to you because by your study of illumination and by your incantations you have let them ap- pear transfigured at the decisive moment into a supernatural size.' Per-

THE “OR”

haps they do in fact lose nothing by this, and yet the question remains whether it is not conceivable that they retained a recollection of it which always remained painful; But jou Jose: you lose your time — your ’ peace of mind — your patience with life. For you know very well how impatient you are^You once wrote to me that patience to bear life’s burdens must be an extraordinary virtue, that for your part you did not even have patience to want to live.(Y our Ji j&jcesalyes itselLcompletely into interestingjjarticulars of this sort. And in case one might venture to Felieve that the "energy with which at such moments you are in- flamed might acquire consistency and be spread evenly over your whole life, something great, would surely come of you, for at such moments you are transfigured/(There is an unrest within you, above which, never- theless, consciousness soars clearly and lucidly; your whole soul is con- centrated upon this sole point, your understanding devises a hundred plans for the attack; it failed in one direction; instantly your almost diabolical dialectic is capable of explaining the previous failure in such a way that it must be serviceable for the new plan of operations^ You are constantly hovering over yourself, and however decisive every step may be, you retain a possibility of interpretation which with one word is able to alter everything. And then with that the exaltation of your mood: your eyes sparkle, or rather they shoot out, as it were, a hundred spying eyes; an evanescent blush flits across your face; you rely con- fidently upon your calculations, and yet you wait with a terrible im- patiencc-H verily believe, my dear friend that in the end you delude yourself, mat with all this talk about catching a man in his happiest moment it is only your overwrought mood you grasp. You are so po- tentiated that you are creative. It was for this reason I expressed the opinion that this was not so very harmful to others — to you, however, it is absolutely harmful^)
And after all, at the bottom of this is there not something prodigi- ously faithless ? Indeed, you say that men do not concern you, that on the other hand it is they that must thank you for the fact that by your contact with them you do not like Circe transform them into swine but from swine to heroes. You say that it is an entirely different matter if there was a man who really confided in you; but such a man you have never yet encountered. Your heart is touched, you melt with in- _ward emotion at the thought of sacrificing everything for such a man. { I would not deny that you have a good-natured readiness to help, that the way you succor the needy, for example, is really beautiful, that the gentleness you sometimes display has something noble about it; but in

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11

spite of this I believe that here again there is concealed a certain haughti- ness) I will not recall to you certain eccentric expressions of this; it would be a shame to throw into the shade by this all the good that may be in you. However, I would remind you of a little incident in your life which it will do you no harm to remember. You once recounted to me that on one of your promenades you were walking behind two old women. My description of the incident has not perhaps at this moment the liveliness it had when you came rushing up to me with your mind full of this thought. They were two women from the poorhouse. Per- haps they had seen better days; but all that was forgotten, and the poorhouse is not exactly the place for nourishing a hope. While one woman was taking a pinch of snuff and offering it to the other she said, “If a body had five dollars.” Perhaps she herself was surprised at this daring wish, which perhaps echoed across the glaciers like a prayer un- answered. You approached her, after having concealed a five dollar bill in your sketch book before you took the decisive step, in order that the situation might retain a befitting elasticity and that she might not too soon suspect something. You approached her with an almost subservient politeness, as beseemed a ministering spirit; you gave her the five dollars and vanished. Qfou enjoyed then thinking of the impression this would make upon her,) wondering whether she would see in it a divine dis- pensation, or whether her mind, which by reason of many sufferings had perhaps developed a certain defiance, would not rather turn almost with contempt against the divine providence which in this case assumed the character of fortuitousness.
(You told me that this prompted you to reflect whether the entirely fortuitous fulfillment of a wish fortuitously expressed might not bring a person actually to desperation, because thereby the reality of life was negated in its deepest rootjSo what you wanted was to play the part of fate; what you really enjoyed were the multifarious reflections which could be spun from this.Qam ready to admit that you are well fitted to play the part of fate, inasmuch as with this word one associates the no- tion of the most unstable and capricious of all things) For my part, I am disposed to content myself with a less eminent position in life. More- over, in this instance you have an example wherein you can see to what degree it is true that your experiments have no harmful effect upon' people. It looks as if you had the advantage on your side: you have given five dollars to a poor woman, you have fulfilled her highest wish; and yet you yourself admit that this might just as well have the effect upon her that she, as Job’s wife counselled him to do, might curse God. You

12

THE “OR”

will say, maybe, that these consequences are not under your control, that .if one were thus to reckon the consequences, one could not act at all. ^But I would reply, “Yes indeed one can act. In case I had had five dollars, I too perhaps would have given them to her, but at the same time I should have been conscious that I was not behaving experi- mentally; I should be conscious that divine providence, whose lowly instrument I felt myself to be at that moment, would surely dispose everything for .the best, and that I had nothing for which I need re- proach myself How insecure and hovering your life is you can also convince yourself by the consideration that you are anything but sure that some day it may not weigh heavily upon your mind that your acumen and subtility are capable of bewitching you into a circle of consequences from which you will seek in vain to extricate yourself, that you will be setting heaven and earth in commotion to find again the poor woman for the sake of observing what impression this has made upon her and “in what way she can be influenced”; for you always stay the same, never grow wiser. With your passionate nature it might well be possible for you to forget your great plans, your studies, in short that everything might become indifferent to you in comparison with the thought of finding that poor woman, who perhaps was dead and gone long ago. In that way you seek to make amends for what you have done amiss, and thus your life task becomes in itself so conflicting that you want to be at once fate and our Lord God — a task which even God Himself is unable to realize, for He is but one of these two.
iThe zeal you display may be quite praiseworthy, but do you not see how it becomes clearer and clearer that what you lack, and lack en- tirely, w faith ? Instead of saving your soul by entrusting everything to the hand of God, instead of striking into this short cut, you prefer the endless detour which perhaps will never bring you to the goah) You presumably will now say, “Well, in that way there is no need ordoing anything.” I would reply, “Certainly there is, when you know that you have a place in the world which is yours, upon which you ought to con- centrate all your activity; but to act as you do borders upon insanity.” You will say that even if you were to fold your hands idly and let God take care of her; the woman perhaps would not be helped thereby. I would reply, “Quite possibly; but you would be helped — and the woman would too if she likewise were to put her trust in God. And do you not see that if you really were to put on your traveling boots and journey out into the world and waste your time and your strength, you would be neglecting all your other endeavors and subsequently perhaps

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 13
would be tormented in turn by this thought?” But, as I have said, is not this capricious existence faithlessness ? It may seem as if by wandering all around the world to find the poor woman you showed an extraordi- nary, an unexampled degree of faithfulness; for there was not the least egotistical motive, it was not like a lover who journeys afar to find the loved one; no, it was pure sympathy. I would reply, “You are right enough in denying that it is egoism, but it is your usual impudent spirit of revolt.”’ Everything that is established by divine and human law you despise, and to liberate yourself from it you grasp at the accidental, as in this case at the poor woman who is unknown to you. And as for your sympathy, it was perhaps pure sympathy...for your experiment J(Y ou are always forgetting that your existence in the world cannot, after all, be intended merely for the accidental, and the moment you make this the chief thing, you forget entirely what you owe to those next door to you.’) I know very well that you do not lack sophistical shrewdness for palliating your conduct nor ironical suppleness for underbidding the adversary. You therefore will answer, “I am not so grand as to imagine that I am the one who is able to work for the whole, I leave that to pre- eminent persons; if only I can work for some particular end, I am satisfied.” But this is a monstrous lie; (for you are not willing to work at all, you want to experiment, and you contemplate everything from this point of view, often with much insolence; and activity is always an object of your derision-^-as once you expressed yourself about a man who had come to his end in a ludicrous way, which gave you amuse- ment for many a day, saying that “though in other respects nothing was known of this man’s significance for the whole and in a great sense, yet now one can affirm that he verily has not lived in vain.”
As I have said, what you want is...to be fate. Now pause an instant. I do not mean to preach to you; but there is an earnestness for which I know you have an uncommonly deep respect, and every one who has the power of evbking it in you, or confidence enough in vou to let it appear, will see in you, I know, an entirely different man^Imagine for a moment — to take the very highest instance — imagine that the al- mighty Origin of all things, that God in heaven, were thus to propose himself merely as a riddle for men, were to let the whole human race hover in this horrible uncertainty — would there not be something in your inmost being which would revolt against this, would you be able for a single instant to endure the torment, or would. you for an instant be able to make your thought hold this horror fastpAnd yet He most of all, if I dare say so, might use this proud expression. What matter men

THE “OR”

- H
to me?” But therefore this is not true; and when I declare that God is incomprehensible I raise my soul to the highest pitch; it is precisely in the most blissful moment I make this declaration ;\He is incompre- hensible because His love is incomprehensible, incomprehensible be- cause His love surpasses all understanding} When this is said of God it denotes the highest excellence; when one is compelled to say it of a man ' it denotes a fault, sometimes a sir}) And Christ did not count it robbery \to be equal with God but humbled Himself— and. you would account the spiritual gifts bestowed upon you as robbery ABut do reflect; your life is passing away, some day for you too the time will come when your life is drawing to a close, when no longer is there any expedient that can prolong it, when memories alone are left, but not in the sense in which you love them, this mingling of poetry and truth, but the seri- ous and faithful memory of conscience; beware lest it unroll before you a list, not properly of crimes, to be sure, but of possibilities wasted, phantoms which it will be impossible for you to drive away./You are still young, the intellectual suppleness you possess clads youth becom- ingly and delights the eye for a season. One is struck by seeing a clown whose joints are so limber that all necessity for maintaining the human gait and posture is done away. Such are you in an intellectual sense, you can just as well stand on your head as on your feet, everything is possible for you, and by this possibility you can astonish others and yourself; but it is unwholesome, and for the sake of your own tranquility I beg you to see to it that what is your advantage does not end by being a curse. A man who has a conviction cannot at his pleasure turn topsy-turvy upon himself and all things. I warn you, therefore, not against the world but against yourself, and I warn the world against you.
This much is certain, that in case I had a daughter of an age when there could be any question of her being influenced by you, I would warn her most solemnly, and especially if she were also intellectually gifted. And would there not be good ground for giving warning against you whenfl who imagine, nevertheless, that I am a match for you, if not in suppleness, at least in firmness and balance, if not in variableness and brilliancy, at least in steadiness-rwhen even I sometimes feel with a certain indignation that you infect me, that I am letting myself be carried away by your exuberant mirth, by the apparently goodhumored wit with which you make mock of everything, am letting myself be carried away into the same aesthetic-intellectual intoxication in which you live? With you, therefore, I have a certain feeling of insecurity, being now too severe, and now too indulgent. This, after all, is not so

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 15
^trange, for you are an epitome of every possibility, and so at one time I can see in you the possibility of perdition, at another of salvation.^ Every mood, every thought, good or bad, cheerful or sad, you pursue to its utmost limit, yet in such a way that this comes to pass rather in ab- stracto than in concrete; in such a way that this pursuit itself is little more than a mood from which nothing results but a knowledge ofjt) not even so much that the next time it becomes harder or easier for you to indulge in the same mood, for you constantly retain a possibility of it. Hence, one can reproach you almost for everything and for nothing, because it is and is not chargeable to you. According to circumstances you acknowledge or you do not acknowledge that you have had such a mood; but you are inaccessible to any calculation; what you care about is to have had the mood, completely and pathetically true./
- But it was with the aesthetic validity of marriage I proposed to deal. This might seem a superfluous investigation, something which everyone is willing to concede, since it has been pointed out often enough. For through many centuries have not knights and adventurers undergone incredible pains and trouble in order to come to harbor in the quiet peace of a happy marriage? Have not novelists and novel readers worked their way through one volume after another in order to stop with a happy marriage ? And has not one generation after another en- dured the troubles and complications of four acts if only there was some likelihood of a happy marriage in the fifth ? However, by these prodi- gious efforts very little has been accomplished for the glorification of marriage, and I doubt very much if by the reading of such works any man has been made capable of performing the task he set himself or has felt oriented in life; For this precisely is the pernicious, the unwholesome feature of such works, that they end where they ought to begin. After, the many fates they have overcome the lovers finally sink into one an- other’s arms. The curtain falls; the book ends, but the reader is none the wiser, For truly (assuming that the first flame of love is present) it re- quires no great art to have courage and shrewdness enough to fight with all one’s might for the good which one regards as the only good; but 1 on the other hand it surely requires discretion, wisdom and patience to 1 overcome the lassitude which often is wont to follow upon a wish ful- ' filled) It is natural that to love in its first outflaming it seems as if it could not suffer enough hardships in acquiring possession of the beloved object, yea, that in case there are no dangers present it is disposed to pro- vide them in order to overcome them. Upon this the whole attention is directed in plays of this sort, and as soon as the dangers are overcome

16 THE "OR"
the scenery shifter knows well what he has to do. Hence, it is rather rare to see a wedding on the stage or to read of one, except in case the opera or the ballet holds in reserve this factor, which may well furnish an oc- casion for some sort of dramatic galimatias, for a gorgeous procession, for the significant gesticulations and tfre heavenly glance of a ballet dancer, for the exchange of rings, etc.^The truth in this whole exposi- tion, the real aesthetic element, consists in the fact that love is repre- sented as a striving, that this feeling is seen fighting its way through opposition. The fault is that this struggle, this dialectic, is entirely exter- nal, and that love comes out of this fight quite as abstract as when it en- tered into it. When once there awakens an apprehension of love’s proper dialectic, an apprehension of its pathological struggle, of its relation to the ethical, to the religious, verily one will not have need of hard-hearted fathers or ladies’ bowers or enchanted princesses or ogres and monsters in order to give love plenty to do) In our age one rarely encounters such cruel fathers or such frightful monsters, and insofar as modern litera- ture has fashioned itself in conformity with the antique, money has be- come essentially the opposition medium through which love moves, and again we sit patiently through the four acts if there is a reasonable pros- pect of a rich uncle dying in the fifth.
However, it is rather seldom one sees such productions, and generally speaking, modern literature is fully occupied with making fun of the abstract conception of immediate love which was die subject of the ro- mantic novelists. For example, when we review Scribe’s activity as a playwright we see that one of his principal themes is the representation of love as an illusion. Of this, however, I only need to remind you, for with Scribe and his polemic you have only too much sympathy; I be- lieve firmly that you would maintain his position against the whole world, even though you would reserve chivalnc love for yourself. For so far are you from being destitute of sensibility that with regard to this matter you are the most jealous man I know. I remember that you once sent me a little appreciation of Scribe’s play, The First Love, which was written with an almost desperate enthusiasm . 5 In this you maintained that it was the best thing Scribe had ever written, and that this play, if rightly understood, was sufficient to make him immortal. I would men- tion another play which in my judgment shows again the inadequacy of the thing which Scribe substitutes for romantic love. The tide is, For- ever. Here he is ironical about what is called a “first love.” By the aid of a shrewd mother who at the same time is a fashionable woman of the world there has been fixed up a new love which the mother believes

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 17
durable; but to the spectator who is not disposed to be satisfied with the poet’s perfectly arbitrary way of ending the thing here with a period, it is very evident that a third love might come along just as well. Tak- ing it all in all, it is remarkable how voracious modern poetry is, and for a long time it has been living on nothing else but Iove.(Our age reminds one vividly of the dissolution of the Greek city-state: everything goes on as usual, and yet there is no longer any one who believes in it. The invisible spiritual bond which gives it validity no longer exists, and so the whole age is at once comic and tragic — tragic because it is perish- ing, comic because it goes onVFor it is always the imperishable which sustains the perishable, the spiritual which sustains the corporal;] and if it might be conceived that an exanimate body could for a little while continue to perform its customary functions, it would in the same way be comic and tragic. But only let our age go on consuming — and the more it manages to consume of the substantial value contained in ro- mantic love, with all the more consternation will it some day, when this annihilation no longer gives pleasure, awaken to the consciousness of what it has lost, and despairingly feel its misfortune.
We will now see whether the age which demolished romantic love has succeeded in putting anything better in its place. First, however, I will indicate the mark by which romantic love may be known. One might say in one word that it is immediate: to see her was to love her; or, though she saw him only once through a slit in the shuttered win- dow of her chamber, nevertheless, from this instant she loved him, him alone in the whole world. Here I ought properly, according to agree- ment, leave place for a few polemical outbursts in order to promote in you the secretion of bile which is an indispensable condition for the wholesome and profitable appropriation of what I have to say. But for all that, I cannot make up my mind to do so, and for two reasons: partly because this is a rather hackneyed theme in our time (and honestly it is incomprehensible to me that in this instance you want to go with the current, whereas ordinarily you go against it); and partly because I really have conserved a certain faith in the reality of romantic love, a sort of reverence for it, accompanied by some feeling of sadness. I there- fore do no more than refer to the theme of your polemic in this field, the heading of a little article you wrote: “Sentimental and Incompre- hensible Sympathies, or the harmonm praestabilita of two hearts.” Here we have what Goethe with so much art in his book entitled Natural Affinity, first enabled us to divine in the symbolical language of nature in order to show how it was exemplified in the world of spirit, only that

Goethe endeavored to render this power of attraction intelligible by pro- tracting it through a succession of moments (perhaps for the sake of showing the difference between the life of spirit and the life of nature) and did not emphasize the speed, the infatuated impatience and as- surance with which an affinity seeks its mate. And after all, is it not beautiful to imagine that two beings are meant for one another ? (How often one has felt the need of reaching out beyond the historical con- sciousness, a longing, a nostalgia, for the primeval forest which lies be- hind us. And does not this longing acquire a double significance when, 1 with it there is associated the conception of another being which also has its home in these regions. Hence, every marriage, even one which, was entered upon after reflective deliberation, feels the need, at least in certain moments, of such a foreground^And how beautiful it is that the God who is^ spirit loves also jhe love which is earthly. The fact that among married people there is a great deal of lying in this respect I am very ready to concede to you, and also that your observations in this field have amused me; but one ought never to forget the truth that is in it) Perhaps one or another man may think that it is better to have complete authority in the choice of “his life’s companion,” but such an opinion discloses a high degree of narrow-mindedness and silly self- importance, with no inkling of the. fact that the inborn quality of ro- \ mantic love is freedom and that its greatness consists precisely in this quality.;
vRomantic love shows that it is immediate by the fact that it follows a natural necessity) It is based upon beauty; in part upon sensuous beauty, in part upon the beauty which can be conceived through and with and in the sensuous, yet not as if it came to evidence through a deliberation, but in such a way that it is constantly on the point of expressing itself, peeking out through the sensuous form. (In spite of the fact that this love is essentially based upon the sensuous, it is noble, nevertheless, by reason . of the consciousness of eternity which it embodies; for what distin- guishes all love from lust is the fact that it bears an impress of eternity. The lovers are sincerely convinced that their relationship is in itself a complete whole which never can be altered. But since this assurance is founded only upon a natural determinant, the eternal is thus based upon the temporal and thereby cancels itself. Since this assurance has under- gone no test, has found no higher attestation, it shows itself to be an illusion, and for this reason it is so easy to make it ridiculous) People should not, however, be so ready to do this, and it is truly disgusting to see in modern comedy these experienced, intriguing, dissolute women

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 19
who know that love is an illusion. I know no creature so abominable as such a woman. No debauchery is so loathsome to me, and nothing is so' ( revolting as to see a lovable young girl in the hands of such a woman. 1 Truly this is more terrible than to imagine her in the hands of a club of seducers. It is sad to see a man who has learned to discount every substantial value in life, but to see a woman on this false path is horrible. Romantic love, however, as I have said, presents an analogy to morality by reason of the presumptive eternity which ennobles it and saves it from being mere sensuality. For the sensual is the momentary. The sensual seeks instant satisfaction, and the more refined it is, the better it knows how to make the instant of enjoyment a little eternity. The true eternity in love, as in true morality, delivers it, therefore, first out of die sensual. But in order to produce this true eternity a determination of the will is called for) But of this I shall say more later.
Our age has perceived very clearly the weak points of romantic love, and its ironical polemic against it has sometimes been thoroughly amus- ing — whether it has remedied its defects, and what it has put in its place, we shall now see(One may say that it has taken two paths, one of which is seen at the first glance to be a false one, that is, an immoral path; the other is more respectable, but to my mind it misses the deeper values of love, for if love is in fact founded upon the sensuous, every one can easily see that this “immediate” faithfulness_of theirs is foolishness) What wonder then that women want emancipation — one of the many ' ugly phenomena of our age for which men are responsible. The eternal element in love becomes an object of derision, the temporal element alone is left, but this temporal again is refined into the sensuous eter- nity, into the eternal instant of the embrace. What I say here applies not only to a seducer here and there who sneaks about in the world like a beast of prey; no, it is appropriate to a numerous chorus of highly gifted men, and p: is not only Byron who declares that loyeisjheaven, marriage is hell.\It is very evident that there is in this a reflection, some- thing which romantic loves does not have. For romantic love is quite willing to accept marriage too, willing to accept the blessing of the Church as a pretty adjunct to the festivity, without attaching to it any real significance on its own account. By reason of its disposition to re- flection the love here in question has with a terrible firmness and in- duration of mind made up a new definition 7 of what unhappy love is, namely, to be loved when one no longer loves — the opposite of loving without requital) And verily, if this tendency were aware what pro- fundity is implied in these few words, it would itself shrink from it. For

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apart from all the experience, shrewdness and cunning this definition reveals, it contains also a presentiment that conscience exists. So then the moment remains the principal thing, and how often one has heard these shameless words addressed by such a lover to a poor girl who could love only once: “I do not demand so much, I am content with less; far be it from me to require that you shall continue to love m^to all eter- 1 nity, if only you love me at the instant when I wish it.’HSuch lovers know very well that the sensuous is transient, they know ^lso what is th.e most beautiful instant, and therewith they are content, i Such a tendency is, of course, absolutely immoral; yet on the path of thought it brings us in a way nearer our goal, forasmuch as it lodges a formal protest against marriage.(Insofar as the same tendency seeks to assume a more decent appearance it does not confine itself merely to the single instance but extends this to a longer period, yet in such a way that instead of receiving the eternal into its consciousness it receives the temporal, or it entangles itself in this opposition between the temporal and the eternal by supposing a possible alteration in the course of time) , It thinks that for a time one can well enough endure living together, but it would keep open a way of escape, so as to be able to choose if a happier choice might offer itself This reduces marriage to a civil ar- rangement; one need only report to the proper magistrate that this mar- riage is ended and another contracted, just as one reports a change of domicile. Whether this is an advantage to the State I leave undecided — for the individual in question it must truly be a strange relationship. Hence, one does not always see it realized, but the age is continually threatening us with it. And verily it would require a high degree of impudence to carry it out — I do not think this word is too strong to apply to it — just as on the part of the female participant in this associa- tion it would betray a frivolity bordering on depravity. There is, how- ever, an entirely different disposition of mind which might get this notion into its head, and that is a disposition which I would deal with here more especially, since it is very characteristic of our age. For in fact such a plan may originate either in an egoistic or in a sympathetic melancholy. People have now been talking long enough about the ‘frivolity of this age; I believe it is now high time to talk a little about its melancholy, and I hope that by this everything will be better clarified. Or is not melancholy the defect of our age ? Is it not this which resounds even in its frivolous laughter? Is it not melancholy which has deprived us of courage to command, of courage to obey, of power to act, of the confidence necessary to hope? And now when the good philosophers

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE

21

arc doing everything to give intensity to the actual, shall we not become so crammed full of it that we are suffocated^ (Everything is cut out ex- cept the present — what wonder then that for the constant dread of for- feiting this, one forfeits it) Well, it is true enough that we ought not to vanish in an evanescent hope, and that this is not the way to become transfigured in the clouds; but in order truly to enjoy one must have air, and not only in moments of sorrow is it important to have the heavens opened, but also in the time of joy to have a free vista and the folding doors thrown open wide. It is true that enjoyment apparently looses by this a certain degree of the intensity it has by the help of such an alarming limitation; but it is not likely that thereby much will be lost, for this intensity has a good deal in common with the intense en- joyment of the Strasbourg geese which costs them their lives. It might perhaps prove rather difficult to make you perceive this; but on the other hand I surely do not need to explain to you the significance of the intensity one attains in a different way. For in this respect you have great virtuosity — you cut di dederunt formam, divitias, artemque fru- endi. a
In case enjoyment were the chief thing in life, I would sit at your feet as a pupil, for in this you arc a mastcn\At one moment you are able to make yourself an old man in order to imbibe in slow draughts through recollection what you have experienced ; 11 at another moment you are in the first blush of youth, inflamed with hope; now you enjoy in a manly way, now in a womanly; now you enjoy reflection upon your enjoyment, now reflection upon the enjoyment of others; now you en- joy abstinence from enjoyment; now you devote yourself to enjoyment, your soul is open like a city which has capitulated, reflection is mute, and every step of the foreigner echoes in the empty streets, and yet there always remains a little observant outpost; now your mind is closed, you entrench yourself brusquely and unapproachably ^Such is the situation, and at the same time you will see how egoistic your enjoyment is, and that you never give yourself out, never let others enjoy you) You may be right enough in scorning men who by every pleasure are consumed and wasted, for example, the lovelorn men with tattered hearts, since you on the contrary understand capitally the art of being in love in such a way that it throws your own personality into relief, plow you know very well that the most intensive pleasure consists in holding fast to the en- joyment with the consciousness that the next instant it perhaps will vanish. Hence, the last scene in Don Juan pleases you so greatly. Pur- sued by the police, by the whole world, by the living and the dead,

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alone in a remote chamber, he once again collects all the power of his soul, flourishes the goblet once again, and once again delights his soul with the sound of music.
, But I return to my foregoing proposition, that a melancholy which is partly egoistic, partly sympathetic, may give rise to that point of view. The egoistic sort fears, of course, for its own sake, and like all melan- choly it is self-indulgent. It has a certain extravagant deference for the thought of an alliance for the whole life, and a secret horror of it. “What reliance has a man that he will not change ? Perhaps this being whom I now adore may change; perhaps fate may subsequently bring me into association with another being who for the first time would be truly the ideal I had dreamt of.” Like all melancholy it is defiant and knows that it is, thinking, “perhaps precisely the fact that I tie myself to one person by an irrevocable bond may make this being whom otherwise I should love with my whole soul intolerable to me; perhaps, perhaps, etc.’\The sympathetic melancholy is more painful and at the same time rather nobler; it is fearful of itself for the sake of the other! “Who knows so surely that one may not change ? Perhaps what I now regard as good in me may vanish; perhaps that by which I now captivate the loved one, and which only for her sake I wish to retain, may be taken from me, and there she stands then, deluded, deceived; perhaps a brilliant pros- pect opens for her, she is tempted, she does not withstand the tempta- tion. Great God 1 1 should have that upon my conscience 1 1 have nothing to reproach her for, it is I that have changed, I forgive her everything, if only she can forgive me for being so imprudent as to let her take a step so decisive. I know indeed in my heart that so far from talking her into it I rather warned her against me; I know that it was her free resolution, but perhaps it was precisely this warning which tempted her, which let her see in me a better being than I am, etc., etc.” It is easy to see that such a way of thinking is no better served by an alliance for five years than by one of ten, or even by an alliance such as Saladin formed with the Christians, for ten years, ten months, ten weeks, ten days, and ten minutes; 10 indeecL-is no better served by such an alliance than by one for the whole life! One sees very well that such a way of thinking feels only too deeply the significance of the saying, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” It is an attempt to live every day as though that day were the decisive one^ an attempt to live as though every day were a day of examinatiorjHence, when one finds in our times a strong disposition to abolish marriage, this is not as in the Middle, Ages because the unmarried life is regarded as more perfect, but the

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 23
reason of it is cowardice and self-indulgence^Jt is also evident that such marriages as are contracted for a definite time are of no avail, since they involve the same difficulties as those which are contracted for a whole life, and at the same time are so far from bestowing the required strength for living that on the contrary they enervate the inner power of married life, relax the energy of the yvill, and diminish the blessing of confidence which marriage possesses^It is also clear at this point, and will subsequently become more so, that 'such associations are not mar- riages, inasmuch as, though contracted in the sphere of reflection, they have not yet attained the consciousness of the eternal vyhich morality has and without which such an association is not marriage) There is also something upon which you will agree with me entirely, for how often and how surely have your mockery and your irony hit the mark when you were denouncing what you call “fortuitous love affairs” and the “bad infinity” of love — when one is looking with his sweetheart out of the window, and that instant a young girl turns the corner into another street, and it occurs to him, “It is with her I am really in love,” but when he would follow her trace he is again unsettled, etc.
The other expedient, the respectable way, would be the marriage of convenience. The mere mention of it shows that reason intervenes, and that we have entered the sphere of reflection. One person and another, and you among them, have always made a dubious face at the union here implied between immediate love and the calculating understand- ing; for really, if one were to show respect for linguistic usage, it ought to he called a marriage of common senseffispecially are you accustomed, with an ambiguous use of words, to recommend “respect” as a solid foundation for the marriage relation. It shows how thoroughly reflective this age is, that it must help itself out with such a compromise as a mar- riage of convenience^ Insofar as such an association waives all claim to real love, it is at least consistent, but at the same time it thereby shows that it is not a solution of the problem. A marriage of convenience is therefore to be regarded as a sort_of capitulation, necessitated by the complications of life. But how' pitiful it is that this should be the only comfort that is left to the poetry of our age, the comfort of despairing; for it is evidently despair which makes such an alliance acceptablejlt is contracted, therefore, more likely by persons who no longer are chickens, and who also have learnt that love is an illusion and its realization at the most a pium desiderium. What it therefore has to do with is life’s prose, subsistence and social standing. Insofar as it has neutralized the sensuous factor in marriage it appears to” be moral, but it nevertheless

THE “OR”

24
lemains a question whether this neutralization is not just as immoral as it is unaesthetic.; Or even though the erotic is not entirely neutralized, it is nevertheless disheartened by a cool common-sense consideration that one must be prudent, not be too quick in sorting and rejecting, that life after all never presents the ideal, that it is quite a respectable match, etc. The eternal, which (as has been shown above) is properly a part of every marriage, is not really present here; for a common-sense calcula- tion is always temporal. Such an alliance is therefore at once immoral and fragile. Such a marriage of convenience may assume a prettier form when the motive is somewhat higher. In such a case it is a motive for- eign to the marriage which decides the matter — as, e.g. when a young girl, out of love for her family, marries a man who is in a position to rescue it. But precisely this outward teleology shows clearly that we can- not seek here a solution of the problem. At this point I might perhaps aptly deal with the manifold motives to marriage about which there is a great deal of talk. However, I prefer to reserve this subject for another place, where also, if possible, I may be able to make this talk hold its tongue.
We have now seen how romantic love was built upon an illusion, and that the eternity it claims was built upon the temporal, and that al- though the knight was sincerely convinced of its absolute durability, there nevertheless was no certainty of this, inasmuch as its trials and temptations have hitherto been in a medium which was entirely ex- ternal. Such being the case, it was able with a pretty piety to accept mar- riage along with love, although, after all, this acquired no very deep significance. We have seen how this immediate and beautiful but also very naive love, being embodied in the consciousness of a reflective age, must become the object of its mockery and of its irony; and we have seen too what such an age was capable of substituting for it^Such an age embodied marriage in its consciousness and in part declared itself on the side of love in such a way as to exclude marriage, in part on the side of marriage in such a way as to exclude Iove^Hence, in a recent play a sensible little seamstress, speaking of the love of fine gentlemen, makes the shrewd observation, “You love us but you don’t marry us; the fine ladies you don’t love, but you marry them.”
Herewith this little treatise (as I am compelled to call what I am here writing, although at first I thought only of a big letter) has reached the point from which marriage can be viewed in the right light. That mar- riage belongs essentially to Christianity, that the pagan nations have not brought it to perfection, in spite of the sensuousness of the Orient and

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 25
all the beauty of Greece, that not even Judaism has been capable of this, in spite of the truly lyrical elements to be found in it)— all this you will be ready to concede without compelling me to argue the matter, and this all the more because it is sufficient to remember that the contrast between the sexes has nowhere been made a subject for such deep re- flection that the other sex has received complete justice. (But within Christianity also love has had to encounter many fates before we learned to see the deep, the beautiful and the true implications of marriage., ‘ Since, however, the immediately preceding age was an age of reflection, as is ours also to a certain degree^it is not so easy a matter to prove this, and since in you I have found so great a virtuoso in bringing the weaker sides into prominence, the task of convincing you of the side which I have undertaken to defend is doubly difficult. I owe you, however, the admission that I am much indebted to you for your polemic. When I think of the multifarious expressions of it which I possess in their dis- persion, and imagine them gathered into a unity, your polemic is so talented and inventive that it is a good guide for one who would de- fend the other side. For your attacks are not so superficial that (if only you or another would think them through) they might not contain the truth, even though neither you nor your adversary observe this in the moment of conflict.
Inasmuch as it appeared to be a defect on the part of romantic love that it was not reflective, it might seem reasonable to let true conjugal love begin with a kind of doubt. This might seem all the more necessary in view of the fact that we approach this subject with the prepossessions of a reflective age. I am by no means prepared to deny that a marriage might be artificially accomplished after such a doubt; but the question remains nevertheless whether the nature of marriage is not substantially altered by this, since it presupposes a divorce between love and mar- riage. The question is whether it is essential to marriage to annihilate the first love because of doubt as to the possibility of realizing it, m order to make conjugal love possible and actual through this annihila- tion, so that the marriage of Adam and Eve was really the only one in which immediate love was preserved inviolate, and that again chiefly for the reason which Musaeus 11 wittily suggests, that there was no possibil- ity of loving anybody else. {The question remains whether immediate love, the first love, would Ijfe-secured against this scepticism by being assumed in a higher concentric immediacy, so that conjugal love would be in no need of plowing under the beautiful hopes of first love, but conjugal love itself would be first love, seasoned with an admixture of

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THE “OR”

determinants which would not detract from it but would ennoble it. This is a difficult problem to prove, and yet it is of prodigious impor- tance, lest in the ethical sphere we might have such a cleavage as exists in the intellectual sphere between faith and knowledge. And how beautiful it would be, my dear friend — you will not deny it, for after all your heart is susceptible to love, and yotlr head is only too well ac- quainted with doubt — how beautiful it would be if the Christian might venture to call his God the God of love, in such a way as to think there- with of that unspeakably blissful feeling, the eternal force in the world — earthly love.^
In the foregoing discussion I dealt with romantic and reflective love as discursive points of view, but now we are to see to what extent the higher unity is a return to immediate love, and accordingly to what ex- tent (apart from the more which it contains) it contains also what was comprised in the first It is now clear enough that reflective love con- stantly consumes itself, and that it stops arbitrarily now at this point now at another; it is clear that it points beyond itself to the higher po- sition, but the question is whether this higher experience cannot come at once into touch with the first love^Jow this higher experience is the religious, in which the reflective understanding comes to an end; and just as for God nothing is impossible, so too for the religious individual nothing is impossible. In the religious sphere love finds again the in- finity which it vainly sought m the sphere of reflection) But in case the religious, higher though it certainly is than everything earthly, does not stand in an eccentric relation to immediate love but in a concentric rela- tion, unity might be brought about without any necessity for the pain which religion indeed can heal but which, nevertheless, always remains a profound pain. One very rarely sees this matter made the subject of serious deliberation, because those who have feeling for romantic love do not bother much about marriage, and because on the other hand so many marriages unfortunately are contracted without the deeper erotic which is assuredly the most beautiful thing m a purely human existence. Christianity holds firmly to marriage. So in case conjugal love is unable to contain all of the first erotic, Christianity does not represent the high- est development of the human race, and without doubt it is a secret dread of such an incongruity which is largely responsible for the despair which permeates modern lyric both in verse and in prose.
So you see what a task I have undertaken in endeavoring to show that romantic love can be united with and can persist in marriage, yea, that marriage is the true transfiguration of romantic love. This is not

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 27
by any means to cast disparagement upon the marriages which have been rescued from reflection and its shipwreck, nor would I be so un- sympathetic as to grudge them my admiration; it is not to be denied that much can be done in this way, nor ought it to be forgotten that the whole tendency of the age often makes such marriages a dolorous necessity, ^.s for this “necessity,” however, it must be remembered that every generation, and each individual in the generation, begins life anew to a certain extent, and that for each one severally there is a pos- sibility of escaping this maelstrom, and it must be remembered, too, that one generation should learn from the other, and that hence there is a likelihood that after reflection has made such a sorry spectacle of one generation the successive generation will be more fortunate. And how- ever many painful confusions life may still have in store, I fight for two things: for the prodigious task of showing that marriage is the trans- figuration of first love, that it is its friend, not its enemy; and for the task (which to others is very trivial but to me is all the more important) of showing that my humble marriage has had such a meaning for me, so that from it I derive strength and courage to fulfill constantly this task.
And now when I approach this investigation I cannot but rejoice that it is to you I am writing. Yea, certain as it is that to no other man would I express myself unreservedly about my marriage, just so certain it is that before you I open my mind with confidence and joy. Sometimes when the noise of the conflicting and laboring thoughts, the tremendous machinery you carry about with you, is hushed, there come then quiet moments which indeed by their stillness may be almost alarming but which prove to be truly refreshing. I hope that this essay will encounter you in such a moment; and just as one may unconcernedly confide to you anything one will when the machinery is in motion, for then you hear nothing, so also without jeopardy one can relate to you everything when your soul is still and solemn. I will talk also about her of whom I commonly speak only to deaf nature, wishing only to hear myself, about her to whom I owe so much, including the fact that I dare frank- heartedly defend the cause of first love and marriage. For what would all my love and all my effort avail if she did not come to my aid, and what would I avail if she did not arouse in me the enthusiasm to will? And yet I know very well that if I were to say this to her she would not believe it; yea, I should perhaps be doing wrong to say it to her, it would perhaps disturb and agitate her deep and pure soul.
The first thing then I have to do is to orient myself, and more espe-

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daily to onent you, in the definitions of what a marriage is. What properly constitutes it, gives it its substantial content, is obviously love. If this is lacking, the life in common is either satisfaction of a carnal lust, or it is an association, a partnership, for the attainment of one aim or another. But l ove has i n it precisely the characteristic of eternity, whether it be the superstitious, romantic, chivalrous love, or the deeper mQral apd religious love which is filled with a mighty and lively assurance. , i Every estate has its traitors, and so also has the estate of matrimony. I, of course, do not mean the seducers, for they have not entered into this holy estate — I hope that this investigation will encounter you in a mood which does not incline you to smile at this expression. I do not mean those who by divorce have left the ranks, for at least they have had courage to be open rebels. No, I mean those who are only rebels in thought, who do not even venture to let the thought express itself in action, those miserable married men who sit and sigh over the fact that love has long ago evaporated out of their marriage; those married men who, as you once said of them, sit like madmen each one in his matri- monial partition and shake the iron bars and rave about the sweetness of engagement and about the bitterness of marriage; those married men who, according to your own observation, are the ones who with a cer- tain malicious joy congratulate every one who becomes engaged; I can- not describe to you how despicable they seem to me, and how much it delights me when such a husband takes you as his confidant, when be- fore you he pours out his sufferings, repeats by rote all his lies about the happy first love, and you with a cunning look say, “Yes, I shall take good care not to get on smooth ice,” and it embitters him even more that he cannot manage to drag you with him into a commune naufragium. It is to these married men you so often allude when you talk about a tender paterfamilias with four blessed children...whom he would like to see in Jericho.
If there were actually something in what they say, then there must be a discrepancy between love and marriage of such a sort that love would be relegated to one particular moment in time and marriage to another, but love and marriage would remain incompatible. So one would seek at once to discover what period it was to which love belonged — would find that it was the period of the engagement, “the beautiful period of the engagement.” With an agitation and emotion which savors of the burlesque these people know how to prate continually about the joys of the days of their engagement^ must now admit that I have never had much liking for the spoony sweetmeats of the engagement period, and

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 29
the more one makes of this period, the more it appears to me to resemble the time many men take before jumping into the water, first walking back and forth on the float, sticking now one hand, now one foot into the water, finding it now too cold, now too warm.)lf it actually was a fact that the engagement is the most beautiful time, truly I fail to see why they get married— or, supposing they are right, why anybody gets mar- ried. Nevertheless, they do get married with all possible bourgeois ex- actness when aunts and cousins and neighbors and friends find the marriage suitable, betraying in this the same drowsiness and apathy as they do in regarding the engagement as the most beautiful period. If worse comes to worst, I am for those rash men who alone take pleasure m springing out into the water, even though the emotion in this case is never so great, the shudder of consciousness never so refreshing, the reaction of the will never so energetic, as when a strong manly arm en- compasses the loved one tightly but tenderly, powerfully and yet in such a way that precisely in this embrace she feels free before the face of God to plunge into the sea of existence.
In case such a separation between love and marriage had any validity except in the empty heads of foolish humans or rather unhumans who know as little about love as they do about marriage— -it would be a poor outlook, then, for marriage and for my attempt to show that marriage , is an aesthetic musical accord. But what grounds might be alleged for such a separation ? (jt_might be because, generally speaking, love cannot be maintained. Here we have the same distrust and cowardice which is so often expressed in our age and is characterized by the fact that it re- gards development as a step backward and as destruction. At this point I willingly concede that such an unmanly and unwomanly love (which you with your usual effrontery would call a four-penny love) would not be capable of resisting a single puff of life’s storm; but from this no argument can be drawn with regard to love and marriage if both were in a wholesome and natural state. Or else it might be because the ethical and the religious which are associated with marriage proved to be so heterogeneous with love that for this cause love and marriage cannot be united; whereas love, if it were allowed to repose in itself and rely upon itself, would be perfectly capable of fighting the battle of life through triumphantly., This view, then, would bring the thing back either to the untried pathos of immediate love, or to the whim and caprice of the par- ticular individual whojaelieved that by his own power he was capable of finishing the race.(The notion that it might be the ethical and the religious elements in marriage which have a disturbing effect is a view

THE “OR”

30
which at the first glance gives evidence of a certain manliness which may easily deceive a cursory observation, and although it is mistaken it has a great deal more sublimity than the other pitiful view of the per- ishableness of love. I shall return to it later, with all the more reason because my inquisitorial glance greatly deceives me if I do not see in you a heretic infected to a certain degree by this error.
The substantial factor in marriage is_love.\But which comes first? Is love the first, or is marriage, of which love then is the sequel ? This latter view has enjoyed no little esteem on the part of shallow, common-sense people •’it has been preached not infrequently by shrewd fathers and by mothers still shrewder who, thinking that they have had experience, would indemnify themselves by insisting that their children shall have it too. This is the wisdom which dove fanciers also have when they shut up in a little cage two doves which have no sympathy for one another and think that they will soon learn to agree. This view is so stupid that I have alluded to it only for the sake of a sort of completeness, and at the same time to remind you of what you have pilloried. So then love comes first. But according to the view alluded to above, love is of a nature so delicate, in spite of nature it is so unnatural and so coddled, that it cannot endure coming into touch with reality. Here again I am at the point touched upon above. Here the engagement seems to acquire a peculiar significances It is a love which has no reality, which lives only 1 upon the sweet confectionary of possibility. The relationship has not they 1 actuality of the real, its movements are without content, it never gets beyond the same “fatuous, spoony gesticulations.” The more unreal the engaged couple themselves are, and the more these merely feigned gesticulations cost them effort and exhaust their strength, all the more need they will feel to shun the serious figure of matrimony. The en- gagement, having apparently no reality which results necessarily from it, would be a capital compromise for those who have not the courage to get married. They perhaps feel, and in all probability feel extrava- gantly, a need of seeking the help of a higher power when they want to take the decisive step. Then they fix the matter up with themselves and with the higher power: with themselves by getting engaged on their own responsibility; with the higher power by not evading the blessing of the Church, which with a good deal of superstition they value too highly. Here again we have a schism between love and mar- riage, in the most cowardly, the most pinchbeck, the most unmanly form. However, such a monstrosity cannot lead one astray; its love is no love, it lacks' the sensuous factor which finds its moral expression in

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 31
marriage, it neutralizes the erotic to such a degree that an engagement of this sort might just as well take place between men. On the other hand, so soon as the sensuous factor gets its due, this falls under the categories already described. Such an engagement then is unbecoming, from whatever side one looks at it; for in a religious respect also it is unbecoming, being an attempt to deceive God, by sneaking into a rela- tionship for which it thinks it does not need His help, and by having recourse to Him only when it feels that the thing can’t turn out well otherwise.
So then it is not marriage which is to evoke love; on the contrary, love presupposes that, and it presupposes it not as a past state but as a pres- ent.\But marriage contains an ethical and religious factor, as love does not; for this reason marriage is based upon resignation, as love is not. Now if one is not ready to assume that every man in the course of his, life passes through two movements, first the p aga n movement, if I may' so call it, in which love has its home, and after that the Christian move- ment which is expressed in marriage; in short, if one will not say that love must be excluded by Christianity, then it must be shown that love can be united with marriageylt occurs to me, by the way, that if any outsider were to get sight of this paper, he would likely fall into the deepest amazement that such a matter could give me so much bother. Well, the fact is, I write it only for you and the sake of your develop- ment, and your development is of such a nature that you fully under- stand the...difficulties.
So first, an investigat ion o fiove. I will attach my argument to a term which in spite of your mockery and that of the whole world has always had a significant meaning for me: thef first love. (Believe me, I will not yield, and presumably you will not either, and so this situation remains as a strange incongruity in our correspondence.) When I speak of first love I am thinking of the most beautiful thing in life; when you use this word it is the signal for the vedette posts of your observation to open fire ail along the line. But for me this word has nothing ludicrous about it, and as I, to speak candidly, put up with your attack only because I ignore it, I may say, also, that for me it has not the sad connotations it may well have for one man or another. This sadness need not be mor- bid, for the morbid is always the untrue and the mendacious. It is a fine and healthy sign when a man has had ill-luck with his first love, when he has learned to know the pain of it but has yet remained faithful to his first love, has yet preserved faith in “first love”; it is fine if, then, in the course of years he sometimes recalls it vividly; and though his soul

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has been sound enough to take leave as it were of this kind of life in order to consecrate itself to something higher, it is fine if he remembers sadly that which, although it was not perfection, was nevertheless so beautiful. And this sadness is far more wholesome and beautiful and noble than the prosaic common sense which has finished long ago with such childish pranks, or than the devilish shrewdness of Basil, the sing- ing master in the play, 1 ’ which plumes itself upon being healthy but is really the most consuming sickness. For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul? For me this phrase, “the first love,” contains no sadness at all, or at all events only a little season- ing of sad sweetness; for me it is a battle cry, and although I have been for several years a married man, I still have the honor of fighting under the victorious banner of first love.
For you, on the other hand, the conception of “the first,” the question of its true significance, its under- and over-valuation, is an enigmatic oscillation. At one moment you are solely possessed by an enthusiasm for “the first.” You are so impregnated by the energetic concentration implied in this thought that it is the only thing you wish for. You are so glowing, so inflamed, so lovingly ardent, so dreamy and fertile, sunken as low as a cloud surcharged with rain — in short, you have a lively conception of what it means that Jupiter in a cloud or in a gentle rain 18 descended upon the loved one. The past is forgotten, every limi- tation is abolished. You expand more and more, you are sensible of a softness and elasticity, every joint becomes limber, every bone a pliable sinew — as a gladiator extends and stretches his body in order to have it entirely in his power, and every one must think that thereby he divests himself of his might, and yet this voluptuous torture is precisely the condition for thoroughly employing his strength. Now then you are in the condition in which you enjoy the sheer luxury of complete re- ceptivity. The gentlest touch is enough to thrill this invisible, widely extended spiritual body through and through. There is an animal upon which my thought has dwelt profoundly. It is the jellyfish. Have you ever observed how this gelatinous mass is able to extend itself like a disk and then can slowly sink pr rise, lies so still and seems so firm that one might think one could step upon it? Now it observes that its prey approaches, then it hollows itself and becomes a pouch and with pro- digious impetus sinks deeper and deeper, until by this impetus it draws the prey into — not into its pouch, for it has no pouch, but into itself, for it is itself a pouch and nothing else. It is able to contract itself to such a degree that one cannot comprehend how it was possible for it to expand.

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Such is pretty much the case with you, and you will simply have to for- give me for not having a more beautiful animal to compare you with, and also for the fact that you cannot perhaps quite forbear smiling at yourself when you think of being a mere pouch.
( At such moments it is “the first” you are pursuing, that alone is what you want — without suspecting that it is a self-contradiction. Lo want the first to be constantly recurring_again, and that, consequently, you either have never yet reached the first, or else you really have had it, and what you see now, what you are enjoying, is merely a reflection of the first} And it also remains to be observed that you are in error when you be- lieve that the first might be completely present in any other but “the first,” if only one seeks rightly. And it needs to be said that insofar as you appeal to your professional practice this also is a misunderstanding, since you have never practiced in the right direction. At other times, on the contrary, you are as cold, as sharp and biting as a March wind, as sarcastic as hoar frost, as dearminded as the air commonly is in spring- time, as dry and infertile, as egoistically astringent as it is possible to be. If when you are in such a state of mind it happens that a man to his discomfiture comes to you to talk about “the first,” about the beauty im- plied in this, perhaps even about his first love, then you become posi- Uvely angry. “The first” now becomes the most ludicrous, the most foolish of all things, one of the lies in which one generation confirms another. You rage like a Herod from one child-murder to another. You are able, then, to talk without end about how cowardly and unmanly it is to cling to the first, asserting that the truth lies in what is acquired, not in what is given. I recall that in this mood you once came to my room. You filled your pipe as usual, stretched yourself in the softest armchair, put your legs on another, rummaged among my papers (I remember also that I took them from you), and then you burst forth with an ironical eulogy upon first love and everything that is “first,” including even “the first licking I got in school,” declaring in an ex- planatory note that you could say this the more emphatically because the teacher who administered the licking was the only one you had ever known who could strike with emphasis. Thereupon you concluded by whistling this ditty , 14 kicking to the other side of the room the chair upon which you had placed your feet, and off you went.
In vain one seeks to learn from you what lies behind this mysterious word, “the first,” a word which h^s had and to all time will have a pro- digious significance in the world.(The significance which this word has for the particular individual is definitive for his spiritual situation as a

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whole, while the fact that it has no significance for someone shows that he is not attuned in such a way that he can be touched by lofty impulses and be set in vibration by their touch. However, two ways lie open be- fore the man to whom “the first” is significant. Either “the first” con- tains promise for the future, is the forward thrust, the endless impulse. Such are the fortunate individuals for whom “the first” is simply the present, but the present is for them the constantly unfolding and re- juvenating “first.” Or “the first” does not impel the individual; the power which is in “the first” does not become the impelling power in the individual but the repelling power, it becomes that which thrusts away. Such are the unfortunate individualities who constantly with- draw more and more from “the first.” The latter situation, of course, cannot come about totally without any fault on the part of the indi- vidual.
With this word, “the first,” all who are touched by ideas associate a notion of solemnity, and only when used of things belonging to a lower sphere does “the first” mean the worst. You are prolific with examples of this use of it: the first printer’s proof; the first time a man puts on a new dress coat, etc. The more probability there is that a thing may be repeated, the less significance does “the first” acquire; the less the prob- ability of repetition, the greater is its significance. On the other hand, the more significant that thing is which for the first time announces it- self, the less is the probability of its being repeated. If there is something so important as to be even eternal, all probability that it may be repeated vanishes. Hence, when one has talked with a certain sad seriousness of the first love as of something which could never be repeated, this is no disparagement of love but a lofty eulogy of it as the eternal power. Thus— for the sake of making a little philosophical flourish, not with the pen but with thought-*4God only once became flesh, and it would be vain to expect this to be repeated. In paganism it could happen oftener, but this was precisely for the reason that it was not a true in- carnation. Thus man is born only once, and there is no probability of a repetition. The notiqn of transmigration of souls fails to appreciate the significance of birth. I will illustrate further what I mean by a few ex- amples. The first green, the first swallow, we hail with a certain solem- nity. The ground of this, however, is the idea we associate with it, so that here what is announced by “the first” is something different from the first itself, the one first swallow, for example. There is an en- graving which represents Cain murdering Abel. Adam and Eve are seen in the background. Whether it has value as a work of art I am not com-

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petent to decide, but the title inscribed beneath it has always interested me: prima caedes, primt parentes, primus luctus. Here again “the first” has profound significance, and in this instance what we reflect upon is “the first” itself, but more with relation to time than to content, since one does not see the continuity with which the whole is posited by the first. (The “whole” might, of course, be understood as the sin trans- mitted to the race. The first sin [if by that we think of the sin of Adam and Eve] would, it is true, lead one to think of continuity, but as it is the nature of evil not to have continuity, you will easily perceive why I do not use this example). One more illustration. It is well known that several rigorous sects in Christendom wanted to prove the limitation of God’s grace from the words in the Epistle to the Hebrews about the im- possibility of renewing again to repentance those who once were en- lightened and had fallen away. Here, then, “the first” had all of its deep significance. In this first, the deep Christian life as a whole came to evidence, and he then who apprehended it amiss was lost. But in this case the eternal is dragged down too much into temporal determinants. But this example may serve to explain how “the first” is the whole, the whole content. But now when what is implied in “the first” rests upon a synthesis of the temporal and the eternal, everything I have set forth above evidently retains its validity. In “the first” the whole is present implicitly, Kara Kpwpiv. Now again I am not ashamed to mention the word “first love.” To the fortunate individualities the first love is at the same time the second, the third, the last; the first love has here the determinants of jhe eternal. To the unfortunate individualities the first love is a moment, it has the determinants of the temporal. For the fortunate individualities the first love, in the very fact that it is, is the present; for the others, in the very fact that it is, it is the past. Inasmuch as there is reflection also in the fortunate individualities, this when di- rected toward the eternal in love will be, to love a guiding providence, whereas reflection upon the temporal will be the demolition of love. Thus, for him who reflects in a temporal way the first kiss, for example, will be a past fact (as Byron has made it in a little poem“) ; for him who reflects in an eternal way it will be an eternal possibility.*}
All this has to do with the predicate we attach to love when we call it the “first.” I now go on to consider more expressly the first love. As a preliminary I will beg you to recall the little contradiction we encoun- tered: the first love comprises the whole content, and if such be the case the shrewdest thing would be, it seems, to pluck it and go on to a second first love. But in taking the first in vain it vanishes and one doesn’t get

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the second. But after all, is not the first love merely the first? Yes, but when we reflect upon the content it is the first only insofar as we remain in it. If one remains in it, does it then become a second love? No, pre- cisely because one remains in it, it remains the first, if one reflects upon eternity.
The Philistines who think that now they have about reached the period of life when it would be suitable for them to look around and listen around for a helpmeet (perhaps by an advertisement in the news- paper) have already excluded themselves once for all from first love, and such a philistine state of mind cannot be regarded as the condition which precedes first love. It is, of course, conceivable that Eros might be compassionate enough to play upon such a man the prank of making him fall in love. I say “compassionate,” for after all it is an extraordinary act of compassion to bestow upon a man the highest earthly good, and that first love always is, even though it be unhappy. But this chance al- ways remains an exception, and the man’s previous condition affords no explanation of it. If one would believe the priests of music (who in this respect are most like believers), and if in turn one would give heed to Mozart, surely then the condition which precedes first love must be described by recalling the saying that love makes blind. The individual becomes as if blind; one can almost see this by looking at him; he sinks into himself, contemplates in himself his own contemplation, and yet there is a constant effort to look out upon the world; It is this dreamy yet searching state of mind which Mozart has depicted in the person of the Page in Figaro, representing it as a condition which is just as sensual as it is mental. In contrast to this, first love is an absolute alertness, an absolute beholding; and not to do it an injustice, this must be insisted upon. It is directed towards a single, definite and actual object, which alone has existence for it, everything else being nonexistent. This one object does not exist in vague outline but as a definite living being. T his first love contains a factor of sensuousness and beauty, yet it is not merely sensual. The sensual factor as such comes to evidence only through reflection, but first love lacks reflection and is therefore not simply sensual. This gives the character of necessity to first love. Like everything eternal it has the double propensity of presupposing itself back into all eternity and forward into all eternity) This is the element' of truth in what the poets have often sung so beautifully, to the effect that the lovers feel as if they already had loved one another for a long while. This is the element of truth in the inviolable faithfulness of chivalry, which fears nothing, is not alarmed by the thought of any

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE 37
disuniting power. But since all love is characterized as a unity of free- dom and necessity, so it is in this case. Precisely in the necessity the indi- vidual feels himself free, is sensible in this of his whole individual energy, precisely in this he senses the possession of all that he is. It is for this reason one can inerrantly observe in every man whether he truly has been in love. Love involves a transfiguration, a spiritualization, which lasts his whole life long. In him there is a union of all the factors which ordinarily are dispersed; he is at the same moment both younger and older than men commonly are; he is a man and yet a youth, yea, almost a child; he is strong and yet so weak; he is a harmony which, as was said, echoes through his whole life. We will extol this first love as one of the most beautiful things in the world, but we will not lack cour- age to put it to the test.
This, however, is not what immediately concerns us. Already at this point it is possible to think of a doubt of the same sort as that which will recur in view of the relation between first love and marriage. A religiously developed individual is so accustomed to relate everything to God, to penetrate and leaven every finite relationship with the thought of God, and thereby to sanctify and enoble it. (This statement, of course, is to be understood obliquely.) In view of this it seems precarious to allow such feelings to arise in consciousness without taking counsel with God; but by taking counsel with God the relationship is, in fact, altered. In this instance the difficulty is more easily removed, for it is charac- teristic of first love to take by surprise, and being the fruit of surprise it is involuntary, so that it is not obvious how such a consultation with God might be possible. The only thing that could be thought of would be the question of remaining in this state — but this is the theme of a subsequent deliberation. But would it not be possible to anticipate the first love which, as such, recognizes no relation to God ? I may touch in a few words upon the marriages in which the decision rests with an- other, a person other than the individual himself, cases in which the individual has not yet got to the point of freedom as a determinant. We encounter the pitiful forms of this, where by sorcery or similar arts, by recourse to nature-magic, the individual seeks to conjure up the object of his love. The nobler forms are those which one might call religious in the stricter sense. (Marriage in the true sense does not, of course, lack the religious factor, but at the same time it has the erotic factor.) Thus, when Isaac in all humility and trustfulness refers it to God’s judgment whom he shall choose for a wife, and putting his confidence in God sends his servant, does not himself look about, because he feels his fate

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secure in God’s hand, this is doubtless very pretty, but the erotic, never- theless, does not get due recognition. Now in this case one must remem- ber that however abstract the God of Judaism was in general, He was so much interested in everything pertaining to the vital interests of the Jewish nation, and particularly to its elect figures, and that although He was spirit He was not too spiritual to be concerned about earthly things. To a certain degree Isaac therefore might venture to expect con- fidendy that God would choose for him a wife who was young and beautiful and highly regarded by the people and lovable in every way; but for all that we feel the lack of the erotic element, even if it proved to be the case that he loved this woman of God’s election with genuine youthful passion. Freedom was lacking.
In Christianity one sees from time to time an obscure mixture of the erotic and the religious which is attractive by reason of its obscurity and ambiguity, and which has in it just as much coquetry as childish piety. This, naturally, is to be found particularly in Catholicism, and with us among the common people. I ask you to imagine (and I know that you can do it with pleasure, for this surely is a situation) — imagine a little peasant girl, hiding behind her lashes a pair of eyes which are audacious and yet humble, a girl healthy and blooming, with something in her complexion which is not the flush of sickness but the sign of a superior health; imagine her on Christmas Eve; she is alone in her room, mid- night is already passed, and yet sleep which usually visits her so faith- fully now evades her; she is sensible of an agreeable, sweet disquietude, she throws the window ajar, she looks out into the infinite space, alone with the silent stars, a little sigh makes her feel so light, she shuts the window, and with a seriousness which yet has constantly the possibility of lapsing into roguishness she prays:
Ye Three Kings of Orient wise,
Disclose a vision to my eyes.
Who is the man whose board I’ll spread,
Him for whom I shall make the bed?
What his name is, be it said.
Show me the man whom I shall wed.
With that she springs joyfully into bed. Honestly, the Three Kings ought to be ashamed of themselves if they did not look out for her; and it’s no use saying one doesn’t know what man she wishes: one knows that very well, at least if all the signs of Yuletide do not fail, she knows it pretty nearly.

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We return now to first love. It is the unity of freedom and necessity. The individual feels drawn to the other individual by an irresistible power, but precisely in this is sensible of his freedom. It is a unity of the universal and the particular; it has the universal as it has the particular up to the limit of the fortuitous. But all this it has, not by virtue of re- flection but immediately. The more definitely first love has this charac- ter, the more wholesome it is, and the greater is the probability that it is a first love. With an irresistible power it draws the two together, and yet in this they enjoy complete freedom. Now I have no hardhearted fathers at hand, no sphinxes which must first be overcome, and as I have wealth enough to provide them with a dowry — and not having assumed the task, like novel writers and playwrights, of stretching out the time to the torment of the whole world, the lovers, the readers and the spec- tators — then in God’s name let them come together. I am playing the part of die noble father, you see; and truly it is in itself a very pretty lole, if only we had not frequently made it so ridiculous. You noticed, perhaps, that I interjected as appropriate to the father the little phrase, “in God’s name.” That you can well condone in the old man, who per- haps has never known what first love is or has long ago forgotten it. But when a younger man who is still enthusiastic about first love takes the liberty of laying emphasis upon this religious phrase you are perhaps surprised.
So first love possesses all the immediate, temperamental assurance; it fears no danger, it defies the whole world, and my only wish for it is that it may always have as easy a time as in the present case, for I place no obstacles m its way. Perhaps by this I do it no service; indeed, when I come to think of it I may even fall into disgrace. In first love the indi- vidual is in possession of a prodigious power, and hence it is just as un- pleasant for him not to encounter opposition as it would be for a bold knight who had acquired a sword wherewith he could cut stones to find himself in a sandy region where there was not even a blade of grass he could try it on. So first love is confident enough, it needs no prop; “if it should need a prop,” the knight would say, “it is no longer first love.” This, then, seems clear enough, but it is also evident that I am moving in a circle. In the foregoing discussion we saw that it was the defect of romantic love that it came to a halt with love as an abstract an-sich, and that all the dangers it saw or wished to see were outward dangers which were irrelevant to love itself. We also recalled the fact that if dangers came from another quarter, from within, the thing be- came much more difficult. But to this the knight of course would reply,

40

THE “OR”

“Yes...if. But how might that be possible? And if it were possible, this would no longer be first love.” I might now remind you that it is a mis- understanding to assume that reflection is able only to destroy, for it is just as capable of saving. However, since what I proposed to show was that first love can coexist with marriage, I will emphasize more particu- larly what I hinted at in the foregoing, that first love can be assumed into a higher concentricity, and that doubt is not necessary for this. Subsequently I shall show that it is essential for first love to be historical, and that the condition for this is precisely marriage; and with this I shall show that romantic first love is unhistorical — even though one might be capable of filling folios with the knight’s exploits.
So, then, first love is immediately secure in itself, but at the same time the individuals are religiously developed. I have a right to assume this, indeed I am bound to do so, for I am about to show that first love and marriage can coexist.i It is another matter, of course, when an unhappy first love teaches the individuals to flee to God and to seek security in marriage. With this the first love is changed, even if it remains possible to reestablish it. So, then, they are accustomed to refer everything to God. Now it is not in time of sorrow they seek God, neither is it fear or dread which impels them to pray; their heart, their whole being, is replete with joy — what more natural than for them to thank God for it ? They fear nothing, for outward dangers will have no power over them, and as for inward dangers, first love does not know them at all. But by this expression of thanksgiving first love is not changed, no disturbing reflection has molested it, it is assumed into a higher concentricity. But like all prayer such a thanksgiving is united with a readiness to act, not in an outward but an inward sense, in the present case with the will to hold this love fast. The nature of first love is not changed by this, no reflection molests it, its firm composition has not been dissolved, it still has its blessed self-assurance, it is merely assumed into a higher concen- tricity. Perhaps in this higher concentricity it does not know at all what it has to fear, it perhaps thinks of no danger, and yet by this good reso- lution, which is a kind of first love, it is elevated into the ethical sphere. But here you will object that by using constantly the word concentricity I am guilty of a petitio prmcipti, since I ought to start out with the proof that these regions we are dealing with are eccentric. To this I may reply that if I were to start out from eccentricity I should never reach con- centricity; but I also beg you to remember that when I start out from the latter I prove at the same time that the other regions are eccentric. So then we have put first love in relation to the ethical and the religious,

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4 1
and it appeared that its nature need not be changed thereby; and it was precisely the ethical and the religious which seemingly made the union of first love and marriage impossible. So everything seems to be all right.
However, I know you too well to venture to hope to “put you off,” as you would say, “with that sort of thing.” You are acquainted with ab- solutely all the difficulties in the world. With your swift and piercing mind you have thought with great speed of a multiplicity of scientific tasks, of personal relationships, etc., but everywhere you have halted at the difficulties, and I hardly believe that it will be possible for you in any single instance to get over them.fln a certain sense you resemble a pilot, and yet you are the exact opposite. A pilot knows the dangers and con- ducts the ship safely into the harbor: you know the shoals, and you always run the ship aground. Of course, you do the best you can, and do it, one must concede, with great alacrity and efficiency^ You have such a practiced eye for men and for the seaways that you know at once how far out you must go with people in order to run them aground. Neither are you light-minded about it, you do not forget again that the man is stranded out there; you can remember that with a childish malicious- ness the next time you see him, and are then careful to ask how he feels and how he got off the shoal. Presumably you would not be embar- rassed to find difficulties in this instance. You would likely remind me that I had left it undetermined and vague which God I was referring to, whether it was not a pagan Eros who would so gladly be privy to love’s secrets, and whose presence in the last resort would be a reflection of the lovers’ own mood — or whether it was the God of the Christians, the God who is Spirit and is jealous of everything which is not spirit. You would remind me that in Christianity beauty and sensuousness are negated; you would incidentally remark that it was therefore indifferent to the Christians whether Christ was ugly or beautiful; you would beg me to hold myself aloof with my orthodoxy from the secret trysts of lovers, and to refrain especially from any attempts at mediation, which to you are even more distasteful than the crassest orthodoxy. “Yes,” you would say, “it must be cheering to the young girl, it must be entirely in accord with her mood, to step up before the altar. And the congregation ought surely to look upon her as an imperfect being who was unable to lesist the seductions of lust; she ought to stand there as a pupil stands to be reprimanded or to make public confession; and then the priest should read to her the text, and perhaps thereupon lean over the altar rail and secretly confide to her as a little comfort that matrimony after

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all is an honorable estate well pleasing to God. The only thing of any value in this whole affair is the situation of the priest, and if it was a pretty young girl, I should be glad to be the priest in order to whisper this secret in her ear.” ,
But, my dear young friend! Yes, truly, matrimony is an estate well pleasing to God; on the other hand, I do not know where anything is said in the Scriptures about a special blessing upon bachelors — and that, after all, is the end of your multifarious love affairs. But in dealing with you one has assumed pretty nearly the most difficult task, for you are capable of proving everything whatever, and under your hands every phenomenon becomes anything whatever. Yes, certainly, the God of the Christians is Spirit, and Christianity is spirit, and discord is posited be- tween flesh and spirit; but “the flesh” is not sensuousness, it is selfishness, and in this sense even the intellectual which you call “spiritual” may be sensual; for example, if a man takes in vain his intellectual gifts he is carnal. And I know well that for the Christians it was not necessary that Christ should be an earthly beauty, and for a different reason than that which you adduce this would be very sad; for how ardently, then, the believer must long to see Him — in case beauty were in this instance something essential. But from all this it by no means follows that the sensuous is abolished by Christianity. First love has in it the factor of beauty, and the joy and fullness which is found in the sensuous when it is innocent can well be admitted into Christianity. But let us beware of one thing, namely, of a false path which is more dangerous than that which you would avoid — let us not be too spiritual. One cannot, of course, leave it to your whim how you will conceive of Christianity. If your conception were correct, the best thing for us would be to begin as soon as possible with all the self-inflicted torments and annihilation of the body which we learn about in the excesses of mysticism. Even health would be a suspicious circumstance. I doubt very much, however, if any pious Christian would deny that he may well pray to God to pre- serve his health, to the God who went about healing the sick. The lepers in that case ought to have declined to be healed, for they were then closest to perfection. The more simple and childlike a person is, the more he can pray for; but since among other things it is a characteristic of first love to be childlike, I cannot see why it too might not venture to pray, or rather (keeping to the foregoing line of thought) why it might not venture to thank God, without its nature being changed thereby.
But perhaps you still have something more on your conscience. You may as well come out with it, the sooner the better. If in view of one

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expression or another in what follows you should be prompted to say, “But I never expressed myself in that way I” I would reply, “That is perfectly true, but you, my good Mr. Observer, must forgive a poor mar- ried man if he has presumed to make you the object of his observation.” You conceal something within you which you never frankly utter. Hence it is that in every expression of yours there is so much energy, so much elasticity, because it suggests something more which you leave to be guessed, some outburst still more terrible.
So then you have found that after which your soul aspired, which it thought it was about to find in many mistaken trials; you have found a girl in whom your whole being finds repose; and although you might seem to be a little too experienced, this nevertheless is your first love, of that you are convinced. “She is beautiful” (why of course!), “charming” (I have no doubt of it), “and yet her beauty does not find its expression in the normal but in the unity of the manifold, in the accidental, in the self-contradictory. She is soulful” (You don’t say so!), “she shows her devotion in a way which makes one’s head swim; she is light, she can swing like a bird on a twig, she has esprit — enough to illuminate her beauty, but no more.” The day has come when you are to assure your- self of the possession of all that you own in the world — a possession, however, of which you are thoroughly sure. You have begged for the privilege of imparting to her an extreme unction. You already have waited a long time in the family dining room; a brisk chambermaid, four or five inquisitive cousins, a venerable aunt, and the hairdresser, have hurried past you several times. You already are half provoked by it. Then the door of the parlor opens softly, you cast thither a fleeting glance and are delighted to see that not a soul is there, that she has had the tact to remove all irrelevant persons from the parlor. She is pretty, prettier than ever, about her there is an inspiration, a harmony, to the vibrations of which she tingles through and through. You are aston- ished; she even surpasses your dreams, but for a moment your subtile reflection conceals your emotion. Your calmness has upon her a still more seductive effect and prompts in her soul a longing which makes her beauty interesting. You approach her, feeling that her finery imparts to the situation an unusual character. You have not yet uttered a word; you see, and yet it is as though you saw not, you would not annoy her with spoony behavior, but even her reflection in the mirror is a delight to you. You fasten upon her bosom a trinket which you had presented to her the very first day, the day you kissed her with a passion which now at this moment seeks its confirmation; she has kept it hidden, no

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one has seen it. You take a little bouquet composed of flowers all of one sort, a flower which in itself is entirely insignificant. Always when you sent her flowers there was a little sprig of it, but unobservable, so that none but she suspected it, she alone. Today this flower is to come to honor and dignity; it alone is to adorn her, for she loved it. You hand it to her, a tear trembles in her eye, she gives it back to you, you kiss it and fasten it upon her bosom. A trace of sadness spreads over her. You, too, are moved. She steps back a pace, she looks at her finery half wrath- fully, it is burdensome to her, she throws her arms about your neck. She is unable to tear herself away, she embraces you as vehemently as if there were a hostile power which would tear her away from you. Her delicate finery is crushed, her hair has fallen down, instantly she van- ishes.
You are left again to your solitude, which is broken only by a brisk chambermaid, four or five inquisitive cousins, a venerable aunt, and a hairdresser. Then the door of the parlor opens, she enters, and quiet earnestness is legible in her every expression. You press her hand, you leave her, to meet again...before God’s altar. That you had forgotten. You who have thought upon so many things, upon this contingency among others, in your infatuation you had forgotten it. You had made the best of situations which were conventionally expected, but upon this you had not reflected — and yet you are far too much developed not to see that a wedding is a little more than a ceremony. A dread seizes you. “This girl whose soul is as pure as the light of day, sublime as the vault of heaven, innocent as the sea, this girl before whom I could kneel in adoration, whose love I feel must be able to pluck me out of all aberra- tion and to give me a new birth, her I am to lead to God’s altar, she is to stand there like a sinner, it will be said of her and to her that it was Eve who seduced Adam. To her before whom my proud soul submits, the only one to whom it has submitted, to her it will be said that I am to be her master, and that she shall be obedient to the husband. The mo- ment has come, the Church already stretches out its arms for her, and before it gives her back to me it will first impress a nuptial kiss upon her lips — not the nuptial kiss for which I would give all the world. It al- ready stretches out its arms to embrace her, but this embrace will cause all her beauty to fade, and then it will pass her over to me saying, ‘Be fruitful and multiply.’ What sort of a power is this which dares to in- trude between me and my bride, the bride I myself have chosen and who has chosen me ? And this power would command her to be faithful to me — because a third party, which then she would love more than me,

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commanded it! And it bids me be faithful to her. Do I need any such bidding? I who belong to her with my whole soul! And this power de- fines our relationship to one another, it says that I am to command and she to obey. But suppose I have no desire to command, that I feel too lowly for that! No, her I will obey, her hint is my commandment, but to a foreign power I will not submit. No, I will flee with her far away while yet there is time, and I will pray the mght to cover us and the silent clouds to recount to us fairy tales in bold symbols appropriate to a nuptial night, and under the immense vault of heaven I will intoxicate myself with her charms, alone with her, alone in the whole world, for the clouds are my thoughts and my thoughts are clouds; and I will cry out and conjure all powers in heaven and on earth that nothing may disturb my good fortune, and I will put them to the oath and have them swear to this. Yes, far, far away, that my soul may regain its health, that my breast may again be able to draw breath, that I may not be stifled in this stuffy air. Away!” Yes, that I would say too: procul, o procul este prof ant. But have you also reflected whether she will follow you on this expedition? rWoman is weak” — no, she is humble, she is much closer to God than man is. Hence it is that love is everything to her, '^nd she will certainly not disdain the blessing and confirmation which God is ready to bestow upon her. It has never occurred to a woman to object to maniage, if men themselves do not seduce her. To be sure, to an eman- cipated woman this notion might occur. The offense always comes from man’s side, for man is proud, he would be everything, would have noth- ing above him.
That the description I have given fits your case pretty exactly you will certainly not deny, and at any rate you will not deny that it applies to the spokesmen of this tendency. I have intentionally altered a litde bit the usual forms in which a lover expresses himself m order to charac- terize expressly your “first love”; for honestly the love here described, however passionate it is, with however much pathos it expresses itself, is far too reflective, far too intimate with love’s coquetry, to be called a first love. A first love is humble and therefore rejoices that there is a power higher than it— if only for the reason that it has some one to thank. (It is for this cause one finds a pure first love more rarely in men than in women.) In you, too, analogies to this were to be found; for you said, indeed, that you would conjure all the powers in heaven and on earth, and this expresses your need of seeking a higher source for your love, only that with you this is a fetish, a most arbitrary fetish. The first thing then that scandalized you was that you should be sol-

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emnly instated as her lord and master— as if you were not that, as if your words did not dearly enough bear the stamp of it. But you will not give up this idolatry, this coquetry, of pretending to want to be her slave, although you thoroughly feel yoursdf her master.
The second thing was that your soul revolted against the thought that your loved one should be declared a sinner. You are an aesthete, and I could be tempted to propose to the deliberation of your idle head whether this factor would not be apt to make a woman even more beautiful: it implies a mystery which casts an interesting light upon her. The character of childish roguishness which sin may have so long as we dare to account it innocence only enhances beauty. You can well con- ceive that I am not serious in holding this view, since I feel vividly what it implies and shall subsequendy explain it; but I mean to say that if it had occurred to you, you perhaps would have become absolutely enthu- siastic about this aesthetic observation. You would have made an im- mense number of investigations as to whether it would be best (i.e. most interesting) to prod with it, so to speak, by an infinitely remote suggestion, or to let the innocent young girl fight alone with this obscure power, or with a sort of solemn seriousness to tip her over into the hands of irony, etc. In short, there would be plenty for your hands to do in this line. You would have thought of the tremulous light which in the Gospel itself is shed upon the woman that was a sinner, whose many sins were forgiven her because she loved much. What I would say, however, is, that again it is your arbitrary interpretation that she is to stand there as a sinner, For it is one thing to know sin in abstracto, and another to know it in concreto '., But woman is humble, and it certainly has never occurred to a woman to be truly scandalized by the fact that the earnest word of the Church was addressed to her. Woman is humble and trustful — who like a woman can cast the eyes down, but who like her can lift them up ? If, then, any change were to be wrought in her by the solemn declaration of the Church that sin has entered into the world, it must be that she only the more strongly would hold fast to her love. But from this it does not follow that first love is changed; it is only drawn up into a higher concentricity. It would be very difficult to convince a woman that earthly love in general might be sin, since by this affirmation her whole existence is destroyed in its deepest root. The fact is, moreover, that she has not come to God’s altar to deliberate whether or no she shall love the man who stands beside her; she loves him, her very life is in it, and woe unto him who awakens doubt in her and would teach her to revolt against her nature and not to be willing

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to kneel before God but to stand erect. I ought not, perhaps, to have set myself in opposition to you on this point, for since you have now got it fixed in your head that for first love to exist sin must not have come into the world, you must yourself feel that you are beating the air. (By the fact that you want to ignore sin you prove that you are in the stage of reflection.) But since the individuals between whom we imagined a first love were religiously developed, I have no need to go into this question. For sinfulness is not to be attributed to first love as such but to the selfishness in it, but selfishness only makes its appearance the moment it reflects, and with that first love is destroyed.
Finally, it offends you that a third power wants to impose upon you the obligation of being faithful to her and she to you. For the sake of fairness I beg you to remember that this third power does not obtrude itself, but since the individuals we have in mind are religiously devel- oped they themselves have recourse to it, and the question here at issue is whether there is anything in this which constitutes an obstacle to their first love. You will hardly deny that it is natural for first love to seek corroboration in one way or another by making love an obligation which the lovers impose upon themselves before the face of a higher power. The lovers swear fidelity to one another by the moon, by the stars, by their fathers’ ashes, by their honor, etc. If to this you reply, “O well, such oaths don’t mean anything; they are simply the reflection of the lovers’ own mood — for how otherwise could it occur to them to swear by the moon ?”• — then I would reply, “With this you yourself have altered the nature of first love; for the beautiful thing about it is pre- cisely this, that for it everything acquires reality in virtue of love. Only in the moment of reflection does it appear void of meaning to swear by the moon; in the moment of Eden this has validity.” Might then this situation be changed by the fact that they swear by a power which really has validity? Hardly, I think, for it is of the utmost importance to love that Eden has this significance. So when you think that you would like to swear by the clouds and the stars, but it puts you out that you have to swear by God, it is evident that you are caught in reflection. For the fact is your love must have no witnesses — except such as cannot see. Yes, it is true enough that love is mysterious, but your love puts on such airs that not even God in heaven may know anything about it— -in spite of the fact that God (to use a rather frivolous expression) is not an embar- rassing witness. But the fact that God must not know anything about it is the selfish and reflective element. For God is in one’s consciousness.

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and yet at the same time He must not be there. First love knows nothing about such things.
. This need, then, of letting your love become transfigured in a higher sphere you do not feel, or rather (since first love too feels no need of this but does it spontaneously) you feel the need but will not satisfy it v If I were inclined for a moment to return to your feigned first love, I would say that you might perhaps succeed in conjuring all powers — and yet not far from you there grew a mistletoe . 18 It shot up, it revealed to you its coolness, yet it hid within it a deeper warmth, and you both rejoiced in it— but this mistletoe symbolizes the feverish restlessness which is the life principle in your love; it cools and heats, it changes continually, indeed, at the same moment you could wish that you both might have an eternity before you and that this instant were the last; apd therefore the death of your love is certain.
' We have seen, then, how first love could come into relation with the ethical and the religious without the intervention of a reflection which would alter its nature, since it was merely drawn up into a higher con- centricity, always in the sphere of immediacy. In a certain sense a change has been brought about, and it is this which I will now consider as the metamorphosis (so it might be called) of the lovers into bride and bridegroom. When first love is referred to God, this comes to pass for the fact that the lovers thank God for it. With this an ennobling transfor- mation is effected. The weakness to which the male is most prone is to imagine that he has made a conquest of the girl he loves. In this he is sensible of his superiority — but there is nothing aesthetic in that. In thanking God, however, he humbles himself under his love; and truly it is far more beautiful to receive the beloved from God’s hand than to have subdued the whole world in order to make a conquest of heri Moreover, the man who truly loves will not find repose for his soul before he has thus humbled himself before God, and in truth the maiden he loves means too much to him for him to dare to take her as a prey even in the fairest and noblest sense. And if he might find joy in con- quering and acquiring her, he will know that the daily acquisition throughout a whole life is more comely than the preternatural force of a brief period of love-making. But this does not come to pass by reason of a preliminary doubt, but it comes to pass by immediacy. The real life principle in first love remains intact, but the fusel oil (if I may use this expression), the undesirable ingredient, is taken away. For the other sex it is rather natural to feel the predominance of man and to submit to it; and yet, even though the woman feels joyful and happy in being

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nothing, she is in the way of becoming more or less disingenuous. Then, when she thanks God for the beloved her soul is secured against suffer- ing; by the fact that she thanks God she removes the man she loves just so far from her that she is able to draw breath; and this does not come to pass in consequence of an alarming doubt but by immediacy.
Already I have indicated above that even the illusory eternity in first love makes it moral. Now when the lovers refer their love to God this act of thanksgiving imparts to it an absolute stamp of eternity, as does also resolute purpose and the sense of obligation; and this eternity will not be founded upon obscure forces but upon the eternal itself. Purpose has at the same time another significance. That is, it implies the possi- bility of a movement m love, and hence, also, the possibility of liberation from the difficulty attendant upon first love as such, that it is incapable of budging from the spot. The aesthetical aspect of it consists in its infinity, but the unaesthetical in the fact that this infinity cannot become finitized. I will elucidate by a more figurative expression the fact that the addition of religion cannot disturb first love. Indeed, the religious is properly the expression for the conviction that man by God’s help is lighter than the whole world, the very same faith which accounts for the fact that a man is able to swim. If, then, there were a swimming belt which could hold one up, one might suppose that a man who had been in mortal danger would always carry it; but one might also suppose that one who had never been in mortal danger would likewise carry it. The latter supposition corresponds to the relation between first love and the religious. First love girds itself with the religious, even though no pain- ful experience or alarming reflection has gone before. Only I must beg you not to press diis analogy too far, as if religion stood in a merely external relation to first love. I have shown in the foregoing that such is not the case.
Let us then cast up the account once for all. You talk so much about the erotic embrace — what is that in comparison with the matrimonial embrace! What richness of modulation in the matrimonial “Mine!” in comparison with the erotic! It reechoes not only in the seductive eternity of the instant, not only in the illusory eternity of fantasy and imagina- tion, but in the eternity of clear consciousness, in the eternity of eter- nity. What power there is in the matrimonial “Mine!” — for will, reso- lution and purpose have a deeper tone. What energy and pliability! —for what is so hard as will, and what so soft ? What power of move- ment! — not merely the confusing enthusiasm of obscure impulses; for marriage is made in heaven, and duty permeates the whole body of the

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universe to its utmost limits and prepares the way and gives assurance that to all eternity no obstacle shall be able to unsettle love! So let Don Juan keep the leafy bower, and the knight the starry dome of heaven, if he can see nothing above it; marriage has its heaven still higher up. Such is marriage; and if it is not thus, it is not the fault of God, nor of Christianity, nor of the wedding ceremony; it is not due to cursing nor to blessing, but it is man’s own fault. And is it not a sin and a shame that men write books in such a way as to make people perplexed about life, make them tired of it before they begin, instead of teaching them how to live! And this would be a painful truth, even if they were in the right, but in fact, it is a lie. They teach us to sm, and those who have not the courage for that they make equally unhappy in other ways. Unfortunately, I myself am too much influenced by the aesthetic not to know that the word “husband” grates upon your ears. But I don’t care. If the word husband has fallen into discredit and almost become laugh- able, it is high time for one to seek to restore it to honor. And if you say, “Such a sight as this one never sees, although one often enough sees marriages,” this does not disquiet me; for the fact that one sees mar- riages every day entails the consequence that one more rarely sees the greatness in marriage, especially in view of the fact that people do everything to belittle it. For have not you and your sort carried the thing so far that the maiden who gives her hand before the altar is re- garded as a more imperfect being dian these heroines in your romances with their “first love’V?
Now that I have listened patiently to you and your outburst, you per- haps will forgive me for coming forward with my little observations. (Your outburst, by the way, was perhaps wilder than you were aware; but even though you have not thoroughly understood these emotions within you, yet when marriage comes to meet you as a reality, you will see that within you there will be a raging storm, though presumably you will not confide in any one.) A man loves only once in his life — the heart clings to its first love — marriage! Harken and be amazed at the harmonious accord of these three spheres. It is the same thing, except that it is expressed aesthetically, religiously, and ethically. One loves but once. To effect a realization of this, marriage joins in — and in case people who do not love each other take it into their heads to get married, the Church is not responsible. A man loves only once — this refrain is heard from the most various quarters: from the fortunate to whom every new day gives a glad reassurance; and from the unfortunate. Of the latter there are properly only two classes: those, who are always

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aspiring after the ideal; and those who will not stick to it. The last are the real seducers. One meets them rather seldom, because an uncommon aptitude is always requisite for this. I have known one, but he too ad- mitted that a man loves only once; his wild lusts, however, love was unable to tame. “Yes,” say these people, “one loves only once, one mar- ries two or three times.” Here the two spheres are again united; for aesthetics says, “No,” and the Church with ecclesiastical ethics looks with suspicion upon the second marriage. To me this is of the utmost importance; for if it were true that one loves several times, marriage would be a questionable institution; it might seem that the erotic suf- fered harm from the arbitrary exaction of the religious, which requires as a rule that one should love only once, and disposes of the business of the erotic as cavalierly as though it were to say, “You can marry once, and that’s the end of it.”
We have now seen how first love came into relation with marriage without being changed by it. The same aesthetic quality which was found in first love must, therefore, be found also in marriage, smce the former is contained in the latter; but the aesthetic quality consists in the infinity, the apriority of first love — as we have already seen. In the next place, it consists in the unity of the contradictions exemplified by love: it is sensuous and yet spiritual; it is freedom and yet necessity; it is in the. moment, is definitely in the present tense, and yet it has in it an eternity^ All this marriage has too: it is sensuous and yet spiritual, but it is more than that, for the word “spiritual” when it is used of first love means rather that it is soulish, that it is sensuousness permeated by spirit; it is freedom and necessity, but it is also more, for “freedom” as it is applied to first love is no more than the soulish freedom of an individual not yet clarified from the dregs of natural necessity. But the more freedom, the more complete the abandonment of devotion, and only he can be lavish of himself who possesses himself. In the religious the individuals become free — he from false pride, she from false humility — and between the lovers who hold one another in such a close embrace the religious presses in, not to separate them, but in order that she might surrender herself with a richer devotion than she had before dreamt of, and that he might not only receive her but surrender himself, and she receive the devotion. Marriage has within it inward infinity, even more than first love, for the inward infinity of marriage is an eternal life. It is a unity of contradic- tions, even more than first love, for it has one more contradiction, the spiritual, and thereby it has the sensuous in a still more profound opposi- tion— but the further one is removed from the sensuous the more aesthetic

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significance it acquires, for otherwise the instinct of the beast would be the most aesthetic.! But the spiritual factor in marriage is higher than in first love, and the higher heaven is above the marriage bed, the more beautiful this is, the more aesthetic; and it is not the earthly heaven which arches over marriage, but the heaven of the spirit. Marriage is in the moment, it is sound and vigorous, but in a deeper sense than first love, for the defect of first love precisely is that it has an abstract character, but in the purpose which marriage expresses is implied the law of movement, the possibility of an inward history. Purpose is resig- nation in its richest foim, where it does not have in view what is to be lost, but what is to be gained by holding fast. In the purpose another person is posited, and love is posited in relation to that person, yet not in an outward sense. But the purpose is- not the fruit acquired by doubt, but is the superabundance of promise. So beautiful is marriage, and the sensuous is by no means renounced but is ennobled.
I confess — it is wrong of me perhaps— that often when I think of my own marriage, the mental picture of it arouses in me an inexplicable sadness, for the fact that it will come to an end, that certam as I am that with her to whom I was united m marriage I shall live in another life, yet there she will be given to me in another way, that the contradic- tion which was a component in our love will be abolished. Yet it con- soles me to know that I shall remember that with her I lived in the most heartfelt, the most beautiful social relationship which human life affords. If I have any understanding of the matter, the defect of earthly love is the same thing as its advantageous quality, i.e. its par- tiality. Spiritual love has no partiality and moves in the opposite direc- tion, constantly abhorring all relativities. Earthly love in its true form takes the opposite path, and at its highest it is love only for one single person in the whole world. This is the element of truth in the saying that a man loves only one and loves only once.' Earthly love begins by loving several — these are the preliminary anticipations — and it ends by loving one. Spiritual love is constantly opening itself more and more, has its true expression in loving all. So then marriage is sensuous but at the same time spiritual, free and at the same time necessary, absolute in itself and at the same time inwardly pointing beyond itself.)
Having this mner harmony, marriage has, of course, its teleology in itself; it exists because it constantly presupposes itself, and hence, every question about its “why” is a misunderstanding, which comes very natural to prosaic common sense; and though generally the definition of what marriage is, is not so bold as that of Basil the singing master,

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who asserts that “of all ludicrous things marriage is the most ludicrous,” yet it may easily tempt not you only but me too to say that if marriage is nothing else but this, it is of all ludicrous things the most ludicrous.
Meanwhile, let us as a diversion look a little more closely at one and another of these answers. Even though between your laughter and mine there is a vast difference, we can very well laugh a little in company. The difference in our laughter will correspond pretty nearly to the diversity of intonation with which we respond to the question what marriage is for by exclaiming, “God only knows!” Moreover, when I say that we will laugh a little in fellowship it must not be forgotten how much I owe in this respect to you for your observations, for which as a married man I thank you cordially. For when people are not willing to perform effectually the most beautiful task, when they want to dance everywhere else but on the Rhodes which is assigned to them as the dancing place,' 1 let them become a sacrifice for you and other cunning persons who be- hind the mask of a confidant know how to make fools of them. But there is one point I would spare, one point at which I never have and never shall permit myself to laugh. You have often said that it might be “a capital thing” to go around and ask every man severally why he had married, and one would find that it was a very insignificant circum- stance which was the determining cause; and so you seek the ludicrous element in the fact that such an immense effect as a marriage with all its consequences can issue from such a small cause. I shall not linger to point out the incorrectness of your argument when you regard the little circumstance quite abstractly, nor to observe that if the little circumstance comes to something it is because it is superadded to a multiplicity of determinants. What I would dwell upon is the beauty in marriages which have as little “why” as possible. The less “why,” the more love — that is, when it is genuine. For the frivolous it will of course be evident in the result that it was a little “why”; for the serious man it will to his joy be evident that it was an immense “why.” The less “why” the better. Among the lower classes marriage is generally entered into without any very great “why”; but, therefore, these marriages echo far less fre- quently with so many “hows” — how they are to get along, how they are to provide for their children, etc. Marriage needs nothing more than its own “why,” but that is infinite, and therefore in the sense in which I have been using the word it is not a “why.” Of this you too will easily be convinced, for if to tfie “wherefore” alleged by such a philistine husband one were to reply with the true “therefore,” he presumably would say like Basil the singing teacher in Heiberg’s play, 18 “So let us

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invent a new lie.” You will also perceive why I am neither able nor willing to see the comical side of this lack of a “why,” because I fear that with this the true “why” will be lost. The true “why” is only one, but at the same time it has in it an infinity of energy and power which is able to smother all “hows.” The finite “why” is an agglomeration, a swarm, from which each takes his own, the one more, the other less, each more foolish than the other; for even if a man could unite all the finite “whys” at the inception of his marriage, he would be precisely the poorest of husbands.
' One of the most reputable answers, apparently, to the “Why of marriage is that marriage is a school for character; one marries in order to ennoble and improve one’s characters ! will attach myself to a definite fact which I owe to you. There was a government employe you “had got hold of” — that is your own expression, and it is just like you, for when there is a subject for your observation there is nothing you shrink from, you consider that you are justified by your vocation. Moreover, he was a rather clever fellow and had in particular a good knowledge of languages. The family was gathered around the tea table. He was smoking his pipe. His wife was no beauty, looked rather sim- ple, was old in comparison with him, and in view of all this one might promptly come to the conclusion that there must be a queer “why.” At the table sat a newly married woman, young and rather pale, who seemed to know another “why.” The wife herself poured tea, a young girl of sixteen, not pretty but plump and lively, passed it around — she appeared not yet to have attained a “why.” In that honorable company your unworthiness had also found a place. You, who were present ex officio , and already had made your appearance several times in vain, found naturally that this situation was too favorable to be neglected. Just in those days there was talk about a broken engagement. The fam- ily had not yet heard this important local news. The case was pleaded from all sides — that is to say, all were prosecuting attorneys. Then the case was adjudicated and the sinner excommunicated. Feeling ran high. You ventured to put in a little word in favor of the condemned man — which, of course, was not calculated to benefit the person in question but to serve as a cue. That did not succeed, so you went on to say, “Perhaps the engagement was too precipitate, perhaps he had not taken into con- sideration the momentous ‘why,’ one might almost say the ‘but,’ which ought to precede such a decisive step — enfin why do people marry, why, why do they Each of these “whys” was uttered with a different but equally dubitative intonation. That was too much. One “why” would

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have been quite sufficient, but such a formal challenge, an attack in force upon the enemy’s camp, was decisive. The moment had come. With an air of good humor which bore also the stamp of the predominance of common sense the host said, “Well, my good man, I will tell you. A man marries because marriage is a school for character.” Now every- thing was in train. Partly by opposition, pardy by approbation, you got him to outdo himself in grotesqueness — not at all to the edification of his wife, to the scandal of the young married woman and to the aston- ishment of the young girl. I reproved you for your conduct at that time — not out of consideration for the host, but for the sake of the women towards whom you were malicious enough to make the scene as trying and tiresome as possible. The two younger women do not need my defense, and in fact, it was only your usual coquetry which beguiled you to keep your eye on them. But perhaps the man really loved his wife, and it must have been terrible for her to listen to this. Besides, there was something indecorous in the whole situation/For common-sense reflec- tion is so far from making marriage moral that it rather makes it im- moral. Sensuous love has only one transfiguration in which it is equally aesthetic, religious and moral — and that is love. Common-sense calcula- tion makes it just as unaesthetic as it is irreligious, because the sensuous element does not receive its due in immediacy what is properly owing to it. So the man who marries for this and, that and the other reason takes a step as unaesthetic as it is irreligious) The goodness of his pur- pose makes the case no better, for the trouble is precisely that he has a purpose. In case a woman were to marry in order — indeed, the madness I have in mind is not unheard of in the world, a madness which seems to give her marriage a prodigious “why” — let us say, in order to bear a saviour to the world; in this case the marriage would be just as un- aesthetic as it is immoral and irreligious, -This is something people can- not make clear enough to themselves.t'There is a certain class of com- mon-sense men who look down witk immense contempt upon the aesthetic as trumpery and childishness, imagining that they are raised high above it by their pitiable teleology; but it is exactly the contrary, such men with their common sense are just as immoral as they are unaesthetic. One always does best, therefore, to look at the other sex, which is both the more religious and the more aesthetic. The host’s exposition was at all events very trivial, and I do not need to report it^ On die other hand, I will conclude this comment by wishing to every such husband a Xanthippe for a wife, and then children as wicked as

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possible, so that he may hope to be in possession of the conditions requi- site for attaining his purpose.
^The fact that marriage actually is a school for character, or (in order not to use so philistine an expression) that it is a genesis of character, I am quite ready to admit, though of course I must constantly maintain that every one who marries for this reason might be assigned to any other school than that of love. Moreover, a man like that will never derive any profit from this schooling. First of all, he deprives himself of the consolidation, the penetrating shudder through all thoughts and joints which marriage is, for after all, it is truly a deed of daring. But that is what it should be; and so far is it from being the right thing to want to calculate it, that such a calculation is precisely an attempt to enervate it. In the second place, he has lost, of course, the immense work- ing capital of fove and the humbling effect which the religious element in marriage hasl He is, of course, far too super-shrewd not to bring with him a ready-made conception of how he wants to be developed, and this, then, becomes regulative for his marriage and for the unfortunate being he has shamelessly selected to try the thing out on.iBut let us forget this and remember with gratitude how true it is that marriage educates — in case, that is to say, a man does not want to stand above it but is willing to subordinate himself as one always does when it is a question of education. It ripens the whole soul by the fact drat it gives it a feeling of significance and at the same time imposes the weight of a re- sponsibility one cannot sophisticate away, because one loves! It ennobles the whole man by the blush of bashfulness which belongs to woman but is the corrector of man; for woman is the conscience of man. It brings melody mto man’s eccentric movements, it gives strength and signifi- cance to woman’s quiet life, but this only insofar as she seeks it in man, and so it does not become an unwomanly manliness. His proud wrath is quelled by the fact that he turns back constantly to her. Her weakness is made strong by the fact that she leans upon him.*
\*It is marriage, therefore, which first gives a man his positive freedom, because this relation- ship is of a sort that extends over his whole life, over the least things as well as the greatest It liberates him from a certain natural embarrassment in natural situations — a liberation which can indeed be acquired in many other ways, but often at the expense of the good It liberates from stagnation in habit by maintaining a fresh current, liberates him from people precisely by the fact that it binds him to one person I have often noticed that unmarried people toil exactly like slaves. First of all they are slaves to their whims- they can indulge them freely without rcndciing an accounting to anybody, but then they become dependent, indeed, slaves to other peoplej What a role is often played by a servant, a housekeeper, etc In them the master’s whims and proclivities arc impersonated and expressed in clock time They know at what time the master gets up, or rather how long in advance his study must be warmed before they call him They know how to lay out for him clean shirts, how to turn his stockings inside out so that

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And then all the pettiness marriage brings with it. O yes, here you will be ready enough to agree with me, but at the same time will pray God to deliver you from it. No, there is nothing that educates so much as the petty/ There is a period in a man’s life when he ought to keep it at a distance^ but there is also a period when it is good, and it requires a great soul to save one’s soul out of the petty — but one can do this if one will, for the fact of willing makes the great soul, and he who loves also wills. JFor man this may be especially difficult, and, therefore, in this respect woman will have such great significance for him. She was created to deal with the small, and knows how to give it an importance, a dignity, a beauty, which enchants. Marriage liberates one from habits, from the tyranny of one-sidedness, from the yoke of whims — and how could all such evil get time to assume shape in a matrimonial union which so often and in so many ways calls itself to an accounting ? /In it no such things can thrive, for “love suffereth long and is kind, v love envieth not, rejoices not in unrighteousness, but rejoices in the truth, beareth\all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.” 1 Think of these beautiful words of the Lord’s Apostle, imagine them applied to a whole life, in such a way that one oftentimes did these things easily, oftentimes failed, oftentimes forgot them, yet returned to them again. Imagine that a married couple dare to repeat these words to one another in such a way that the principal impression is joyful — what blessedness is implied in this, what a transfiguration of character! In marriage one gets nowhere with great passions; one cannot pay in advance, by being loving for a month on a great scale one cannot make good the defect of another time; here every day has its trouble, but also its blessing. I know that I have subjected my pride and my hypochon- driac restlessness to her love, I have subjected her impetuosity to our love; but I know also that it has cost many days, I know also that there may be many dangers ahead, but my hope is fixed upon victory.
Or one marries...to have children, to make one’s humble contribu-
he can pull them on easily, how to have cold water ready when he has washed in tepid water, to close the windows when he goes out, to put out the bootjack and slippers for him when he comes home, etc , etc All this the servants, especially if they are a bit shrewd, know very well how to do In spite, then, of the fact that all this is done punctiliously, such unmarried persons are often not satisfied They are able, in fact, to purchase for themselves the satisfaction of every wish. Once in a while they 'are ill-tempered and peevish, then weak and goodnatured. A few dollars make it all right The servant promptly learns to take advantage of this, it is enough if at suitable intervals he does something a bit wrong, lets the master rage, then he is in despair, and thereupon receives a douceur So the master is captivated by such a personality, he doesn’t know whether he ought to wonder most at his punctuality or at the sincere repentance he shows when he has done something amiss Thus such a personality becomes indispensable to the master and is a perfect despot.

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don to the propagation of the human race. Imagine he were to have no children — his contribution would then be humble indeed. To be sure, states have presumed to associate this purpose with marriage, putting a premium on marriage and rewarding the man who has the most male children. At certain times Christianity has opposed this by putting a premium on not getting married. Even though this was a misunder- standing, it nevertheless shows a profound respect for personality that to this degree one would not treat the particular individual merely as a moment m a process but as the definitive reality. The more abstractly the State is conceived and the less individuality is able to assert itself, the more natural it is to issue this injunction and to offer this encourage- ment. In contrast to this, people in our age are sometimes almost in- clined to extol a marriage without children. For in our age people find it hard enough to muster up the resignation required for entering into the marriage relation ; if a man has exercised self-denial to that degree, he thinks it’s enough, and he cannot put up with the annoyance of hav- ing a flock of children. Often enough in novels one finds a dislike for children alleged, perhaps quite casually, as the reason why a particular person does not marry; in real life one sees this expressed in the most refined countries by the fact that the children are removed as early as possible from the paternal home and sent to boarding-school, etc. How often yo,u have been diverted by the tragi-comic fathers with four blessed children whom secretly they wished far away. How often you have been amused at the lofty superiority of such fathers when they were mortified by the pettiness which life brmgs with it, when the children have to be spanked, when they slobber at table, when they cry, when the great man — the father— feels his boldness checked by the thought that his children bind him to the earth. How often with well merited cruelty you have brought such fathers to the highest degree of suppressed rage by occu- pying yourself exclusively with his children and letting drop a few words about how blessed a thing it is after all to have children.
To marry for the sake of contributing to the propagation of the race might seem a very objective reason and a very natural one. It might seem as though one were taking God’s viewpoint and beholding from thence the beauty of maintaining the race; indeed, one might lay special emphasis upon the words, “Increase and multiply and replenish the earth.” And yet such a marriage is as unnatural as it is arbitrary, nor has it any support in Holy Scripture. For in the Bible we read that God established marriage because “it is not good for man to be alone,” hence, m order to give him company. Although to some scoffers at religion

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there might seem to be something a bit questionable about the compan- ionship which began by casting man into perdition, that really proves nothing, nor will I appeal to this event as a motto for all marriages, for only after woman had done this was the most hearty comradeship estab- lished between them. Then we read these words, that “God blessed them.” These words people completely overlook. And when in one place the Apostle Paul admonishes woman with a good deal of severity to “learn in quietness with all subjection” and to “be in quietness,” and thereupon, having stopped her mouth, he adds, to humiliate her still more, “she shall be saved through child-bearing,” I truly never would have forgiven the Apostle for this base opinion, if he had not made it all right again by adding, “if they (i.e. the children) continue in faith and love and sanctification with sobriety.”
It occurs to me in this connection that it may seem strange that I, whose duties leave so little time for study and whose studies such as they are generally take a very different direction, should appear to be so well versed in the Holy Scriptures that I could apply for the final examina- tion in theology. (An old pagan, Seneca I think it was, affirmed that by the time a man had reached his thirtieth year he ought to be so well acquainted with his constitution that he could be his own physician; and so I, too, am of the opinion that when a man has reached a certain age he ought to be able to be his own pries tyjNot as though I were by any means inclined to disdain participation in public worship and the instruction which is there offered; but I think that one ought to be clear in one’s own mind about the most important relationships of life} about which, by the way, one rather rarely hears anything very definite said in a sermon. I have an idiosyncrasy against edifying books and printed sermons, so when I cannot resort to church I have recourse to the Scrip- tures. I commonly seek enlightenment from one learned theologian or another, or from some learned work in which are to be found the most important passages of Scripture dealing with the subject in question, and I read them dirough. Thus I was already married and had been married for half a year before it occurred to me to reflect seriously upon what the New Testament teaches about marriage. I had been present at several weddings before my own, so I was acquainted with the sacred texts which are recited on that occasion. Nevertheless, I desired to have a little more complete acquaintance, and therefore had recourse to my friend Pastor Olufsen, who was here in town just at that time. Follow- ing his instructions I found the principal passages and read them through in my wife’s hearing. I well remember the impression made

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upon her by that passage from St. Paul. This was a singular situation: I did not know the passages of Scripture I was about to read to her, and I did not wish to examine them beforehand; I cannot bear to be pre- pared for the impression I shall make upon her — such a thing suggests an unbecoming distrust. This you might well take to heart. For it is true you are not married and so have no person to whom in the strictest sense you are obliged to be candid; but your preparations really reach the point of being ludicrous. You are well able to fool people, you can even seem to do everything as casually, as impromptu as possible, and yet I believe that you are not able to say good-bye without having de- liberated how you will say it.
But to return to marriage and to the married people who are inde- fatigable in perpetuating the race. A marriage of this sort is wont some- times to hide behind a more aesthetic screen. There is an ancient noble family of distinction which is about to die out; there are only two repre- sentatives left, a grandfather and his grandson. It is the only wish of the venerable old man that his grandson might marry in order that the race might not be obliterated. Or it is the case of a man to whose life not so much importance attaches but who thinks back with a certain sadness, if not to a more remote time, at least to his parents, and he loves them so dearly that he could desire that this name might not die out but be kept in the grateful memory of living men. Perhaps he pictures to him- self how beautiful it would be if he could talk to his children about their grandfather, dead long ago, to fortify their lives by such an ideal picture, to inspire them to everything noble and great by this presenta- tion of him; he will think, perhaps, that he could pay off something of the debt he owes to his parents. Now all this is very well and very pretty, but essentially it is irrelevant to marriage, and a marriage con- tracted for such reasons is as unaesthetic as it is immoral. I may seem harsh in saying this, but it is true. Marriage can only be undertaken with one purpose, by which it becomes in the same degree ethical and aes- thetical, but this purpose is immanent; every other purpose separates what belongs together, and thereby reduces both the spiritual and the sensuous factors to finite terms. It may well be that by such talk an indi- vidual may win a girl’s heart, especially when the feelings above de- scribed truly exist in him; but the thing is wrong, and her nature is essentially perverted, and it always is an insult to a girl to want to mar ry her for any other reason than because one loves her.
( Although the analogy of a stud-farm (if I may use your expression) is not properly applicable to any marriage, yet for the man who has not

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misunderstood the meaning of his marriage the progeny proves to be a blessing. It is a beautiful thing for a person to owe another as much as possible; but the highest thing one person can owe another is...lifgt ^Jid yet a child may owe still more to a father; for in fact it does not receive life pure and simple, but it receives it with a d efinite content , and when it has long enough reposed upon its mother’s breast it is laid upon the father’s, and he too nourishes it with his own flesh and bloqd, with the experiences often dearly bought in the course of a stirring lifejAnd what possibility there is in a child! I am very ready to concur with you in hating the idolatry which is practiced with children, the whole family cult in particular, and the circulation of children at the dinner table to exchange the family kiss, with family admiration and family expecta- tions, while the parents self-complacently congratulate one another upon the difficulties already overcome and rejoice in the consummate product of their art. Yes, I admit it, I can wax almost as sarcastic as you against such a nuisance, but I do not allow myself to be disturbed by it further. Children belong to the inmost and most hidden life of the family, and to this dim region of mystery one ought also to direct every serious or God-fearing thought concerning this them e| But there, too, it will be manifest that every child has a halo about its head, and there, too, every father will feel that there is more in the child than it owes to him, yea, he will feel with humility that the child is a trust, and that he is in the most beautiful sense of the word only a stepfather. The father who has not felt this has taken in vain his paternal digmtyy Let us be free from all unseasonable fuss, but let us also be free from your wanton- ness, when like Holberg’s Henrik 10 you would pledge yourself to ac- complish the impossible.
The child is the greatest and most important thing in the world; it is the most insignificant and the most unimportant — just as one wants to take it — and one has an opportunity to get a deep insight into a man when one learns how he thinks in this respect. A tiny babe may almost produce a comic effect when one thinks of its pretension to be a human being; it may also produce a tragic effect when one reflects that 'it comes into the world with a cry, that a long time elapses before it forgets to cry, and that no one has explained this baby cry. It may thus produce various effects, but the religious way of regarding it remains the most beautiful and can well be united with the others. And now as for you —you indeed love possibility, and yet the thought of children will cer- tainly not produce a joyous effect upon you. That you will admit, for I have no doubt that your inquisitive and vagabond mind has taken a

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peep into this world. This distaste is attributable, of course, to the fact that you want to have possibility under your control. You like to be in the same condition as children when they are waiting in the dark room for the revelation of the Christmas tree; but a child is evidently a pos- sibility of a very different sort, and of so serious a sort that you would hardly have patience to put up with it. And nevertheless, children are a blessing. It is right and seemly that a man should think with profound seriousness upon the responsibility he bears for the child, but if he does not sometimes remember that it is not merely an obligation imposed upon him, but that it is also a blessing, and that God in heaven has not forgotten, as even men do not forget, to lay a gift in the cradle, then that man has not opened wide his heart either to aesthetic or to religious feelings. The better a man is able to hold fast to the conviction that children are a blessing, the more conflicts he has to overcome and the less dubious he is in conserving this jewel which is the only thing the infant possesses, and lawfully possesses because God Himself has con- firmed to it this right — all the more beautiful, the more aesthetic, the more religious it is. I, too, sometimes saunter about the streets, abandon- ing myself to my own thoughts and the impressions momentarily made upon me by the surroundings. I have seen a poor woman who carried on a small business, not in a shop, nor in a stall, but in an open place, standing there in rain and wind with a babe in her arms. She was her- self clean and neat, and the babe was carefully wrapped. I saw her many times. A fashionable lady came by and almost rebuked her because she did not leave the child at home — all the more because it was only an obstacle to her. And a priest passed by that same way, and he ap- proached her and offered to put the child in an asylum. She thanked him kindly, but you should have seen the glance with which she bent down and looked at the child. If the child had been frozen, this look would have thawed it; if it had been dead and cold, this look would have recalled it to life; if it had been extenuated by hunger and cold, the benediction of this glance would have refreshed it. But the child slept, and not even its smile could reward the mother. Lo, this woman had perceived that the child was a blessing. If I were an artist, I would never paint anything else but this woman. Such a sight is a rarity; it is like a rare flower which is seen only by a happy chance.
But the world of spirit is not subjected to vanity, if one has discovered the tree; it blooms perpetually — this woman I have often seen. I showed her to my wife — I assumed no self-importance, I sent her no rich gifts, as though I had plenary divine authority to distribute rewards; I

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humbled myself under her; verily she stands in no need of gold, or of fashionable ladies, or of asylums and priests, or of a poor assessor in civil law and his wife. She needs absolutely nothing except that the child will one day love her with the same tenderness — not even of this does she feel the need, but it is the reward she has deserved, a blessing which heaven will not fail to give her. That this is pretty, that it moves even your hardened heart, you will not deny. Therefore, for the sake of im- pressing upon you the fact that a child is a blessing, I employ no terrify- ing pictures such as people often use when they would frighten the unmarried with the thought of how lonely they some day will be and how unhappy if they are not surrounded by a flock of children. For, in the first place, you presumably would not allow yourself to be terrified, not by me at least, yea, not by the whole world, though when you are alone with yourself in the dark chamber of melancholy thoughts you are sometimes doubtless m dread of yourself. And, in the second place, it always seems to me a suspicious circumstance that in order to con- vince oneself of the possession of something precious one must alarm others by the thought that they have it not. Mock, then, if you will, utter the word which hovers upon your lips, scoff at the four-seated Holstein wagon; divert yourself, if you will, by the reflection that the excursion is no further than to “Fredensberg”; drive past us, if you will, in your matchless Viennese carnage; but beware of indulging often in your mockery, which directed to this theme might perhaps quietly de- velop an ideal longing in your soul which would be a dear punishment for you to pay.
But in still another sense children are a blessing, because one has so very much to learn from them. I have seen proud men whom no ad- verse fate could humble, every one of whom was capable of snatching the girl he loved from the family circle to which she belonged, and do- ing it with an assurance which seemed to say, “Now thou hast me, so that ought to be enough. I am accustomed to defy tempests, and now how much more when the thought of thee will give me enthusiasm, now when I have much more to fight for.” I have seen the same men as fathers — a little mishap which befell their children was capable of humbling them, an illness forced their proud lips to pronounce a prayer. I have seen men who almost took pride in despising God in heaven, who were wont to pick out every believer as the target of their mockery — I have seen them as fathers concerned for the welfare of their children take into their service the most pious persons. I have seen girls whose proud glance made Olympus tremble, whose vain mind was fixed only

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upon pomp and finery — I have seen them as mothers endure every hu- miliation, begging almost like mendicants what was for the advantage of their children. I think of a particular case. It was that of a very proud lady. Her child fell ill. One of the physicians of the city was called. He refused to come on account of a previous experience with that family. And now she went to him and waited in his antechamber in order to move him to come by her prayers. But what is the use of these striking descriptions which, even if they are true, are not so edifying as the simpler examples which are visible every day for those who have eyes to see!
Moreover, one has much to learn from children in another way. In every child there is something original, and upon that all abstract prin- ciples and maxims come to grief. One must start from the beginning, often with much toil and trouble. There is profound significance in the Chinese proverb: “Bring up your child well — thus you will know how much you owe your parents.” And then consider the responsibility which is laid upon the father. One consorts with other men, one at- tempts to convey to them a notion of that which one regards as the right; one perhaps makes several attempts; when this is of no avail one has nothing more to do with them, one washes one’s hands. But when comes the moment when a father dares, or rather when a fatherly heart can resolve to give up every further attempt ? A man lives over again his whole life in his children, and only now does he understand his own life. To you, however, it is no use talking about all this; there are things of which one can never form a concrete conception without having ex- perienced them, and among these is that of being a father.
And now, finally, about the beautiful way in which a man by means of his children is connected with a past and with a future. Although one may not have quite fourteen noble ancestors and be concerned about producing the fifteenth in the line, yet one has, in reality, a far longer genealogy, and it is truly a cheering thing to see how m families the human race assumes, as it were, distinct types. The unmarried man, too, can, of course, make such reflections, but he will not, to the same degree, feel prompted to do so, nor entitled to, since, to a certain degree, he is encroaching intrusively.
Another case is that when one marries in order to acquire a home. One has become bored at home, one has traveled abroad and been bored, one has come home again and been bored. For company’s sake one keeps a remarkably fine water spaniel and a full-blooded mare, but one still feels the lack of something. At the restaurant where one meets with

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like-minded friends one looks in vain for an acquaintance who for a long time has not turned up. One learns that he has married, one be- comes soft-hearted and sentimental in one’s old age; one feels that everything is so empty around one, no one is waiting for one when one stays away. The old housekeeper is at bottom a very honest woman, but then she doesn’t know in the least how to cheer one up and make things a bit agreeable. One marries. The neighbors clap their hands in ap- proval, they find that he has acted shrewdly and sensibly — and there- upon they go on to talk about the most important factor in housekeep- ing, the supremest earthly good, an honest and reliable cook whom one can trust to go to the market alone, and a nimble chambermaid who is so smart that one can use her for everything. If only such a bald-headed old hypocrite would be content with marrying a night nurse — but gen- erally that is not the case. The best is not good enough for him, and finally he succeeds in catching a pretty young girl who is manacled to such a galley-slave. Perhaps she has never loved — what a horrible mis- understanding!
You see, I let you have the floor. However, you must admit that among the simpler classes more especially one finds marriages which have been contracted for the purpose of getting a home, and which are quite pretty. It is the case of men fairly young who without being especially knocked about in life have earned a sufficient income and then think of marrying. This is pretty; I know too that it would never occur to you to direct your mockery against such marriages. A certain noble simplicity gives them at once an aesthetic and a religious aspect. For here there is no egoistic trait in the thought of wanting to have a home; on the contrary, it is associated with the conception of a duty, a calling, which is laid upon them, but at the same time is a duty dear to them.
One only too often hears married people console themselves and alarm the unmarried by saying, “Yes, at least we have a home, and when we grow older a place of refuge.” Sometimes they add with a rare Sun- day flourish in the edifying style, “Our children and children’s children will one day close our eyes and mourn for us.” The opposite is the fate of the unmarried, they imply. They admit with a certain envy that these have the best of it for a while, when they are young; they secretly wish that they were not yet married, but their turn will come. They liken the unmarried to the rich man in the parable who has his good things in advance.
All such marriages suffer from the defect that they treat one single

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f actor in marriage as the purpose o£ marriage j and hence they often feel deluded (the first class, of course, more especially) when they must ad- mit that marriage after all means a little more than the acquisition of a comfortable, agreeable and convenient home. But let us ignore the wrong side in order to see the beautiful and the good. It is not granted to every man to extend his activity so very far, and many of those who imagine that they are working for something great find themselves sooner or later deluded. By this I by no means intend to refer to you, for you, of course, are too clever not to scent the illusion at once, and it has often enough been the target of your mockery. In this respect you have an extraordinary degree of resignation and have once for all made a total renunciation. You prefer to divert yourself. You are everywhere a welcome guest. Your wit, your lightness in conversation, a certain qual- ity of good-nature, and a bit of maliciousness, have the effect that on seemg you one associates with tins sight the impression of an agreeable evening. You have always been and always will be an acceptable guest in my house, partly because I do not fear you greatly, and partly because I have good prospects of not needing to begin to fear you for a long time to come: my eldest daughter is only three years old, and so early as that you surely would not begin your telegraphic signals. You sometimes have half reproached me for retiring more and more from the world —
I remember that once you hummed the melody, “Tell me, Jannette .” 20 The reason for it, of course, is, as I then said to you in reply, that I have a home. It is just as difficult to get hold of you in this instance as it is in every other, for you always have other aims in view. If one would wrench people out of their illusions, there you are at hand as usual, “in every way at your service.” [You are absolutely indefatigable in ferreting out illusions in order to smash them. You talk so sensibly, so under- standing^, that everyone who has no closer acquaintance with you must believe you are a sedate man. However, you have not reached the truth, you have come to a stop with the destruction of illusions, and inasmuch as you have wrought that destruction in all possible and imaginable di- rections, you have really worked yourself into a new illusion: the illu- sion that one can stop there. Yes, my friend, you are living in an illusion, and you accomplish nothingyHere I have pronounced the word which has always had such a strange effect upon you. “Accomplished!” you say, “Who has ever accomplished anything ? That is precisely one of the most dangerous illusions. I do not busy myself in any way, I divert my- self — especially at the expense of those who believe they are accom- plishing something. And is it not indescribably comic that a person can

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believe this ? I shall not plague the world by such great pretensions.” Whenever you talk on this theme you make an exceedingly disagree- able impression upon me. It revolts me because there is in it an impu- dent untruth which when delivered with your virtuosity always assures you of victory, or at least always brings the laughter around to your side.
I remember one occasion when you had been listening for a long time to a man who had become indignant at your talk, answering him not a word, but merely goading him by your sarcastic smile, and then, to the universal delight of those present, you replied, “Well, yes, when you add this speech to all the rest you have accomplished, one can at least not blame you for the belief that you truly are accomplishing something in gross and in detail.” When you talk like this it pains me, because I feel for you a certain compassion. If you do not restrain yourself, a rich nature will go to ruin in yom It is because of this gift you are dangerous, because of this your outbursts as well as your coolness have a power which I have never known in any other among the many who dabble at the profession of being discontented. You do not belong to this clas^ either; it is the object of your satire, for you have gone much furthers You are joyful, you affirm, and delighted with life; you smile, you walk with a jaunty flourish of your hat, you do not strain yourself with life’s sorrows, you have not even allowed your name to be inscribed in any society for triple lamentations. But precisely for this reason your utter- ances are so dangerous to younger men, for they must be impressed by the mastery you have attained over everything in life. Now I will not say to you that a man should accomplish something, but I will say, if there are particular passages in your life over which you throw an im- penetrable veil, might they not be the sort of things you wished to ac- complish although your melancholy moans with pain at accomplishing so little? And how entirely different the whole thing appears within you! Is it not there a profound sorrow over the fact that you are able to accomplish nothing ? I know at least one situation: you once let fall a few words about it which did not pass unnoticed. Certainly you would give everything to be able to accomplish something. Whether it is your own fault that you cannot, whether it is your pride which must be broken before you can, I do not know, and I shall never press you further. But why will you take side with all the bad elements which re- joice in your power to insure a triumph? Too often, as I have said, one feels how little it is one is able to accomplish in the world. I do not say this despondently; I have no reason to reproach myself; I believe I per-

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form the duties of my office conscientiously and joyfully, and I shall never feel tempted to mix in things which do not concern me, with the hope of accomplishing more; but this activity of mine is a very limited one, and really it is only by faith one possesses assurance that one is actually accomplishing something.
But then, beside this I have my home. With regard to this I often think of the beautiful words of Jesus the son of Sirach , 21 which I would beg you also to consider: “He that getteth a wife entereth upon a pos- session: a helpmeet for him and a pillar of repose. Where no hedge is the possession will be laid waste: and he that hath no wife will mourn as he wandereth up and down. For who will trust a nimble robber that skippeth from town to town ? Even so, who shall trust a man that hath no nest and lodgeth wheresoever he findeth himself at nightfall.” I did not marry in order to have a home, but I have a home, and it is a great blessing; I am not, and I believe you would not venture to call me, “a fool of a husband.” I am not my wife’s husband in the sense that the Queen of England has a husband; my wife is not a bondwoman in Abraham’s house 22 whom I am free to drive away with the child, but neither is she a goddess about whom I dance with spoony devotion. I have a home, and this home is not everythmg, but I know that I have been everything to my wife. I know it partly because in all humility she has believed it, partly because I know within myself tjiat I have been and shall be, so far as one can be everything to another. Here I am able to illustrate for you the beauty of the fact that a person can be everything to another without being reminded of it by any finite or particular thing whatsoever. 'Upon this point I can talk with all the greater assurance because she certainly is not cast into the shade. She stood in no need of me; it was not a poor girl I married, doing her an act of chanty (as the world says with all possible contempt of itself) ; it was not a silly fool whom I married for other reasons and out of whom by my wisdom I have brought forth something good. She was independent, and more than that, she was content with so little that she did not need to sell herself. She was wholesome, more sound than I, although more im- petuous.! Of course her life could not be so active as mine, nor so re- flective; with my experience I could perhaps save her from many errors, but her wholesomeness made that superfluous In truth, she owes me nothing, and yet I am everything to hen She had no need of me, but for this cause I have not been indifferent; I nave watched over her, and like Nehemiah I am armed even in my sleep 28 — to repeat an expression which came to my tongue on a similar occasion, and to show you that

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I have not forgotten your sarcastic observation that this might be a great embarrassment to my wife. My young friend, I am not troubled by such an observation, as you can see from the fact that I repeat it, and repeat it, I assure you, without wrath/So I have been nothing and yet everything to her. You, on the other hand, have been everything to a multitude of people, and at bottom you have been nothing to them.J And suppose also that in the temporary connections you form with men you were able to endow one man with such a treasure of the interesting that he had enough for his whole lifetime (which is to assume the im- possible), suppose that he really gained something from you, yet you yourself. ..lost, for after all you had found no single individual to whom you could wish to be everything; and even if this were a mark of your greatness, this greatness is in truth so painful that I will pray God to exempt me.
The notion which one must first of all associate with the home is that of action, in order to get away from every false and contemptible thought of ease. In man’s enjoyment even there ought to be an element of action, even if it is not expressed in any external and palpable deed. In this way a man may be active even though he does not seem to be, whereas woman’s domestic activity is more apparent.
But in the next place there is associated with the home such a con- cretion of small details that it is very difficult to say anything about them in general. In this respect every house has its characteristic features, and it might be interesting to compare a variety of such peculiarities. Naturally, every such characteristic ought to permeate the common spirit of the home, and nothing is more abhorrent to me than the separatistic humbug in families which from the very first make a point of showing how special everything is in their house, which sometimes go so far as to speak a language of their own, or one so full of enigmatic allusions that a man does not know what to make of it. The proper thing is for the family to have such a characteristic distinction, but the art is to hide it.
Those who marry in order to have a home are always making loud complaint that there is no one expecting them, no one to welcome them, etc. This shows clearly enough that really they have a home only when they imagine themselves outside. Praise God, I do not have to go out, whether to remember or to forget that I have a home. The feeling has often gripped me most sensibly when I am sitting, nor do I need to go into the parlor or the dining room to ascertain that I have a home. This feeling often grips me when I sit quite alone in my work room. It grips

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me when the curtain before the glass door of my study is drawn and I see a blithe face at the pane, and the curtain falls back again and there is a gentle knock, and thereupon a head peeps through the door in such a way that one might think it had no body belonging to it, and that instant she stands by my side — and again vanishes. This feeling may grip, me when I am sitting there entirely alone far into the night, as in the old days at college. I can then light my lamp and steal quiedy into her room to see if she is really asleep. As a matter of course this feeling often grips me when I come home. And then when I ring the bell she knows the hour I am accustomed to come (we poor government em- ployees are hampered also in this respect, that we cannot take our wives by surprise), she knows the way I am accustomed to ring, so when be- fore the door is opened I hear the noise and rumpus made by the chil- dren and by her, and she herself appears at the head of the troup, and she so childlike that she seems to rival the children in jubilation— then I feel that I have a home. And then if I look serious (you talk so much of being a judge of men, but who is such a judge of men as is a woman?) how altered the frolicsome child is; she does not become dis- consolate, does not make me dejected, but there is in her a power, not hard but flexible, like the sword which could cut stone and yet was wrapped around the waist. Or when she can see that I am cross (good Lord, that happens too) how indulgent she can be, and yet what su- periority there is in this indulgence.
What more I have in mind to say to you widi regard to dns matter I prefer to say in connection with a phrase which might well be used of you and which you often use: “a stranger and a pilgrim in the world.” Young people who have no notion how dearly experience is bought, nor any presentment of the unspeakable wealth which it is, may easily let themselves be carried away by the same whirlwind; they may perhaps be affected by your talk as by a fresh breeze which lures them out upon the infinite ocean to which you point them; and you yourself may become almost uncontrollably intoxicated by the thought of that infinity which is your element, an element which like the ocean conceals everythmg which lies upon its changeless floor. Should not you, who are already an experienced navigator in these waters, know how to tell of disasters and distress at sea ? Upon this sea, it is true, one does not know a great deal about the other man. One does not equip great ships which are laboriously launched upon the deep; no, they are very small boats, skiffs for only one person; one takes advantage of the instant, one spreads one’s sail, one skims along with the infinite speed of rest-

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less thoughts, alone upon the infinite ocean, alone under the infinite sky. Dangerous this life is, but one is familiar with the thought of losing it; for precisely in this the enjoyment consists, that one disappears into the infinite in such a way that no more is left of one but just enough to enjoy this disappearance. Seafaring men relate that on the great oceans one sees a kind of sailboat called the Portuguese man-of-war. It is able to spread a little sail and then with infinite speed to skim over the sur- face of the sea. Pretty nearly thus it is with your navigation upon the sea of life. Alone in one’s caique, one is sufficient unto oneself, has noth- ing to do with anybody except at the moment it pleases one. Alone in one’s caique — I cannot quite understand how one is able to fill this void; but as you are the only man I have known of whom it can be said with some truth that you fill the void, I know also that you have one passenger aboard^who is able to help you to fill up the time. You ought therefore to say :( alone in one’s boat, alone with one’s care, alone with one’s despair, which one prefers cowardly to retain rather than to suffer the pain of being healed.) Permit me now to bring to light the sickly aspect of your life — not as though I wanted to terrify you, for I am not posing as a bugaboo, and you are too knowing to be affected by that sort of thing. But I beg you to reflect how painful, how sad, how humili- ating it is to be in this sense a stranger and a pilgrim in the world.
The effect I might possibly make upon you I shall not imperil by pro- voking you with the thought of family clannishness, the herd instinct, which you abhor; but consider family life in its beauty when it is founded upon a deep and heartfelt sense of community, in such a way that the tie which binds everything together is mysteriously concealed, so that one has only a presentiment of it; think of the hidden life of such a family when it is clothed in an outward form so beautiful that one is nowhere offended by the hardness of its joints; and then think of your relation to it. Such a family would be precisely to your taste, and perhaps you would often take delight in entering this circle. With your easy ways you would soon become, as it were, intimate with that family. I say, “as it were,” because you do not really become intimate, and it is perfectly clear that one who is a stranger and a pilgrim never can. They would regard you as a welcome guest, they would, perhaps, be kind enough to make everything as agreeable for you as possible, they would be complaisant towards you, yes; they would treat you as a child to whom one is attached. For your part, you would be inexhaustible m your attentions to the family, inventive to delight them in every way. To be sure, this is all very pretty, and in a moment of chagrin over the

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fact that no real intimacy exists you might be tempted to say that you don’t care to see the family in dressing gowns, the daughter in slippers, and the mother in curl papers; and yet the correct behavior of this fam- ily in your presence implies, if you will look more closely, a prodigious humiliation for you. Thus every family would have to behave towards you, and you would be humiliated by it. Or do you not believe that the family keeps hidden an entirely different life which is its sanctuary ? Do you not believe that every family has its household gods, although they are not put in the vestibule ? And m that utterance of your chagrin is there not concealed a very refined weakness ? For really I do not believe that, if ever you were married, you could bear to see your wife in negli- gee, unless this were a fine dress expressly calculated to please you. You think, of course, that you have done much for the family by entertaining them, by shedding upon them a certain aesthetic luster; but suppose that the family cared very little for this in comparison with the inner life it possesses. You will have the same experience in relation to every family, and proud as you are, this is a humiliation. No one shares sor- row with you, no one confides in you. You think indeed that they often do, you have enriched yourself m fact with manifold psychological ob- servations; but this is often a delusion, for people are commonly willing to talk to you superficially because that sets in motion the interesting in you, which in itself has already the agreeable quality which prompts them to desire this medicine when they do not need it. You know that people would rather take communion from a mendicant monk than from their father confessor, and if precisely on account of your isolated position a man were to address himself to you, this could never acquire the true significance of reciprocal confidence, either for you or for him.

Not for him, because he would feel how arbitrary it was to pick you out as a confidant; and not for you, because you could not close your eyes

tp the equivocal character of your s Undeniably you are a good open

your competence.
operator, you understand how to penetrate

into the most secret recesses of sorrow and grief, yet so shrewdly that

you never forget the way back. Well, I assume that you succeeded in

healing your patient, but you got out of it no true and deep joy, for the whole thing bore the stamp of arbitrariness, and you had no responsibil- ity. It is only responsibility that bestows a blessing and true joy, and that even though one may not do the thing half as well as you; it often bestows a blessing when one accomplishes nothing. But when one has a home, then one has responsibility, and in itself this responsibility gives assurance and joy. Precisely because you are not willing to have re-

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sponsibility, you must find it quite natural, though you often complain of it, that people are ungrateful to youi It is rather rare, however, that you meddle with healing; commonly/ as I have said, your principal business is that of destroying illusions, and occasionally working people into illusions. When one sees you with one or two young men, sees how with a few exercises you already have helped them thoroughly over their childish illusions, which are, nevertheless, salutary in so many ways, how they then become lighter than reality, how the wings sprout, while you yourself like an old experienced bird give them an exhibition of what it means with a beat of the wings to soar over the whole of ex- istence, or when you undertake a similar course of training with young girls and study the difference in the mode of flight, notmg that in the male flight one hears the beat of the wings, whereas the female flight is like a dreamy stroke with the oars — when one sees this, one cannot be angry with you for the art which brings this to pass, but who ought not to be angry with you for the light-mindedness implied m it ? You may surely say of your heart as is said in the old verse:
Man Herz 1st wie etn Taubenhaus:
Die erne fiiegt herein, die andre fliegt heraus —
only that in your case one does not so much see that the thoughts fly in as that they are constantly flying out. But beautiful as a dovecote is when used as a symbol of a quiet domestic home, it truly should not be used in this way. And is it not painful and,., sad to let life go past one thus without ever gaining a firm position ? ^Is it not sad, my young friend, that for you life never acquires content ? There is something sad in the feelmg that one is growing old, bqt it is a far deeper sadness which grips one when one cannot grow old^'I feel precisely at this moment how much justification I have in calling you “my young friend ’’ The dis- tance of seven years between us is not exactly an eternity \I will not boast of mental maturity in comparison with you, but I can boast of a maturer view of life. Yes, I feel that I really h^ye grown older, but you constantly hold fast to youth’s first surprised And when sometimes, though it is rather seldom, I feel weary of the world, this is associated with a feeling of exaltation, I think of the beautiful words, “Blessed are they that rest from their labors.”; I do not deceive myself by thinking that I have had a great work to do in life, I did not sort it out, it was as- signed to me, and even if it was a lowly business, it has been my business to be glad of it in spite of its being lowly. (You certainly do not rest from your labors, rest is a curse to you, you can live only in unrest. Rest is

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your polar opposite, rest makes you more restless. You are like a hungry man whom food makes only more hungry, a thirsty man whom drink makes only more thirsty. ;
But I return now to the previous theme, the finite aims with which people enter upon marriage. I have mentioned only three because these appear to have something in their favor for the fact that they take into consideration one or another of the real factors in marriage, although for their one-sidedness they are just as ridiculous as they are irreligious. I will not dwell upon a multitude of finite aims which are so perfectly paltry that one cannot even laugh at them. As when one marries for money, or from jealousy, or for prospective advantage, because there are good prospects of her dying soon — or that she may live long and prove to be a blessed branch which bears much fruit, so that by her one may sweep into one’s pocket the inheritance of a whole series of uncles and aunts. This sort of thing I prefer not to dwell upon.
As an outcome of this investigation I can emphasize here the fact that marriage in order to be aesthetic and religious must, as it was proved, have no finite “why.” But this was precisely the aesthetical fea- ture of first love; and so here again marriage is on a level with first love, and the aesthetic feature of marriage is that in itself it conceals a multi- plicity of “whys” which life gradually brings to light in all their blessed- ness.
However, since what I proposed to prove in the first instance is the aesthetic validity of marriage, and smee what distinguishes marriage is the ethical and religious element, which insofar as it seeks to express itself in a particular form finds this in the wedding ceremony, I will dwell upon this topic, in order that I may not seem to treat the question too lightly or give the slightest appearance of wishing to conceal the schism between love and marriage which you and others, for different leasons, seek to establish. You may be right in affirming that, if many people do not remark upon this schism, it is because they lack the energy and the culture requisite for thinking clearly over either of these things.
However, let us examine more closely the wedding ceremony and its formulas. Here again you may perhaps find me well armed; and I can assure you that I am well armed without mcommodmg my wife , 24 for she is glad to see me hold off such freebooters as you and your kind. Moreover, I am of the opmion that, just as Christians ought to be always ready to render an account for the faith that is in them, so too a married man ought to be always ready to render an account for marriage, not exactly to everyone who is pleased to require it, but to everyone whom

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he counts worthy, or whom he may think it well to enlighten, even though, as in the present instance, he is unworthy. And since you, after having laid waste other territories, have begun to ravage the province of matrimony, I feel challenged to encounter you.
I can assume that you know the marriage service, indeed, that you have made a study of it. As a rule you are thoroughly well equipped and generally do not begin an attack before you are as well informed about the case as are its experienced defenders. It therefore happens at times, as you complain, that your attack is too strong, that those who should defend the case are not so well informed about it as are you who attack it. Now we will see.
However, before we enter into particulars let us see whether in the marriage service, regarded simply as a ceremony, there is not something disturbing. The wedding, in fact, is not a thing which die lovers them- selves in an exuberant moment have happened to think of, a thing which they could give up as a matter of course if in the meantime they should have a different notion. Thus, it is a power which encounters us. But does love then need to recognize any other power but itself ? You will, perhaps, admit that when doubt and anxiety have taught a man to pray he will thankfully submit to such a power, but you insist that first love has no need of it. At this point you must remember that we have conceived of the individuals in question as religiously developed.
I am not concerned, therefore, to ask how religion can develop in a man, but how it can subsist along with first love; and certain as it is that un- happy love may make a man religious, it is just as certain that religious individuals can love. Religion is not so foreign to human nature that a rupture is necessary in order to awaken it. But if the individuals in question are religious, then the power which encounters them in the weddmg ceremony is not foreign to them; and as their love unites them iii. a higher unity, so does the religious lift them to a still higher plane.
What, then, does the wedding ceremony accomplish? It provides a survey of the genesis of the human race, and therewith it grafts the new marriage upon the great body of the race. Thereby it presents the uni- versal, the essentially human, and evokes it in consciousness) Perhaps this offends you; you say, perhaps, “At the very instant when one is uniting oneself to a person so tenderly that everything else disappears from view, it is distasteful to be reminded that es 1st eine alte Ge- schichte , 20 something that has been and is and will be.” You would re- joice in that which is peculiar in your love, you would suffer the whole passion of love to glow in you, and you do not wish to be disturbed by

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the thought that Tom, Dick and Harry have the same experience. “It is exceedingly prosaic,” you say, “to be reminded of one’s numerical sig- nificance: in the year 1750 on such a day at 10 o’clock, Mr. N.N. and the estimable Miss N.N.; the same day at n o’clock, Mr. N.N. and Miss N.N.” This sounds to you perfectly dreadful, yet in your reasoning there is concealed a reflection which has been disturbing to first love. (Love, as we have already observed, is a unity of the universal and the particular; but the wish to enjoy the particular in the sense you pro- pose indicates a reflection which has placed the particular outside the universal. The more the universal and the particular interpenetrate, the more beautiful love is. Greatness, whether in the immediate sense or in a higher sense, does not signify being peculiar, but the possession of the universal in the peculiarity) Therefore, to first love an introduction which recalls the universal cannot be disturbing. Moreover, the mar- riage service gives more than that, for in pointing to the universal it leads the lovers back to the first parents. ‘Jt does not stop with the uni- versal in abstracto but exhibits it as it was expressed by the first couple in the human race. This is an indication of what every marriage is. Every marriage, like every human life, is at the same time this particular thing and yet the whole, at once an individual and a symbol. Thus it furnishes the lovers with the most beautiful picture of a couple who were not disturbed by reflecting about other people: it says to the indi- viduals, “Thus you also are a couple, it is the same experience which is here repeated in you, you also are now standing here alone in the in- finite world, alone before the face of God.” So you see that the wedding furnishes what you require, but that at the same time it gives more, that at one and the same time it gives the universal and the particular^
“But the marriage service proclaims that sin has entered into the world, and to be reminded so emphatically of sin is surely discordant at the moment when one feels most pure. In the next place it teaches that sin entered into the world along with marriage, and this hardly seems encouraging to the respective partners. The Church, of course, can wash its hands if anything unfortunate come out of it, for it has not flattered with a vain hope.” That the Church does not flatter with a vain hope might of itself seem to be a good thingf Moreover, in saying that sin entered into the world along with marriage, the Church, nevertheless, permits marriage, and it might be a grave question whether it teaches that sin entered by means of marriage. In any case, it proclaims sin merely as man’s universal lot, making no definite application to the in- dividual, and least of all does it say, you are about to commit a sin. It

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is certainly a very difficult thing to expound m what way sin entered in along with marriage. It might seem as if sin and the sensuous were here identified. However, such cannot be the case, inasmuch as the Church permits marriage. “Yes,” you would say, “it does so only when it has taken away all the beauty of earthly love.” By no means, I would reply. At least, not one word to this effect is to be found in the marriage service.
In the next place the Church proclaims the punishment of sin: that woman shall bear children with pain and be subject unto her husband. But, after all, the first of these consequences is surely of such a nature that, if the Church did not proclaim it, it would proclaim itself. “Yes,” you reply, “but the disturbing thing is that this is said to be the conse- quence of sin.” You find it aesthetically beautiful that a child is born with pain, it is a mark of respect for a human being, a symbolic indi- cation of the significance of the fact that a man comes into the world, in contrast to the beasts which, the lower they are in the scale, the more easily they bring forth their young. I may here again lay emphasis upon the consideration that this is proclaimed as the universal lot of man- kind; and the statement that a child is born in sin is the profoundest expression for its highest dignity. It is a glorification of human life that all that pertains to it is referred to the category of sin.
In the next place it is said that the wife shall be subject unto her hus- band. At this point you will perhaps say, “Yes, that is pretty, and it has always pleased me to see a woman who loves her husband as her lord.” But it offends you that this is regarded as the consequence of sin, and you feel called upon to be the champion of woman. Whether you thereby are doing her a service I leave undecided, but I believe that you have not comprehended the nature of woman in all its inwardness, for it belongs to her nature to be more perfect and more imperfect than man. If one would indicate the purest and most perfect quality, one says, “a woman”; if one would indicate the weakest, the most feeble thing, one says “a woman”; if one would give a notion of a spiritual quality raised above all sensuousness, one says “a woman”; if one would give a notion of the sensuous, one says “a woman”; if one would indi- cate innocence in all its lofty greatness, one says “a woman”; if one would point to the depressing feeling of sin, one says “a woman.” In a certain sense, therefore, woman is more perfect than man, and this the Scripture expresses by saying that she has more guilt] If again you will remember that the Church only proclaims the universal lot of woman,
I do not think that from this there can proceed anything disquieting to

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first love, but only to reflection, which does not understand how to cleave to her with this possibility in mind. Furdiermore, the Church does not make woman a mere slave. It says, “And God said, I will make for Adam a helpmeet for him,” an expression which has just as much aesthetic warmth as truth; and hence the Church teaches, “A man shall leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife.” We would expect it rather to say that woman shall leave her father and her mother and shall cleave unto her husband, for woman is in fact the weaker one. In the Scriptural expression there is a recognition of woman’s importance, and no knight could be more gallant toward her.
Finally, as for the curse which fell to man’s lot, the circumstance that with the sweat of his brow he shall eat bread does indeed seem with one word to drive him out of the honeymoon of first love. The fact that this curse, like all divine curses, as often has been remarked, conceals in itself a blessing proves nothing here, forasmuch as the experience of it must always be reserved for a subsequent time. But I would remind you that first love is not cowardly, that it does not fear danger, and that therefore in this curse it will see a difficulty which cannot terrify it.
What then does the wedding accomplish ? “It checks the motion of love,” you say. Not at all; but rather it causes that which already was in motion to appear outwardly. It insists upon the universal-human, and in this sense also upon sin ; but all the dread and anguish which desires that sin might never have come into the world has its ground in a reflection with which first love is unacquamted. To wish to have it that sin might never have come into the world is to carry mankind back to a more imperfect stage. Sin has entered in, but when the individuals have humbled themselves under it they stand higher than they stood before. )
Thereupon the Church turns to the individual and puts to him sev- eral questions. Thereby it may seem that he is prompted to reflect. “Why such questions ? Love has its assurance in itself.” But the Church puts the questions not to make one waver but make one firm and to let that which already is firm express itself. Here the difficulty emerges that in its questions the Church seems to take no account at all of the erotic. It asks, “Hast thou taken counsel with God and with thy conscience, and then with friends and acquaintances ?” I shall not insist here upon the very obvious advantage of the fact that such questions .are asked by the Church with profound seriousness. The Church, to use your own expres- sion, is not a marriage agency. Can the parties concerned be disturbed by that? In fact, they have gratefully referred their love to God and

AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE jg\
have thus taken counsel with Him, for when I thank God it is a way, though an indirect way, of taking counsel with Him. If the Church does not ask if they love one another, this is by no means because it would nullify earthly love, but because it assumes it.
(Thereupon the Church requires a vow. We saw above how splendidly love can be assumed into a kind of higher concentricity. Resolution makes the individual free, but, as has been explained, the more free the individual is, the more aesthetically beautiful is marriage.
It has thus been made clear, I think, that insofar as the aesthetic char- acter of first love is discovered in its present tense as an immediate infinity, marriage may be regarded as a glorification of it and is more beautiful than it is) This, I think, is obvious from the foregoing discus- sion, and in the immediate context we have seen also that all the talk about the disparagement of love by the Church is utterly unfounded and exists only for him who has taken offense at religion.*
, But if such is the case, the rest follows of itself. For what remams is the question whether this love can be realized.JWhen you have conceded all that I have urged hitherto, you will perhaps say, “Well, it is just as difficult to realize marriage as to realize firpt love.” To this I reply. No; for in marriage there is the law of motion. First love remains an unreal an-sich which never acquires inward content because it moves only in an external medium; in the ethical and religious purpose marital love possesses the possibility of an inner history and is distinguished from first love as the historical from the unhistorical. First love is strong, stronger than the whole world, but the instant doubt occurs to it, it is annihilated, it is like a sleep-walker who with infinite security can walk over the most perilous places, but when one calls his name he plunges down. Marital love is armed; for by the resolution the attention is not directed merely towards the environment, but the will is directed towards itself, towards the inward man. And now I invert everything and say: the aesthetic does not he in die immediate but m the acquired — but marriage is precisely the immediacy which has mediacy in itself, the infinity vyhich has finiteness m itself, the eternal which has the tem- poral in itself., Thus marriage proves to be the ideal in a double sense, both in the classical and in the romantic understanding of the word. When I say that the aesthetic lies in the acquired, this is not by any means to affirm that it lies m the effort as such; for this is negative, and the merely negative is never aesthetic.
On the other hand, when there is an effort which has content in itself, a struggle which has victory in itself, then in that duality I have the

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aesthetic. This I think I ought to call to mind in view of the enthusiasm of despair with which people in our age hear the acquired exalted in contrast to the immediate, as though the whole point were to lay every- thing waste in order to build anew. It has really alarmed me to hear the jubilation with which younger men, like the men in the Reign of Terror which followed the French Revolution, cry out, de omnibus dubitandum . 20 Perhaps this is narrow-mindedness on my part. Never- theless, I believe that one should distinguish between a personal and a scientific doubt. Personal doubt is an entirely separate thing, and such an enthusiasm for destruction as one often hears talk of leads at the most to the consequence that a great many men venture out upon the deep without possessing the power to doubt and therefore perish, or they fall into a vacillation which likewise is certain destruction. If, on the other hand, the conflict of doubt develops in a particular individual the power to overcome doubt, such a sight is uplifting, inasmuch as it shows what a man is capable of, but it is not properly beautiful, for to be beautiful it must have immediacy in itself. Such a development brought about by doubt of the extremest sort seeks what one might describe as the trans- formation of a person into an entirely different one. Beauty, however, consists in acquiring the immediate in and with doubt. This I must emphasize in opposition to the abstract way of conceiving doubt, the idolatry with which it is regarded, the foolhardiness with which people plunge into it, the blind confidence with which they hope for a glorious issue out of it. It may also be remarked that the more spiritual the aim is, the more one can exalt doubt. But love belongs to a province where it is not a question so much of a thing acquired as of a thing given, and of a given thing which is to be acquired. I cannot conceive what kind of doubt might be appropriate in this case. Might it be the proper prep- aration for a married man that he had had a doleful experience, that he had learned to doubt, and might that be the truly beautiful marriage which came to pass when by virtue of this doubt he resolved with great moral seriousness to get married and as a husband was faithful and con- stant? We are ready to praise him, but we will not extol his marriage except as an example of what a man is capable of. Or in order to be a thorough doubter should he also be doubtful of her love, of the pos- sibility of retaining the beauty in the relationship — and yet have enough stoicism to will this marriage .? I know very well that you false teachers are prompt to extol such a marriage, precisely for the sake of finding readier acceptance of your false doctrine; you praise it when it serves your purpose to do so, and you say, “Behold, that is the true marriage.”

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But you know very well that this praise conceals a censure, and that woman in particular is by no means served by it, and that in this way you are doing everything to tempt her. Hence you make a distinction, following the old rule: divide et impera" You extol first love. That, according to your view, remains a moment outside of time, a mysterious something about which one can utter any lie. Marriage cannot hide itself in this way; it takes a year and a day to unfold — how easy it is, then, to find opportunity to tear down or to build up with such treacherous considerations that desperate resignation is needed to put up with it.
This much we have proved : that conjugal love, regarded as a moment, is not only quite as beautiful as first love but far more so, because it contams in its immediacy a unity of more opposites/it is, therefore, not true that marriage is a highly respectable person out a tiresome one, while love is poetry. No, marriage is properly the poetical thing. And if the world has so often observed with pain that first love could not be carried through, I am ready with my condolence, but at the same time I would remind you that the fault did not lie so much in the subsequent stage as in the fact that they did not begin aright. The fact is that first love lacks the second aesthetic ideal, the historical element. It does not possess in itself the law of motion\ If I were to conceive of personal religious faith as pure immediacy, the kind which would correspond to first love is a faith which in virtue of the promise believes it is capable of moving mountains, and then would go about and work miracles. .Perhaps it would succeed, but this faith would have no history; for the patter about all its miracles is not its history, whereas the appropriation 7 of faith in the personal life is the history of faith!) Conjugal love possesses this movement, for in the resolution the movement is turned inward. In the religious experience it leaves it to God, as it were, to care for the whole world; in the resolve it is ready in union with God to fight for itself, to acquire itself in patience. There is comprised in the conscious- ness of sin a conception of human frailty, but in the resolution this is regarded as overcome. I cannot sufficiently stress these considerations with reference to conjugal love. I have certainly done full justice to first love, and I believe I am a better eulogist of it than you are; but its fault is to be found in its abstract character.
Conjugal love, therefore, contains something more, as you can see from the fact that it is capable of giving itself up. Suppose that first love cannot be realized; then, in case it was truly a conjugal love, the indi- vidual will be capable of giving it up and yet remain in possession of its

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sweetness, though in a different way. This can never be done by first love. But it is by no means to be concluded from this that it was a doubt which gave conjugal love its resignation, as though it were a diminished form of first love. If such were the case, this would not be resignation. And yet no one perhaps knows better how sweet love is than he who renounces it while having power to realize it . 28 But this power, again, is just as great when it is a question of holding on to love and realizing it in real life. The same power is exemplified in holding on to love and in giving it up, and the true retention of it is the power of giving it up expressing itself now in holding on, and in this consists the true freedom in holding on, the true and well assured hovering. '
Conjugal love shows itself to be historical by the fact that it represents a process of assimilation which deals with the experience and refers back the experience to itself. Thus, it is not a disinterested witness of what occurs but is essentially a sympathetic participant, in short, it experiences its own development. Romantic love, too, refers to itself what it experi- ences, as when the knight sends to his beloved the banners won in bat- tle; but even if romantic love could conceive of ever so long a time involved in such conquests, it never could occur to it that love might have a history. The prosaic view goes to the opposite extreme; it can very well conceive that love acquires a history, but commonly it is a very short history, and this history is so homely and so pedestrian that love can soon acquire feet to walk with. Experimental love also acquires a sort of history; but for all that, as it lacks true apriority, so, too, it lacks continuity and depends merely upon the caprice of the experimenting individual, who is at once his own world and in it is his own fate. Experimental love is therefore very prone to inquire about its own state and condition and in this finds a double joy, not only when the result corresponds to the calculations, but also when it appears that something very different is coming out of it. In the latter case it is also well pleased at finding a task for its indefatigable combinations. Conjugal love, on the other hand, has apriority in itself, and, likewise, constancy in itself, and the power in this constancy is the same as the law of motion, i.e., it is the resolution. In the resolution is posited another thing, but at the same time this other is posited as overcome; in the resolution this other is posited as an inward other, inasmuch as even the outward is visible by means of the reflection in the inward experience. The historical factor here consists in the fact that this other comes forth and acquires its validity, but precisely in its validity is seen to be something which ought not to have validity, so that love, tested and purified, issues from this

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movement and assimilates the experience. How this other comes forth is not dependent upon the power of the individual, who does not behave experimentally; but at the same time love has triumphed over all this without knowing it. Surely somewhere in the New Testament there is the saying: “Every gift is good if it is received with thanksgiving .” 29 Most people are ready to be thankful when they receive a good gift, but at the same time they require that it shall be left to them to determine what gift is good. This is evidence of their narrow-mindedness. The broader thankfulness, on the other hand, is truly victorious and aprior- ical since it is characterized by an eternal health which is not disturbed even by evil gifts — not for the reason that it knows how to keep them at a distance, but because of the boldness, the lofty personal courage, which ventures to give thanks for them. So it is also with love. At this point it could not occur to me to comment upon all the jeremiads which you mischievously have always in readiness for the edification of dis- tressed husbands. I hope that this time you will restrain yourself, since you have to do with a married man who hardly is likely to be disturbed for your amusement.
But while I am thus pursuing the development of love from its hidden cryptogamous stage to its phanerogamous life I stumble upon a diffi- culty to which you surely will attach no little significance. I assume for the sake of argument that I have succeeded in convincing you that the religious and ethical factors which distinguish conjugal love do by no means detract from it; I assume that in your inmost being you are pro- foundly convinced of this and would now by no means disdain a reli- gious point of departure. You would therefore be ready, alone with her who is dear to you, to submit your love humbly to God. You are really deeply touched and affected — but now (attention!) I utter one word, “the congregation,” and with that everything vanishes as in the ballad . 30 You will never succeed, I believe, in getting beyond the determinant of inwardness. “The congregation,” you say, “the dear congregation, which in spite of its multiplicity is nevertheless a moral person! Would that, along with the tiresome traits which all moral persons have, it possessed this good trait, that it had one head upon a single neck...like Caligula I know what I would do .” 31 You surely know the story of the crazy man 32 who had the fixed idea that the room in which he lived was full of flies, so that he was in danger of being suffocated by them. With desperate fear and with desperate fury he fought for his existence. So you seem to be fighting for your life against just such an imaginary swarm of flies, against what you call “the congregation.” However, the

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situation is not really so dangerous. But in the first place I will enumer- ate the most important points of contact with the congregation, merely reminding you, by the way, that first love has no right to reckon it to its credit that it knows no such difficulties, for this is due to the fact that it is kept entirely abstract and comes into no contact with reality. You will know very well how to distinguish an abstract relationship to an environment if it is resolved by an abstraction. You can perfectly well put up with it if you have to pay the priest and the parish clerk and a func- tionary of the government, for money is a capital means for resolving every personal relationship. Therefore, you initiated me into your plan of never doing anything and never receiving anything, not even the most trifling, widiout giving or receiving money. Indeed, one might expect that, if ever you were to get married, you would be capable of paying a douceur to everybody who comes to witness your joy in taking this step. In that case you need not be surprised that the congregation increases in number or that what the crazy man feared from the flies should in reality happen to you. What you fear is the personal relation- ship which by polite inquiries, by congratulations, by compliments, yea, even by wedding presents, makes a pretension to being a relation- ship which is incommensurable with money and seeks to display all possible sympathy, in spite of the fact that precisely on this occasion you on your behalf and that of the lady would prefer to dispense with all sympathy. “By the aid of money,” you say, “one can liberate oneself from a multitude of ludicrous situations. With money one can stop the mouth of the church trumpeter who otherwise would loudly herald one’s nuptials. With money one can be dispensed from being pro- claimed before the whole congregation as a husband, a proper husband, in spite of the fact that one would prefer to be such for one person alone.” This is not my invention, it is your description. Can you recall how you once raved on the occasion of a church wedding? You sug- gested that just as at an ordination the whole company of the clergy who are present come forward to lay their hands upon the ordinand, so should the whole tenderly sympathetic fraternity present at the wed- ding come forward and salute the bride and bridegroom with a congregational kiss. You declared, indeed, that it was impossible for you to utter the words bride and bridegroom without thinking of the significant moment when a dear father or an elderly friend rises with his glass to pronounce with deep emotion the beautiful toast, “Bride and bridegroom.” For just as you felt that the whole ecclesiastical ceremony was calculated to quench the erotic, so you thought that the

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subsequent worldly festivity was indecent in the same degree as the ecclesiastical/“For after all is it not indecent, ridiculous and in bad taste to place suclra quasi husband and wife together at the dinner table and thereby suggest the false and indelicate reflection whether the decree of the Church had of itself been sufficient to constitute them a married couple?” So you seem to be in favor of a quiet wedding. To that I have no objection, but I take leave to inform you that in this case you would just as clearly be declared a proper husband. Perhaps you can endure this word better when no one else hears ity Moreover, I would remind you that the phrase in the marriage service is not “before the whole con- gregation,” but “before God and this congregation,” which certainly does not discomfort one by its narrowness or a lack of boldness.
As for the further complamts you make against the “congregation,” though you make them with your usual exaggeration, I can forgive you more easily because what you attack here is only the social relationship. In that respect I admit that everybody may have his own opinion, and though I am far from approving your Sprodig\eit, I shall for all that be as tolerant as possible/On this subject we presumably shall always remain in disagreement. The great thing, as I regard it, is to live in the congregation, to bring something finer out of it, if one is able; at all events to subordinate oneself to it and put up with it if one is unable to better it\l see no danger to love in the publication of the banns from the pulpit, nor do I believe that such publication will do the hearers any such injury as you with your extravagant rigorism once detected when you maintained that the publication of the banns ought to be abolished because so many people, especially women, went to church only to hear them, so that the impression of the sermon was nullified. There is some- thing false at the bottom of your apprehension, as though such trifles might be able to disturb a strong and healthy love. It is by no means my intention to put up a defense for all the mischievous practices which are current. When I adhere to the congregation I do not identify it with a “highly esteemed public” which, to use an expression of Goethe’s, “is shameless enough to believe that everything one undertakes to do is done only to supply matter for conversation.” Another consideration by which I can explain to myself your great dread of all fuss and public- ity is that you are afraid of missing the erotic instant. You understand how to keep your soul as still and apathetic as a bird of prey is still be- fore it plunges down; you know that the instant is not in any man’s power and that, nevertheless, the most beautiful experience is comprised in the instant; therefore, you understand how to be on the lookout and

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do not wish to anticipate anything with the restlessness with which you await the instant. But when such an event is fixed at a definite time which one knows a long while before and of which by the preparations one is constantly reminded, then one runs the danger of “missing the point.” From this one sees that you have not comprehended the nature of conjugal love and that you cherish a heretical superstition about first love.
Let us now consider whether this thing of the congregation is in reality so perilous — if, that is to say, it does not assume so terrible a shape as it does at this instant in your sickly brain. Your life has surely brought you into touch not only but into intimate connection with several per- sons the remembrance of whom does not alarm you, does not disturb the ideal you cherish, whose names you utter aloud to yourself when you would prompt yourself to good deeds, whose presence expands your soul, whose personality is a revelation to you of the noble and the sub- lime. Might it dien disturb you to have such persons as your confidants ? That is almost as if in a religious reference a person were to say, “I wish with my inmost heart to maintain my fellowship with God and Christ, but I cannot bear that He should confess me before all the holy angels.” On die other hand, your life and your external circumstances have surely brought you into connection with other people the monotony of whose daily lives is rarely broken by joys and noteworthy diversions. Does not every family reckon such persons among its acquaintances, perhaps m its very midst, and is it not a beautiful thing that these per- sons who are almost deserted in their loneliness find a support in the family? For them a marriage would therefore be an event of impor- tance, a bit of the poetical woof in their humdrum life, something they long look forward to with joy and long afterwards remember. In a family where I visit I often see an old maid who is contemporary with the mistress of the house. She still remembers so vividly her friend’s wedding, alas, more vividly perhaps than the wife herself, remembers exactly how die bride was adorned and every little subordinate circum- stance. Would you deprive all such people of the opportunity of joy which you could give diem ? Let us deal lovingly with the weak. There is so man7 a marriage which was entered upon as secretly as possible in order to enjoy the pleasure of it thoroughly, and time perhaps brought something else, brought so little that one might be tempted to say, “Well, if at least it had had the significance of giving joy to a multitude of people, it might after all have been worth while.” As you know, I hate prying into family affairs as much as you do, but on the one hand

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I know how to keep this at a distance, and on the other hand I know how to rise superior to it; and you with your acrimonious wit, your polemical talent, your artillery, might you not know how to call it to order? You indeed do so, but none the less it disturbs you. I will not prescribe to you any limits, but do not forget my principle, do not for- get, if it be possible, to realize the still more beautiful ideal, remember that the art is, if it be possible, to save such men, not to defend yourself. I might prescribe this as a prudential maxim, for you know very well that the more one isolates oneself, the more intrusive one makes these ineffectual gossipy people; you know it who so often have made sport of them by whetting their curiosity and then letting the whole thing dissolve into nothing. I might prescribe this as a prudential maxim, but I will not do so, for I have too much respect for the truth of what I say to be willing to degrade it.
very process of becoming, in the proportion precisely that it is a healthy process, has an element of the polemical. So, too, has every conjugal union, and you know very well that I hate the slipshod behavior in family life, the insipid commumo bonorum which makes marriage seem as if it were marriage widi the whole family. If conjugal love is a genuine first love, it has something hidden about it, it does not wish to display itself, does not devote its life to the ostentation of family visits, does not derive its nutriment from polite congratulations and an exchange of compliments nor from an idolatrous adoration of the family.’ That you know very well. I have no objection if you let your wit play upon this sort of thing. In many ways I agree with you, and I believe that it would not do you and the good cause any harm if some- times you would allow me, as the experienced forester, to indicate the decayed trees which ought to be felled, but also to mark others with a cross as a sign that they are to be spared.
I feel no hesitation in affirming that mysteriousness is the absolute requisite for preserving the aesthetic quality m love — not, however, as though one were to make an affectation of it, pursue it as an end, take it in vain, enjoy merely the pleasure of the mysterious. It is one of the pet notions of first love that it would like to flee to an uninhabited island. This has been held up often enough to ridicule: I shall take no part in the iconoclastic savagery of our age. The fault is to be found in the fact that first love believes there is no way in which it can be realized except by flight. This is a misunderstanding due to its unhis- toric character. [The art is to remain in the multifarious environment and yet preserve mystery. Here again I might insist upon it as a pruden-

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tial maxim that only by remaining among people does mystery acquire its true energy, only by encountering this opposition does its point bore in more and more deeply! I will not do so, for the same reason as before, and also because I always recognize a relationship to other people as something which has reality. But art is required for this, and conjugal love does not shun such difficulties, rather it preserves and acquires it- self in them. Moreover, the conjugal life has so much else to think about that it doesn’t get time to wear itself out with a polemic against a particular antagonist.
Inwardly this prime requisite may be expressed by its polar opposite: open-heartedness, candor, publicity; for this is the life-principle of love, and here in the intimate life secretiveness is its death. However, this is more easily said than done, and truly it requires courage to carry this principle out consistently, for you perceive that by this I am thinking of something more than the jabbering chattmess which prevails in the family-marriage. There can of course be no question of secretiveness where there is publicity, and the more secretiveness there is, the more difficult is the other. It requires courage to be willing to show oneself as one truly is, it requires courage not to be willing to exempt oneself from a little humiliation when one can do so by a certain air of secrecy, not to be willing to acquire a little addition to one’s stature when one can do so by being reticent. It requires courage to want to be wholesome and sound, honestly and candidly to will the true.
However, let us begin with something of minor importance. A newly wedded couple who found themselves, as they said, “constrained to limit their love to the narrow confines of three small rooms,” furnished the occasion which prompted you to make a little excursion into the realm of imagination — which lies in fact so near to your every-day habitation that one may doubt if it can properly be called an excursion. You thereupon devoted yourself with the greatest possible care and good taste to the decoration of a future such as you might desire for yourself. You know that I sympathize ungrudgingly with a little experiment of this sort; and, praise God, when a princely carnage with four champing steeds passes me by, I still am child enough to be able to imagine that I am sitting in it, am still innocent enough, when I convince myself that such is not die case, to rejoice that another is sitting there, am still suf- ficiently unspoiled not to wish that the maximum might be to keep one horse, serving at once for riding and for the carriage, because my cir- cumstances only allow me this. So you thought you were married, happily married, had rescued your love inviolate out of all adversities.

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and were now deliberating how you would arrange everything in your home so that you might retain as long as possible the fragrance of your love. To that end you had need of more than three rooms. On that point I agreed with you, seeing that as an unmarried man you make use of five. It would be distasteful to you if you were compelled to yield one of your rooms to your wife; in that situation you would prefer to give up four of them to her and yourself live in the fifth, rather than share one room in common. After having pondered these difficulties you con- tinued: “I am always taking the above-mentioned three small rooms as my point of departure — not m the philosophical sense of a postulate, for I have no intention of returning to them, but on the contrary, would get as far away from them as possible.” Indeed, you felt such an abhor- rence for the three small rooms that, if you could not have more, you would prefer as a vagrant to live under the open heaven — which in fact would be so poetic that it would require a large suite of chambers to compensate for it. By reminding you that this was one of the customary unhistoric heresies of first love I sought to call you to order, and then I was very glad to walk with you through the big, cool, high-vaulted halls of your castle m the air, through the mysterious, half-obscure chambers, through the dining rooms illuminated to furthest corners by a multiplicity of lights, pendant lusters and mirrors, through the small room with folding doors opening upon the terrace, where the morning sun penetrated, and where the perfume of flowers which opened only for you and for your love was wafted in.
I will not pursue further your audacious venture as you sprang like a chamois hunter from crag to crag. Only the principle which lay at the basis of your arrangement shall I discuss a little more in detail^ Your principle evidently was: mysteriousness, mystification, refined coquetry/ Not only the walls of your chambers should be inset with mirrors, but even your world of consciousness must be diversified by similar re- fractions of light; not only everywhere in the chamber but also in con- sciousness you would everywhere encounter yourself and her, her and yourself. “But,” you say, “in order to accomplish this the wealth of all the world is not sufficient; in addition to that, spirit is requisite, and a wise moderation controlling the powers of the spirit. People must there- fore be strangers to one another to such a degree that familiarity becomes interesting, and so familiar that the strangeness becomes a stim- ulating opposition. The conjugal life must not be a dressing gown in which one makes oneself comfortable, but neither must it be a corset which hampers one’s movements; it must not be a labor which requires

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fatiguing preparation, but neither must it be a dissolute ease; it must bear the stamp of the accidental, and yet one must remotely sense an art; a person is not exactly required to stare herself blind stitching a carpet capable of covering the floor of the great hall, but on the other hand, the most insignificant thing she makes for me may well have a little mysterious sign stitched on the border. One does not exactly need to have a monogram on the cake every time we eat together, and yet there may well be a little telegraphic allusion. The thmg is to keep as far off as possible the pomt where one has a suspicion of movement in a circle, the point where repetition begins; and, since this cannot be kept off completely, the thing is to have so adjusted oneself that a variation is possible. One has only a certain number of texts — if the first Sunday the preacher preaches himself out, he not only has nothing for the year that follows, but even for the first Sunday of the next year he hasn’t anything. People ought to remain enigmatic to one another as long as possible, and when in successive stages they reveal themselves this must come about as far as possible by making use of accidental circumstances, so that the revelation becomes relative and can be viewed from many angles. One must be on one’s guard against every symptom of satiety and every suggestion of an after-taste.”
You then would dwell on the ground floor of the lordly castle, which should be situated in a beautiful region but in the vicinity of the capital. Your wife, rather your spouse, should dwell in the left wing of the first floor. There was one thing you had always envied in princely per- sons, that husband and wife dwelt apart. What detracts, however, from the aesthetic character of such a court life was, you thought, the cere- monial which claims to be more important than love. One is announced, one waits a moment, one is admitted. That in itself, you thought, was something not unbeautiful, but it would first acquire its true beauty when it was a playful part in the divine game of love, when it could be allowed to have validity in such a sense that one could just as well de- prive it of validity. Love itself might have many boundaries, but every boundary must at the same time be a luxurious temptation to overstep the boundary. So you dwelt on the ground floor, where you had your library, billiard room, working cabinet, and your bedroom. Your wife dwelt on the first floor. Here was also your toral conjugate, a large room with two alcoves, one on each side. Nothing must remind you or your wife that you were married, and yet everything must be arranged in such a way as no unmarried people could have it. You were unaware of what your wife was about, and she of what occupied you. But this by

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no means in order to be inactive or to forget one another, but in order that every contact might be significant, and in order to keep at a dis- tance the deadly instant when you would look at one another...and, lo, you were bored! So you would not parade in conjugal procession with your wife upon your arm, you would desire with still youthful passion to follow her course from the window when she walked in the garden, you would sharpen your eye to see her better, and be absorbed in the intuition of her image when it had vanished from your sight. You would steal after her, sometimes she would rest upon your arm, for after all there always is something pretty in what has come into prescriptive use among men as the expression of a definite feeling, you would even give her your arm, half acknowledging the beauty of this custom, half laughing over the fact that you were promenading like a regular mar- ried couple. But where could I end if I were to pursue the clever re- finements of your ingenious brain in this Asiatic luxuriance which almost wearies me and makes me wish myself back in the three small rqoms you passed by so proudly ?
‘Now if there might be anything aesthetically beautiful in this view, it is to be found partly in the erotic bashfulness you let one suspect, partly in the fact that at no instant are you willing to possess her as something definitely acquired but steadily continue to acquire her. The latter is in itself true and right, but the problem is not envisaged with erotic seriousness, and hence, it is not solved. You were constantly cling- ing to a given immediacy as such, to an impulse implanted by nature, and did not dare to allow it to transform itself into a consciousness com- mon to both of you; for this is what I meant by the expression sincerity and candor. You fear that when die enigmatic is over love will^pase; I, on the contrary, think that love begins only when that is ovei^’ You fear that one dare not know entirely what one loves, you count upon the incommensurable as the absolutely proper ingredient; I maintain that only when one knows what one loves does one truly love. More- over, all your good fortune has one lack, it lacks a blessing, for it lacks adversities.iAnd since this is a fault, it is fortunate, in case you actually were to guide anyone by your theory, that it is not true to life Let us turn then to the actual conditions of life. Now when I insist that ad- versities have their part in matrimony I do not by any means intend to permit you to identify marriage with a catena of adversities. It is in- deed already implied in the resignation characteristic of the resolve that it sees adversities as a concomitant, though they have not yet assumed any definite shape and are not alarming because they are seen as already

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overcome in the act of resolution. Moreover, the adversity is not seen outwardly but inwardly, as it is reflected in the individual and thus be- longs to the history which conjugal love has in common. Secretiveness, as was set forth above, becomes a contradiction when it has nothing to hide in its secret depository, and it becomes a childish prank when its deposit amounts to no more than amorous fudge. Only when a man’s love has truly opened his heart, has made him eloquent in a far deeper sense than we are accustomed to associate with the word when we say that love makes one eloquent (for that eloquence the seducer too may have), only when he has deposited all in the consciousness they share together, only then docs mysteriousness acquire strength, life and sig- nificance. But for this a decisive step is required, and hence it requires courage, yet conjugal love sinks into nothing when this does not take place; for only by this does one show that one loves another and not oneself. And how might one show this but by showing that one only is for the other, and hpw is one only for the other but by the fact that one is not for oneself ?! But to be for oneself is the most generic expres- sion for the mysteriousness the individual life possesses when it remains in itself. Love is devotion, but devotion is only possible when I go out of myself.)
How, tnen, can this be combined with the lack of frankness which wishes precisely to remain in itself? “One loses,” you say, “by thus re- vealing oneself.” Yes, of course, that man always loses who profits by being secretive. But if you would be consistent, you must carry this much further, so that you must not only dissuade from marriage but from every closer approach to people — and I wonder how you could get on with telegraphic communication. The most interesting reading is that in which the reader is to a certain extent productive; the true erotic art would be to make an impression at a distance, which would be exceedingly dangerous to the person concerned, precisely because it would be out of nothing she herself created her object and then fell in love with her own creation. But this is not love, it is the coquetry of the seducer. On the other hand, he who loves has lost himself and forgotten himself in the other; but in losing himself and forgetting himself in the other he is revealed to the other, and in forgetting himself he is remem- bered in the other. He who loves will not wish to be mistaken for an- other, whether it be a better or a more lowly man, and he who has not this reverence for himself and for the loved one does not love. Therefore secretiveness generally has its ground in a feeling of inferiority, one would like to add a cubit unto one’s stature. He who has not learned

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toidisdain such a thing has never loved; for if he had, he would have felt that when he added ten cubits unto his stature he would still be too lowly. Generally, it is believed that this humility of love belongs only in comedies and romances or must be referred to the conventional lies of the period of courtship. This, however, is by no means the case: this humility is a true and profitable and constant corrector whenever anybody paints love with any color but love. Though it were the lowli- est and most insignificant person in the world who loved the most tal- ented, the latter, if there was truth in him, would feel, nevertheless, that all his gifts were incommensurable with love, and that the only way he could satisfy the claim implied by the other’s love was by loving in return.
Let us never forget that one cannot count with heterogeneous quan- tities. Only the man, therefore, who has truly felt this has loved; but certainly, he has never been afraid of depriving himself of something which as such has no value to him. Only the man who has become poor in the world has gained the true security of possession, and only the man who has lost all has gained all. Therefore, I cry with Fenelon: “Believe in love, it takes all, it gives all.” And this truly is a beautiful, an uplifting, an indescribably blissful feeling, to let all the particular thus vanish beneath one, to let it pale and, like the shapes in the mist, flee away before the infinite power of love. This is a mathematical demonstration which at the instant in which it is concluded is just as beautiful as during the successive stages in which one takes delight in putting out one’s hand and letting the factors disappear piece by piece; yea, this is the true enthusiasm of destruction characteristic of love, when it could wish for the whole world, not to glory in it, but to let it perish as a pleasantry for the entertainment of love. And verily, as soon as one opens the door for finite considerations it is just as stupid and just as ludicrous, whether one wants to be loved because one has the highest intelligence, the greatest talent, the loftiest artistic genius, or because he cherishes on his lip the most beautiful moustache. However, these assertions and these sentiments, of course, apply just as well to first love, and it is only the wondrous, unsteady attitude you always ass um e which makes it necessary here to touch upon this point again.
First love can wish with supernatural pathos, but this wis hin g easily becomes an “in case” which lacks content, and we are not living in such a paradisiacal state that the good Lord is ready to give every married couple the whole world' to deal with as they please. Conjugal love knows better, its movements are not outward but inward, and here it

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observes at once that it has a wide world for itself, but also that every little act of self-repression is very much more commensurable with the infinity of love; and even though it feels pain in recognizing that there may be so much to fight against, it is conscious also of courage for this fight; yea, it has boldness enough to outdo you in paradoxes when it is almost able to rejoice that sin has entered into the world. But in still another sense it has boldness enough to outdo you in paradoxes, for it has the courage to resolve them! For conjugal love, like first love, knows all these obstacles as vanquished in the infinite moment of love, but it knows also (and this precisely is the historical factor in it) that this victory wills to be acquired, and that this acquisition is not merely a game but also a conflict, yet at the same time not merely a conflict but also a game, just as the war in Valhalla was a deadly conflict and yet a game, because the contestants constantly arose again from the dead re- juvenated; and it knows also that this fencing is not an arbitrary duel but a conflict under divme auspices, and it feels no need of loving more than one, but senses the blissfulness of this restriction, and no need of loving more than once, for it senses an eternity in this once. And do you think, then, that this love which has no secrets might miss something beautiful ? Or might it be unable to resist time and be blunted neces- sarily by daily intercourse ? Or might tedium overtake it more swiftly ? — as though conjugal love did not possess an eternal content of which one never grows tired, an eternal content which now with kiss and jest, now with fear and trembling, it acquires and continues to acquire. “But,” you say, “it must renounce all these pretty little surprises.” I see no necessity of that; my notion is not that conjugal love must always stand with its mouth open and chatter even in its sleep. On the contrary, all these little surprises acquire their significance precisely when the total open-heartedness has taken place. For this gives a sense of security and confidence in which these interludes show off to the best advan- tage. If anyone believes, on the other hand, that the essence of love and of true bliss consists in such a tram of little surprises, and thinks that the petty effeminacy and uneasiness with which one must every instant be prepared for a litde surprise and even think one up is to be consid- ered beautiful, then I will take the liberty of saying that it is very un- seemly, and that it is a very suspicious sign when a marriage has no better trophies to display than a desk full of bonbons, bottles of per- fume, dried leaves, embroidered slippers, etc.
However, marriages in which the mystery-system is carried out are to be seen from time to time. For my part, I have never seen a happy

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marriage of this kind; but since my observation might be entirely acci- dental I shall state the reasons commonly given for such a judgment. This is a matter of considerable importance to me, for the aesthetically beautiful marriage is always a happy marriage, so if a happy marriage could be constructed on this basis, my theory must be amended. I shall not try to avoid the mention of any form in which this system appears, and I shall describe each as justly as I possibly can, dwelling more espe- cially upon a type which in the house where I saw it put into effect was carried out with a virtuosity which really was fascinating.
You will readily concede that the mystery-system generally proceeds from men, and although it is always bad, it is, nevertheless, more toler- able than the intolerable type in which it is the wife who exercises such a domtnium. The ugliest form is, of course, a pure despotism in which the wife is a slave, a maid of all work in the domestic economy. Such a marriage is never happy, even if the years produce a hebetude which finds itself content with it. A prettier form is the very opposite of this, an ill-advised solicitude. “Woman is weak,” it is said, “she is unable to bear troubles and sorrows, one must treat the weak and fragile creature lovingly.” Falsehood! Falsehood! Woman is just as strong as man, per- haps stronger. And is she really treated lovingly when you thus humili- ate her ? Or who gave you leave to humiliate her ? Or how can your soul be so blind that you regard yourself a more perfect being than her? Only confide to her everything 1 If she is weak, if she is unable to bear it — well, then, she can lean upon you, you have strength and to spare! This, you see, you cannot bear to do; so it is you who lack strength and not she. Perhaps she has more strength than you, perhaps she was ashamed of you — and, lo, this you have not the strength to bear. Or have you not promised to share with her both good and evil ? Is it not, then, to withhold from her her just share when you will not initiate her into the evil? Is not this to quench the better part in her? Perhaps she is weak, perhaps her sorrow will make everything harder — eh bien, then share with her the evil. Have you a right to deprive her of a way of sal- vation ? Have you a right to conduct her stealthily through the world ? And from whence do you derive your strength ? Is she not as close to God as you? Will you deprive her of the opportunity of finding God in the deepest and most heartfelt way — through pain and suffering ? And do you know so certainly that she has no presentiment of what your mysteriousness conceals ? Do you know whether in secret she does not sorrow and sigh, whether she has not suffered damage to her soul ? Per- haps her weakness is humility, perhaps she believes it her duty to' Dear

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all this. Hereby you have, in fact, been an occasion of developing strength in her, but it was not in the way you had intended or promised. Or are you not treating her (to use the strongest word for it) . . . like a concubine? For the fact that you have not several wives is of no help to her. And is it not doubly humiliating to her when she perceives that you love her, that you treat her thus, not because you are a proud tyrant, but because she is a frail being ?
For a long while I was accustomed to visit in a house where I had opportunity to observe the system of silence carried out in a more artistic and refined fashion. The husband was a fairly young man of unusual talent, with a fine intelligence and a poetic nature, too indolent to want to produce anything, but with an extraordinary flair and tact for making every-day life poetic. His wife was young, not without intelligence, but with a character very unusual. This tempted him. It was the most astonishing thing to see how he was able to arouse and nourish in her every youthful enthusiasm. Her whole existence, the whole life they shared together as a married couple, was entirely woven out of poetic enchantment. Everywhere his eye was present— when she looked about it was gone; his finger was in everything, but just as invisibly as God’s finger is present in history. Her thought might turn whither it would — he was already there before her; he understood like Potemkin 88 how to conjure up landscapes, and just of the sort that after a little surprise and a little resistance might be most pleasing to her. His home life was a little act of creation, and just as in the great creation man is that to which everything tends, so did she become the center of an enchanted circle, wherein she enjoyed nevertheless her full liberty. For the circle would bend in conformity with her movement and had no boundaries of which it might be said, “Hitherto and no further”; she might plunge as she would, in whatever direction she would, the circle yielded, but it remained there, nevertheless. She walked as in a toddling-basket, but this was not woven out of osiers, it was braided out of her hopes, dreams, longings, wishes, fears; in short, it was fabricated out of the whole con- tent of her soul. He himself moved with the utmost security in this dream-world; he relinquished nothing of his dignity, claimed and asserted his authority as husband and lord. It would have disquieted her if he had not done so, it would perhaps have awakened in her a fearful apprehension which would lead her to a solution of the mystery. He did not appear in the eyes of the world, nor even in her eyes, to be so extraordinarily attentive, and yet he knew within himself that she had received no impression of him but just that which he wanted to give her,

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and he knew that he had it in his power by one single word to dissolve the enchantment. Everything that might make a disagreeable impres- sion upon her was kept at a distance. If any such thing were encoun- tered, she received from him, either in response to her searching queries or with open-hearted anticipation of them, and in the form of candid information, an explanation which he himself had drafted, in stronger or weaker terms, according to the impression he wished to make upon her. He was proud, frightfully consistent, he loved her, but he could not relinquish the proud thought of daring to say to himself, either in the profoundest stillness of the night or in an instant which lay outside of time, “She owes everything to me.”
You surely have followed with interest this description, however im- perfectly I have succeeded in presenting it; for it summons up before your soul a picture with which you sympathize, which perhaps you would one day seek to emulate if you were to become a married man. Was then this marriage a happy marriage? Yes, if you will. Neverthe- less, a dark fate hovered over this happiness. Suppose he were to fail m his effort, suppose she suddenly suspected something — I do not believe she could ever forgive him for it. For the fact that he had done it out of love for her — that her proud soul was too proud to let any one tell her. There is an old-fashioned expression about the relation between married people which I would recall to your attention. (I always take delight m lending support to the revolution, or rather the holy war, by which the plain and simple but true and rich expressions used for legitimate marriage strive to reconquer the realm from which the writers of romance have expelled them.) It is said of married people that they should live in good understanding with one another. One hears most frequently the negative expression, that a couple do not live m good understanding, meaning that they cannot abide one another, that they beat and bite, etc. Take now the positive expression. The married pair above described live in good understanding — yes, so the world would say; but you surely would not, for how can they live in good under- standing when they do not understand one another? But is it not an essential part of understanding that the one knows how careful and loving the other is ? Or even if he deprived her of nothing else, yet he deprived her of that degree of gratitude wherein her soul would first find repose. Is it not a pretty and beautiful and simple expression: to live in good understanding? (These matrimonial terms, you see, know all about this subject and make no great fuss about that which now one must often insist upon precisely.) This expression assumes as a

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matter of course that people understand one another clearly and ex- plicitly. It assumes this as a matter of course, as one may see from the fact that an adjective is adjoined with marked emphasis; for otherwise it would suffice to say that they should live in understandmg. “Good understanding” — what else does that mean but that they should find their joy, peace, repose, their very life in this understandmg ?
So you see that the mystery-system does not by any means conduce to a happy or even to a beautiful marriage. No, my friend; candor, open- heartedness, revelation, understanding — these constitute the life prin- ciple of marriage, without which it fails to be beautiful or even moral; for that which love unites is then separated: the sensuous and the spir- itual. Only when the being with whom in the earthly life I live in the most tender association is in a spiritual respect equally close to me, only then is my marriage moral and, therefore, also aesthetically beautiful. And you proud men who perhaps rejoice secretly in this victorious tri- umph over woman forget in the first place that it is a sorry triumph when one triumphs over the weaker one, and that the husband honors himself m his wife, and he who docs not do so despises himself.
So understanding is the life principle in marriage. One often hears people of experience discuss the question in what case one ought to dissuade a person from marrying. Let them discuss these circumstances and ruminate on them as thoroughly as they will; what they generally have to say does not signify much. For my part I will mention only one case , 34 that is, when the individual life is so complicated that it cannot reveal itself. If the history of your inward development possesses an unutterable content, or if your life has made you privy to secrets; in short, if in one way or another you have gulped down a secret which you cannot draw up except at the cost of your life, then never marry. Either you will feel yourself bound to a being who has no presentiment of what is going on within you, and your marriage then becomes an unseemly misalliance; or you tie yourself to a being who observes this with anxious dread and every instant sees the shadow pictures on the wall. She will, perhaps, resolve never to question you closely, she will renounce the curiosity of dread which tempts her, but she will never be happy, nor you either. Whether there actually are such secrets, whether there is any truth in the close reserve which not even love is able to unlock, I will not decide, I am merely carrying out my principle, and so far as I myself am concerned, I have no secrets from my wife. One might believe that it surely never occurred to such a man to marry, seeing that apart from everything else he must undertake he had also the daily avocation of his

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painful secret. Nevertheless, this sometimes happens, and such a man is perhaps the most dangerous temptation to women.
But having spoken of mystery and understanding as two sides of the same thing, that thing being the chief thing in love, the condition abso- lutely requisite for preserving the aesthetic character of marriage, I have reason to fear that you will make the objection that I seem to forget the historical character of love, which, as you say, I commonly insist upon like a refrain of a ditty. You hope, however, to delude time by your mysteriousness and your shrewdly calculated relative information. “But,” as you say, “when married people start in earnest to recount their shorter or longer story, the instant will soon arrive when as in childish play they say, ‘the boy has the bun, the story is done.’ ” My young friend, you do not perceive that if you can make such an objec- tion it is due to the fact that you are not in the correct position? By means of your mysteriousness you have a temporal purpose, and it really is important to delude time; on the other hand, love by self-revelation has an eternal purpose and so all competition is impossible. Also, it is an arbitrary misunderstanding to think of the revelation as obliging married people to spend a fortnight in recounting their careers, which would be followed by the silence of the grave, broken only once in a while by a repetition of the story already told. It lies in the historical character of marriage that this understanding is reached by a continu- ous process, not simply once for all. It is just as in the individual life: when one has attained clarity about oneself, when one has had courage to will to see oneself, it by no means follows that now the history is finished, for now it begins, now for the first time it acquires real signifi- cance for the fact that every individual moment experienced leads on to this total view. So also in marriage. In this revelation the immediacy of first love perishes, yet it is not lost but lifted up into the collective knowl- edge of conjugal life; with this the history begins, and to this collective knowledge the individual is referred, and in this consists his blissfulness — an expression in which, again, the historical character of marriage is conserved, and which corresponds to the pie de vivre (or what the Germans call Heiter\eit) which is characteristic of first love.
So it is essential to conjugal love that it become historical, and the individual being then in the right attitude, the commandment which says, “In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread,” is not a terrifying commandment, and the courage and strength of which conjugal love is conscious corresponds to the true romantic need of knightly love to per- form adventurous exploits. As the knight is fearless, so, too, is conjugal

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love, in spite of the fact that the enemies with which it has to contend are often far more dangerous. Here a wide field for reflection is opened, upon which, however, I do not intend to enter. But if the knight has a right to say that the man who does not defy the whole world to save his lady does not know knightly love, the married man too has a right to say the same. Only I must constantly remind you that every victory of this sort which conjugal love wins is more aesthetically beautiful than that which the knight wins, because in winning this victory the married man at the same time wins again his love in a glorified form. Conjugal love fears nothing, not even little mistakes, little amorous affairs; on the contrary, these only serve to nourish the divine and healthy vigor of conjugal love. Even in Goethe’s “Elective Affinities” Ottilia, though eventually she goes to the dogs, is regarded as a slender possibility of serious conjugal love; and how much more might a marriage founded upon deep religious and ethical principles find strength for such a view. Indeed, Goethe’s “Elective Affinities” shows what secretiveness leads to. The love there described would not have acquired the power it did if it had not been allowed to grow up in silence. If the man had had courage to reveal himself to his wife, this situation would have been prevented, and the whole affair would have become an interlude in the drama of marriage. The fatality consisted in the fact that both Edward and his wife fell in love with other people at the same time — but this again is the fault of silence. The married man who has the courage to confide to his wife that he loves another is saved by that, and the same holds true of the wife. But when he has not this courage he loses confidence in himself, and so what he seeks is forgetfulness in the love of another. Un- doubtedly, it often is not so much true love for the other woman which causes a man to yield as it is a feeling of pain at not having resisted in time. He feels that he has lost himself, and when such is the case, strong opiates are needed to blunt this feeling.
About the difficulties with which conjugal love has to contend I will speak only in general terms and only in order to show that from them conjugal love has nothing to fear so far as concerns the preservation of its aesthetic character. The objections commonly originate in a misun- derstanding of the aesthetic significance of the historical, or from the fact that, in general, people apply to a romantic experience only the classical ideal and have not the romantic ideal along with it. A great many other objections are attributable to the fact that, while people always like to think of first love as dancing upon roses, they take joy in letting conjugal love contend with the basest and most pitiful dififi-

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culties and fall prey to every chicanery. To this we may add that they privately believe these difficulties insurmountable, and thus they make short work of marriage. One must always be a bit cautious when one is dealing with you. I am not talking about any particular marriage, and so I can depict the situation as I will; but though I do not wish to be guilty of any arbitrary procedure, this does not insure that you will forego this pleasure. When, for example, poverty is proposed as a diffi- culty with which marriage may have to contend, I would answer: “Work — then all obstacles give way.” Since now it is an imaginary or poetical world in which we are moving, you will perhaps take advan- tage of your poetic license and make answer: “They couldn’t get any work. The decline in business and in the shipping trade has left a great many people without bread.” Or you permit them to get a little work, but it is not sufficient. Then when I say that by wise economy they surely will be able to make both ends meet, you come out with the informa- tion that on account of the critical state of the market the price of wheat is so high that it is perfectly impossible to get along with what otherwise might have been sufficient. I know you only too well. You always take delight in maintaining with your poetic license the opposite point of view, and then, when this has amused you long enough, you seize the occasion of some chance remark to tangle your interlocutor, or some other person present, with a prolix patter which has nothing whatever to do with the matter originally in question. You take delight m sud- denly transforming a willful poetic invention into a sort of reality, and then expatiating upon it. In case you had been talking to anyone but me in the manner I have described (for generally you are good enough to spare me), you presumably would have used the “high price of wheat” as a pretext for going on to say: “Such a dearth that bread would cost eight shillings a pound.” If there happened, luckily, to be somebody present who replied that this was altogether too incredible, you would explain that “during the famine in Olaf’s time bread, and bad bread at that, cost eight and a half shillings a pound, in old Danish currency; and when one considers that in those times money was scarce among the people, you can easily see,” etc. If with that you had got this man on the go, you would be beside yourself with joy. The man who had begun the conversation would in vain try to bring you back to the pomt; every- thing would be reduced to confusion, and you would have made a mar , ried couple unhappy...in the world of poetry.
It is this that makes it so difficult to deal with you. If I were to venture out upon what might well be called glare-ice for me, and should try to

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describe in a novelistic manner a marriage which triumphantly held its own in the conflict with a multitude of such adversities, you would calmly reply, “Well, that is merely fiction, and in the world of poetry one can easily make people happy, it’s the very least one can do for them.” If I were to take your arm and walk about with you in real life and show you a marriage which had fought the good fight, then you, if you were in the humor, would answer, “Yes, that’s well enough. The outward aspects of temptation are susceptible of proof, the inward as- pects are not. I assume that in this couple temptation has not possessed an inward power, for otherwise it would not have been possible to resist it.” Just as though the true significance of temptation were that people should succumb to it! But enough of this. When once you take it into your head to abandon yourself to this demon of willfulness there is no end to it; and as everything you do is done deliberately, so is this willful prank, and you find delight m making every position insecure.
In a general way I can divide these difficulties into external and in- ternal difficulties, constantly keeping in mind the relativity of such a division in the case of marriage, where, if anywhere, all experiences are internal. First, then, for the external difficulties. I have no hesitation or fear in mentioning all the most depressing, humiliating and vexatious finite afflictions, in short, all the items which go to make up a tearful drama. You and your kind are exceedingly arbitrary in this instance, as you are in every other. If a play of this sort compels you to undertake a journey through the caverns of misfortune, you say that it is unaes- thetic, sniveling, tiresome. And in that you are right — but why ? Because you are indignant that something sublime and noble perishes in the face of such difficulties. On the other hand, if you turn to the real world and encounter there a family which has undergone only half the adversities which tins hangman of a playwright with the voluptuous enjoyment reserved for a tyrant has devised to torture others, you shudder, and you think, “Good night to all aesthetic beauty.” You feel compassion, you are willing to help, in order to drive away gloomy thoughts, if for no other reason; but as for the poor family, you already have given it up in despair. But if this thing is true in real life, the poet has a right to represent it and represents it rightly. When you are sittmg in the theater, intoxicated with aesthetic enjoyment, you have the courage to require of the poet that he shall let the aesthetic triumph over all paltriness. It is the only comfort left, and, what is still more effeminate, it is you who take comfort m this, you to whom real life has furnished no occasion to make test of your strength. You are the poor and unfortunate one, like

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the hero and the heroine in the play, but you have also pathos, courage, an os rotund urn™ from which eloquence gushes in a powerful stream; you conquer; you applaud the actor, and the actor is yourself, and the applause of the parterre is for you, for indeed, you yourself are the hero and the actor. In dreams, in the airy visions of aesthetics, you men are heroes. I bother myself relatively little about the theater, and for my part you may be as merry as you please — let the theatrical heroes perish or let them conquer, let them sink through the floor or vanish through the ceiling, I am not much moved by that. But if in real life it is true, as you teach and proclaim, that far fewer adversities are capable of reduc- ing a man to the condition of a slave, so that he walks with his head bent and forgets that he, too, is created in God’s image, then please God may it be your just punishment that all playwrights should write nothing else but lamentable dramas with every possible dread and terror, which would not permit your effeminacy to find repose in the theater nor you to distill your supernatural perfume, but would perhaps frighten you until you might learn to believe in the reality of that which you believe only in the form of poetry.
I admit gladly that in my marriage I have not met with many adver- sities of this sort, I cannot, therefore, speak from experience, yet I have the conviction that nothing is capable of crushing out the aesthetic ele- ment in man, a conviction so strong, so blissful, so heart-felt, that I ren- der thanks to God for it as for a gift of grace. And when we read in Holy Scripture about many gifts of grace, I really would reckon this among them: the frankness, the confidence, the trust in reality and in the eternal necessity of the triumph of the beautiful, and the bliss im- plied in the liberty of coming to the aid of God. This conviction is a constituent factor of my make-up, and I do not allow myself to be effeminately and voluptuously moved to shuddering by the artificial stimulus of the theater. The only thing I can do is to thank God for this firmness of my soul, but in doing so I hope that I have set my soul free from the danger of taking it in vain. You know that I hate all experimentation, but nevertheless, it is generally recognized that a man may have in thought experienced much which he never has occasion to experience in reality. There sometimes come despondent moments, and when a person does not evoke them arbitrarily for the sake of trying his hand at such things, that too is a strife, a very serious strife, and in this strife may be acquired an assurance, which, though it has not exactly the same stamp of reality as that which is acquired in real life, has, nevertheless, a good deal of significance. There are certain cases in life

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when it is a good sign in a man that he is as it were mad, that he has not separated the world of poetry from that of reality but sees the latter sub specie poeseos. Luther says somewhere in one of his sermons where he is talking of poverty and want: “One has never heard of a Christian man dying of hunger.” Therewith Luther has disposed of the matter and thinks, doubtless with good reason, that he has spoken about it with much unction and to the genuine edification of his hearers.
Inasmuch, then, as marriage has to deal with such external trials, the thing to do, of course, is to make them internal. I say “of course,” and I am speaking rather audaciously when I talk on this subject; but you see I am writing only to you, and it is likely that we both have just about the same amount of experience with adversities of this sort. The thing to do, then, is to transform the external trial into an internal one, if one would preserve the aesthetic character of marriage. Or does it vex you that I still make use of the word aesthetic; do you think that it is almost a kmd of childishness in me to persist in seeking this quality among the poor and the suffering ? Or maybe you have degraded yourself by adopt- ing the shocking division which assigns the aesthetic to the distin- guished, the rich, the mighty, the highly educated, and at the most assigns religion to the poor? Well, it seems to me that the poor do not come out badly in this division. And do you not see that the poor in having the religious have also the aesthetic, and that the rich, insofar as they have not the religious, have not the aesthetic either ? Moreover, I have spoken only of the extremes, and it is surely not a rare case that people who cannot be reckoned among the poor have to contend with care and anxiety about their daily bread. Besides, there are other cares which are common to all classes: illness, for example. I am convinced, however, of this, that he who has the courage to transform an external trial into an internal one has already as good as overcome it. By faith he undergoes a transubstantiation even in the moment of suffering. The married man who well enough remembers his love, and in the moment of want has courage to say, “The important thing is not first of all where I can get money and at what rate, but first of all it is about my love, that I have kept a pure and faithful covenant of love with her to whom I am united.” He who with not too many inward struggles shall compel himself to say this, and with the youthful wholesomeness of first love, or with the assurance acquired by experience, undertakes to perform this movement — he has conquered, has preserved the aesthetic in marriage, even if he had not three small rooms to live in. Now it is not to be denied (as your cunning mind will soon scent out) that changing the

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external trial into an internal one may make it still harder. But the gods sell nothing great for naught, and just in this experience consists the educative, the idealizing effect of marriage. It is often said that when one stands alone in the world one can bear all such things more easily. True enough, to a certain degree; but m this talk there is often con- cealed a great untruth. For why is it one can bear the thing more easily ? It is because one can the more easily cast oneself away without involving anybody else, can forget God, can let the tempest of despair drown out the cry of pain, can become blunted in feeling, can almost take pleasure in living among men as a specter. Everyone ought indeed to take heed to himself, even though he stands alone; but after all, only the man who loves has a right conception of what he is and what he is capable of, and only marriage gives example of the historic fidelity, which is quite as beautiful as the chivalnc sort. For in fact, a married man can never behave in this way, and however, the world goes against him, even though for an instant he forgets himself and already begins to feel so light because despair is in the way of buoying him up, feels so strong because he has sipped the stupefying drink which is mixed by defiance and self-disdain, by cowardice and pride, feels so free because the bond which binds him to truth and righteousness is, as it were, broken and he experiences the speed which is the transition from good to bad — yet he will soon return to the old guiding control and as a married man (Aegtemand) prove himself a genuine man {aegte Mand).
This must suffice for the external trials. I express myself briefly, be- cause I do not feel profoundly competent to take part in the discussion of this subject, and also because an adequate treatment would require exorbitant space. But this is the result I reach: if love can be preserved — and that it can, so help me God — then can the aesthetic also be pre- served; for love itself is the aesthetic.
The other objections, which have internal trials in view, are due to a misunderstanding of the significance of time and of the aesthetic validity of the historical. They apply to every marriage, and hence, I can speak of them in very general terms. That I shall now do, trying not to over- look in this generic treatment the gist of the attack or the gist of the defense.
The first objection you would mention is custom, “inevitable cus- tom,’’ you would say, “this terrible monotony, the perpetual sameness in the appalling still-life of the domestic regime of married people. I love nature, but I hate second-nature.” One must allow that you know how to describe with seductive warmth and pathos the happy time when

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one still makes discoveries, and to depict with the colors of dread and horror the time when this is over. You know how to paint in ludicrous and disgusting terms a conjugal uniformity which does not find its match even in nature. “For here, after all, as Leibnitz has already showed , 88 nothing is quite identical. Such a uniformity has been reserved for rational creatures, resulting either from their drowsiness or from their pedantry.” Now I by no means am disposed to deny that it is a beautiful time, an eternally memorable time (mark well in what sense I can say this), when in the world of love the individual is affected with astonishment and made blissful by that which indeed had long ago been discovered, of which he had often heard and read, but which now for the first time he appropriates to himself with the whole enthusiasm of surprise, with the whole depth of inwardness. It is a beautiful time, from the very first presentiment of love, the first sight of the beloved object, its first disappearance, the first chord of this voice, the first glance, the first hand-shake, the first kiss, unto the first complete assurance of its possession. It is a beautiful time, the first uneasiness, the first longing, the first pain because she failed to put in an appearance, the first joy because she came unexpectedly. A beautiful time — but this is by no means to say that the subsequent time is not just as comely. You who pretend to such a chivalrous way of thinking, test yourself. When you say that the first kiss is the most exquisite, the sweetest, you offend the loved one; for what gives the kiss absolute value is time and the quali- fication it bestows.
In order, however, that I may not hurt the cause I am defending, you must first render me a little accounting. For m case you would not pro- ceed arbitrarily you must assail first love in the same way you assail marriage. For if the former is to survive in real life it must be espoused to the same fatalities, and is far from having the same resources to oppose to them that conjugal love has in the ethical and the religious. To be consistent you must therefore hate all love which desires to be an eternal love. So you stop with first love as a transitory moment. How- ever, in order to have its true significance first love must have in it the naive eternity. If once you have had the experience that this was an illusion, you have lost everything — unless you would struggle to fall again into the same illusion, which is a self-contradiction. Or might your shrewd head have so conspired with your lust that you could entirely forget what you owe to others? Might you think that even though it never could be repeated exactly like the first time, it still was a tolerable expedient: one was rejuvenated by experiencing the illusion in others,

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one relished the infinity and enjoyment found in the individual whose virginal girdle of illusion was not yet loosened? Such an attitude evinces as much despair as it does depravity, and since it evinces despair it will be impossible to find here enlightenment about life.
The first thing I shall protest is your right to use the word “custom” for the phenomenon of recurrence characteristic of every life and so, also, of love. The word custom is properly used only of evil, as indicat- ing either a persistence in something which is in itself evil, or a repetition of something which is in itself innocent, but a repetition so obstinate that it becomes evil. Custom, therefore, always indicates something unfree. But just as one cannot perform the good without freedom, so neither can one remain in it without freedom, and, therefore, with reference to the good one can never talk about custom.
In the next place I must also protest against your disparagement of conjugal uniformity when you state that such a thing is not to be found even in nature. That affirmation is, in fact, very true, but uniformity may be the expression of something beautiful, and that being the case, man can be proud of being the inventor of it. Thus, in music uniform tact may be very beautiful and produce a great effect.
Finally, I would say that in case such a monotony were unavoidable in conjugal life, you must yourself see, if you were honest, that the task would be to vanquish it, i.e., to preserve love in and through and under it, and not to despair; for despair can never be a serious task; it is a con- venience, which, I am willing to admit, only those grasp who see the task.
But let us now consider how it stands with this notorious uniformity. It is not only your fault but your misfortune that everywhere, and so, also, with respect to love, you think too abstractly. You think a little summary of love’s factors, you think (as you perhaps yourself would say) the categories of love. In this respect I willingly concede to you an uncommon categorical thoroughness. You think every concrete object in terms of one factor, and this is the poetical way of thinking. Then when alongside of this you think the protracted character of marriage, this seems to you an appalling incongruity. The trouble is that you do not think historically. If a systematic mind were to think the category of reciprocal action and develop it thoroughly and with sound logic, but should say also, “It will go on for an eternity before the world is through with its eternal reciprocal action,” you surely will not deny that one would have a right to laugh at him. This is simply the significance of time, and it is the lot of mankind and of individual men to live in it.

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If, therefore, you have nothing else to say but that this is not to be en- dured, then you will have to look about for another auditorium. This would be a perfectly sufficient answer; but not to give you opportunity to say, “Substantially you are of the same opinion as I am but consider it best to put up with what you cannot alter,” I shall endeavor to show that it not only is best to put up with it, as surely it is also a duty, but that putting up with a thing is truly the best.
But let us begin at a point which may be regarded as a point of contact. The time which precedes the culmination you are not afraid of, on the contrary, you love it, and by a great multiplicity of reflections you often try to make the instants employed in reproducing it even longer than they originally were, and if any one were to reduce your life to cate- gories, you would be exceedingly exasperated. During that time preced- ing the culmination it is not only the great and decisive actions which have interest for you, but every little insignificance, "and you know then how to talk prettily enough about the secret which was hid from the wise: that the smallest is the greatest. On the other hand, when the cul- minating point has been reached everything is changed, everything then shrinks to a poverty-stricken and uninviting abbreviation. This, to your way of thinking, is just simply grounded in your nature, which is bent upon conquest but is able to possess nothing. Now in case you are not willful and perverse enough to persist in maintainmg that this is simply the way you are made, there will come a moment when you are com- pelled to conclude an armistice and open the ranks so that I may come and see if this claim is true, and, if it be, how much truth there is in it. If you will not do this, then, without troubling about you, I will picture to myself an individuality exactly like yours and then calmly proceed with my vivisection of it. I hope, nevertheless, that you will have cour- age enough to submit personally to the operation, courage enough to let yourself — in reality and not merely in effigy — be hanged.
When you insist that you are “simply made that way,” you thereby concede that others might be different. I can affirm no more than this, for it might be possible that you are the normal man, although the fact that you are so anxious to assert this hardly suggests that you are the normal man. But how do you conceive of the others ? When you see a married couple whose union, as it seems to you, drags on in the most dreadful boredom, “with the most insipid repetition,” as you say, “of love’s holy institutions and sacraments,” then truly a conflagration rages within you, a flame which would consume them. And this, indeed, is not an arbitrary passion on your part; you are in the right, you are justified

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in letting the lightning of irony smite them, in letting the thunder of wrath terrify them. You do not annihilate them for the reason that you take pleasure in it but because they have deserved it. You condemn them — but what else does “condemn” mean but to require something of them, and if you cannot require it, surely it is a contradiction to require the impossible, and so it is a contradiction to condemn them. Surely you have compromised yourself when you hint at a law which you yourself are not willing to recognize and which, nevertheless, you have applied to others. You are not lacking, however, in self-possession; you say: “I do not blame them, I do not reproach them, I do not condemn them — I pity them.” But suppose, now, that the couple in question did not find it at all tedious. A self-satisfied smile flits across your face, a happy con- ceit has come to you as a surprise and surely will surprise the person whom you address: “I pity them, as I have said, for either they feel the whole weight of boredom, and for this I pity them, or they do not notice it, and then too I pity them for the fact that they are in a pitiable illusion.” That is about the way you would answer me, and in case there were several persons present your attitude of assurance would not fail to produce an effect. Now, however, there is nobody listening to us, so I can proceed with the examination. You pity them, then, in both cases. Only a third case is possible, that of the man who knows that this is how it is with matrimony and luckily has not entered into it. But this situation is obviously just as pitiable for the man who has felt love and now sees that it cannot be realized; and, finally, the state of the man who has got himself out of this shipwreck by the egoistic expedients above described is also pitiable, for he has assumed the place of the rob- ber and disturber of the peace. It seems, therefore, that although mar- riage has generally become the expression for a happy ending, yet its own end is not so very joyful. As the result of this whole investigation we have thus reached the point of pitying everybody universally. But such a result is an absurdity. It is as if one were to say that the result of life’s development is that one goes backward. You generally are not afraid of chiming in, and in this case perhaps you would say: “Yes, that sometimes occurs too: when a man has the wind dead against him on a slippery path the result of going forward is often a going backward.”
I return again, however, to the consideration of your whole spiritual make-up. You say that yours is a nature designed for conquest and not capable of possessing. In saying this you certainly do not think you have said anything to your own disparagement; on the contrary, you are inclined rather to think yourself greater than others. Let us con-

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sider this a little more closely. Which requires greater strength, to go uphill or to go downhill? Evidently more strength is required for the latter, if the grade is a steep one. The disposition to go uphill is inborn in almost every man, whereas most people have a certain dread of going down a steep grade. So, too, I believe that there are far more natures formed for conquest than for possession; and when you feel your superiority over a host of married people and “their stupid animal satisfaction,” that may be true to a certain degree, but then you feel that you have nothing to learn from those who are beneath you. True art generally takes the opposite direction to the course which nature fol- lows, though without annihilating the process of nature; and so true art will exhibit itself by possessing. The fact is that possession is con- quest in an inverse direction. In this expression you can already see how art and nature strive against one another. The man who possesses has also something which results from conquest; indeed, if one were to be Strict in the use of terms, one might say that only the man who possesses really conquers. You likely have the notion diat you too possess, for in fact you have the instant of possession. But this is no possession, for there is no deeper appropriation. Thus, when I think of a conqueror who has subdued kingdoms and lands, he was also in possession of these op- pressed provinces, he had great possessions, and yet such a prince is called a conqueror, not a possessor. Only when by wisdom he governed them to dieir own best interest did he really possess them. Now this is very rare in a conquering nature; generally he will lack the humility, the religiousness, the true humanity, required for possession. It was for this reason, you see, that in my exposition of the relation of marriage to first love I emphasized especially the religious factor, because this will dethrone the conqueror and let the possessor come to evidence. There- fore, I commended marriage for the fact that it was precisely designed for the highest end, for lasting possession. Here I may remind you of a saying you often utter with a flourish: “The great thing is not the original but the acquired.” Now the passion for conquest and the fact that one makes conquests is the original, the primitive factor, but the fact that one possesses and wills to possess is the acquired. Pride is re- quired for conquest, humility for possession; violence is required for conquest, patience for possession; cupidity for conquest, contentment for possession; food and drink for conquest, fasting and prayer for possession. But all the predicates I have used here, and surely have used rightly, to characterize the conquering nature may be applied with absolute propriety to the natural man; but the natural man is not the

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highest. Possession is not a spiritually inert and invalid “appearance” even though it has legal force, but it is a steady acquisition. Here you see again that the possessive nature has in himself the conquering dis- position; for he conquers like the farmer, who does not put himself at the head of his henchmen and drive his neighbor away, but conquers by digging in the earth. True greatness, therefore, is not conquest but possession. Here perhaps you will say, “I will not decide which is the greater, but I am willing to admit that these are two great formations of men. Everyone may decide for himself to which formation he be- longs, and must guard against being transformed by this or the other apostle of conversion.” By this last expression I see you have your eye fixed upon me triumphantly. Nevertheless, I will make answer: The one is not merely greater than the other, but it has some sense in it, and the other has not. It has both an antecedent and a consequent clause, the other has merely the antecedent, and instead of the consequent clause a suspicious dash, the significance of which I shall explain to you another time, if you do not know it already.
If now you continue to say that you simply are a conquering nature, that is entirely indifferent to me, for you must concede that it is greater to possess than to conquer. When a man conquers he constandy forgets himself, when he possesses he remembers himself, not as a vain diversion but with all possible seriousness. When one is going uphill one has an eye merely upon the other person, when one is going downhill one must keep watch upon oneself, observing the just relation between the sup- port and the center of gravity.
But I go further. You will perhaps concede that it is more difficult to possess than to conquer. You say, however, “If only I am allowed to conquer, I shall not be so stingy as that; on the contrary, I shall be very liberal in my compliments to those who have the patience to possess, especially if they should be found disposed to work hand in hand with me by being willing to possess my conquests. That is the greater, so let it be, but more beautiful it is not; more ethical it may be, but (with all due deference to ethics) it is at the same time less aesthetic.” Let us try to come to a better understanding of one another on this point. Among a great many people there doubtless prevails a misunderstanding which confounds what is aesthetically beautiful with the representation of aesthetic beauty. This is readily explained by the fact that the aesthetic satisfaction of which the soul has need is by most people found in read- ing or in beholding works of art etc., whereas there are comparatively very few who themselves see the aesthetic as it is in everyday life, who

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themselves see everyday life in an aesthetic light and do not merely en- joy the poetic representation. But for an aesthetic representation there always is required a concentration in the moment, and the richer this concentration is, the greater is the effect. Now it is only by this concen- tration that the happy, the indescribable moment, the moment of in- finite significance, in short, the Moment, acquires its true value. This moment is either, as it were, the predestined moment which vibrates through consciousness by awakenmg the conception of the divinity of existence; or it presupposes a history. In the first case it takes one by sur- prise; in the second case there is indeed a history, but the artistic repre- sentation cannot dwell upon it, at the most it can merely give a hint of it, and then hasten on to the moment. The more it can put into the mo- ment, the more aesthetic it is. Nature, as a philosopher has said, takes the shortest way. One might say that it takes no way, for at one stroke it is present all at once; and when I would lose myself in contemplation of the vaulted heaven I do not have to wait until the innumerable heavenly bodies take shape, for they all arc there at once.
The way of history, on the other hand, like that of the law, is very long and toilsome. Then art and poetry step in to shorten the way and delight us with the moment of accomplishment, as they concentrate the extensive in the intensive. But the more significant that thing is which is to come out, the slower is the way of history, but the more significant is, also, this slow course itself, and the more it will be seen that the way is also the goal. As it is related to the individual life, history is of two kinds: external and internal. They arc currents of two sorts with oppo- site movements. The first, kind, again, has two sides. In the one case the individual has not that for which he strives, and history is the strife in which he acquires it. In the second case the individual has that for which he strives, yet cannot come into possession of it because there is constantly something which hinders him from doing so, and history is, then, the strife in which he triumphs over these hindrances. The second kind of history begins with possession, and history is the development through which one acquires possession. Since in the first case history is external and that towards which it strives lies outside, it has not true reality, and the poetic and artistic representation does quite right in shortening history and hastening on to the intensive moment. To stick to the subject which we have more particularly in hand, let us think of romantic love. Imagine, then, a knight who has slain five wild boars, four dragons, and delivered three enchanted princes, brothers of the princess whom he worships. In the romantic chain of reasoning this has

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complete reality. To the artist and the poet, however, it is of no im- portance at all whether there are five or only four monsters slain. The artist is, on the whole, more restricted than the poet, but even the latter will not be interested in relating circumstantially how the hero accom- plished the destruction of each individual wild boar. He hastens on to the moment. He perhaps reduces the number, concentrates the toils and dangers with poetic intensity, and hastens on to the moment, the mo- ment of possession. To him the whole historical succession is of com- paratively little importance.
Where, however, it is a question of internal history, every little mo- ment is of the utmost importance. Internal history is the only true history; but true history contends with that which is the life principle of history, i.e., with time. But when one contends with time, then the temporal and 'every little moment of it acquires for this fact immense reality. Whenever the internal process of blossoming in the individual has not yet begun and the individual is shut, there can only be external history. On the other hand, as soon as this blossoming, so to speak, sprmgs out, internal history begins. Think now of the theme with which we started, the difference between the conquering and the posses- sive natures. The conquering nature is constantly outside himself, the possessive nature within himself; hence, the former has external history, the latter has internal history. But since external history is the one kind of history which can without detriment be concentrated, it is natural that art and poetry choose this especially for representation, and hence, choose likewise the unopened individual and everything that has to do with him. It is said, indeed, that love opens die individual, but this is not true when love is conceived as it is in romances. There the indi- vidual is merely brought to the point where he will open— -with that it ends; or he is about to open but is interrupted. But since external his- tory and the shut individuality will remain more especially the subjects for artistic and poetic representation, so, too, will everything which goes to compose the content of such an individuality be preferred. But substantially this is what belongs to the natural man. Here are a few examples. Pride can very well be represented, for the essential point in pride is not succession but intensity in the moment. Humility is repre- sented with difficulty, because here if anywhere we are dealing with succession, and whereas the beholder needs only to see -pride in its cul- mination, in the other instance he properly requires what poetry and art cannot give, i.e., to see humility in its constant process of being, for it is essential to humility that it constantly remains, and when it is shown

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in its ideal moment the beholder senses the lack of something, because he feels that its true ideality does not consist in the fact that it is ideal in the moment but that it is constant. Romantic love can very well be represented in the moment, but conjugal love cannot, because an ideal husband is not one who is such once in his life but one who every day is such. If I would represent a hero who conquers kingdoms and lands, it can very well be represented m the moment, but a cross-bearer who every day takes up his cross cannot be represented either in poetry or in art, because the point is that he does it every day. If I would imagine a hero who stakes his life, it can very well be concentrated in the moment, but not the business of dying daily, for here the principal point is that it occurs every day. Courage can very well be concentrated in the moment, but not patience, precisely for the reason that patience strives with time. You will say that after all art has represented Christ as the image of pa- tience, bearing all the sin of the world, and that religious poetry has concentrated all the bitterness of life in one cup and let one individual drain it in one moment. That is true, but it is because this has been almost spatially concentrated. The man, however, who really knows a little about patience knows very well that it does not properly stand op- posed to intensity (for with that it rather approaches courage) but to time, and that the true patience is that which is seen to be contending with time, or is properly long-suffering. But long-suffering cannot be represented artistically, for the point of it is incommensurable with art; neither can it be poetized, for it requires the long, protracted tedium of time.
Now what 1 would further say to you here you may regard as the lowly offering which a poor married man makes at the altar of aesthet- ics, and though you and all the priests of aesthetics should disdain it, I shall, for all that, know how to console myself, and that all the more because the offering I bring is not show bread, 81 which may be eaten only by priests, but homemade bread, which like all domestic cookery is simple and not highly spiced, but wholesome and nourishing.
When one follows, either dialectically or historically, the develop- ment of the aesthetically beautiful, one will find that the direction of this movement is away from spatial determinants to those of time, and that the perfection of art depends upon the successive possibility of de- taching oneself from space and orienting oneself towards time. In this consists the transition and the significance of the transition from sculp- ture to painting, as Schellmg has recently pointed out. 38 Music has time as its clement, but it gains no permanent place in it; its significance lies

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in its constant vanishing in time; it emits sounds in time, but at once it vanishes and has no permanence. Finally, poetry is the highest of all arts and is therefore the art which knows best how to set off to advantage the significance of time. It does not need to confine itself to the moment the way painting does, neither does it vanish as music does, but never- theless, it is compelled, as we have seen, to concentrate in the moment. Hence, it has limits, and (as was shown above) it cannot represent that which has its reality in temporal succession. And yet the fact that the significance of time is stressed does not decrease the aesthetic effect; on the contrary, the aesthetic ideal becomes richer and fuller in proportion as the importance of time is duly emphasized. How, then, can the aes- thetic be represented, seeing that it is incommensurable even with poetry ? Answer: by living it. It thereby acquires a resemblance to music, which is merely because it is constandy repeated, existing merely in the instant of execution. For this reason I called attention above to the per- nicious confusion of the aesthetic with whatever can be presented in the form of poetic reproduction. For example, everything I am talking about here can of course be presented aesthetically, not, however, in the form of poetic reproduction, but in the fact that one lives it, puts it into effect in real life. It is in this way aesthetics is neutralized and reconciled with life; for though in one sense poetry and art are a reconciliation with life, yet in another sense they are at enmity with it because they reconcile only one side of the soul. Here I have reached the highest concept of the aesthetic. And truly he who has enough humility and courage to let himself be transfigured to this degree; who feels that he is, as it were, a character in the drama which the Deity composes, where the poet and the prompter are not different persons, where the individual, like a practiced actor who has lived himself into his part and into his lines, is not disturbed by the prompter but feels that what is whispered to him is what he himself would say, so that it almost becomes doubtful whether he puts the words in the prompter’s mouth or the prompter in his; he who in the deepest sense feels that he is poet and poetized, who at the moment he feels himself to be the poet possesses the primitive pathos of the lines, at the moment he feels himself poetized has the erotic ear which picks up every sound — that man, and that man alone, has realized the highest ideal of aesthetics. But this history which proves to be incom- mensurable even with poetry is internal history. It has the idea in itself, and precisely for this reason it is aesthetic. It begins, therefore, with pos- session, as I expressed it, and its progress is the acquisition of this posses- sion. It is an eternity in which the temporal has not vanished like an

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ideal moment, but in which it is constantly present as a real moment. When patience thus acquires itself in patience we have inward or in- terior history.
Let us now glance at the relation between romantic and conjugal love — for the relation between the natures made for conquest and for pos- session offers no difficulty at all. Romantic love remains constantly abstract in itself, and, if it is able to acquire no external history, death al- ready is lying in wait for it, because its eternity is illusory. Conjugal love begins with possession and acquires inward history. It is faithful. So is romantic love — but now note the difference. The faithful romantic lover waits, let us say, for fifteen years — then comes the instant which rewards him. Here poetry sees very rightly that the fifteen years can very well be concentrated. It hastens on, then, to the moment. A married man is faithful for fifteen years, yet during those fifteen years he has had pos- session, so in that long succession of time he has acquired faithfulness. But such an ideal marriage cannot be represented, for the point is time in its extension. At the end of the fifteen years he has apparently got no further than he was at the beginning, yet he has lived in a high degree aesthetically. His possession has not been like dead property, but he has constantly been acquiring his possession. He has not fought with lions and ogres, but with the most dangerous enemy: with time. But for him eternity does not come afterwards as in the case of the knight, but he has had eternity in time. He alone, therefore, has triumphed over time; for one can say of the knight that he has killed time, as indeed a man con- stantly wishes to kill time when it has no reality for him. But this is never the perfect victory. The married man, being a true conquerer, has not killed time but has saved it and preserved it in eternity. The married man who does this, truly lives poetically. He solves the great riddle of living in eternity and yet hearing the hall clock strike, and hearing it in such a way that the stroke of the hour does not shorten but prolong his eternity — a contradiction as profound but far more glorious than the situation 80 described in a well known tale of the Middle Ages which tells of an unhappy man that he awoke in hell and cried out, “What time is it?” and the devil answered, “An eternity.” And now even if this is something which cannot be represented in art, let it be your comfort as it is mine that the highest and most beautiful things in life are not to be heard about, nor read about, nor seen, but, if one will, may be lived. When, then, I willingly admit that romantic love lends itself more aptly to artistic representation than does conjugal love, this is not by any means to say that the latter is less aesthetic than the former; on the con-

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trary, it is more aesthetic. In one of the tales of the Romantic School 40 which evinces the greatest genius, there is one character who has no desire to write poetry like the others among whom he lives, because it is a waste of time and deprives him of the true enjoyment — he prefers to live. Now if he had had the right conception of what it is to live, he would have been the man for me.
Conjugal love has its foe in time, its triumph in time, its eternity in time, and so it would have its problems, even if I were to imagine him free from all the so-called external and internal trials. Generally, it has these too; but if one were to interpret them rightly, one must observe two things: that these trials are constantly inward determinants; and that they constantly have in them the determinant of time. It is easy to see that for this reason, too, conjugal love cannot be represented. It con- stantly drags itself back inwardly, and (to use the expression in a good sense) it constantly drags along in time; but what is to be represented by reproduction must let itself be lured out, and its time must be capable of abbreviation. You may convince yourself of this more thoroughly by considering the predicates commonly applied to conjugal love. It is faithful, constant, humble, patient, long-suffering, indulgent, sincere, contented, vigilant, willing, joyful. All these virtues have the character- istic that they are inward qualifications of the individual. The individual is not fighting with external foes but fights with himself, fights out love from within him. And they have reference to time, for their truth does not consist in being once for all but in being constantly what they are. And by these virtues nothing else is acquired, only they themselves are acquired. Conjugal love does not come with any outward sign, like “the rich bird ” 41 with whizzing and bluster, but it is the imperishable nature of a quiet spirit.
Of this fact you and all natures born for conquest have no conception. You are never in yourselves, but constantly outside yourselves. Yea, so long as every nerve in you is aquiver, whether when you are stealing sofdy about, or when you step out boldly and Janizary music within you drowns out your consciousness — then you feel that you are living. But when the battle is won, when the last echo of the last shot has died away, when the swift thoughts, like a staff officer hurrying back to head- quarters, report that the victory is yours— then, in fact, you know noth- ing more, you know not how to begin; for then, for the first time you are at the true beginning.
What you, therefore, under the name of custom abhor as unavoidable

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in marriage is merely the historical factor in it, which in your perverted eye acquires such a terrifying aspect.
But what is this thmg you are accustomed to think of as not merely annihilated but profaned by the “custom” which is inseparable from conjugal love ? Generally you think of what you call “the visible sacred symbol of the erotic,” which, as you say, “like all signs or tokens, has in itself no importance but depends for its significance upon the energy, the artistic bravura and virtuosity, themselves proofs of inborn genius, with which it is executed.” “How disgusting it is,” you say, “to see the languor with which such things are performed in married life, how perfunc- torily, how sluggishly it is done, almost at the stroke of the clock — pretty much as among the tribe the Jesuits discovered in Paraguay, which was so sluggish that the Jesuits found it necessary to ring a bell at midnight as a welcome notice to all husbands, to remind them thereby of their marital duties. So everything is done on time, as they are trained to do it.” Let us at this point agree that in our meditation we shall not let ourselves be disturbed by the fact that there is a great deal to be seen in existence which is ludicrous and preposterous; let us simply see whether it is necessary, and, if so, learn from you the way of salvation. In this respect I dare not expect much from you; for like the Spanish knight of the doleful countenance you are fighting, though in a different sense, for a vanished time. For as you are fighting for the moment against time, you actually are fighting for what has vanished. Let us take an idea, an expression, from your poetic world, or from the real world of first love: “the lovers loo\ at one another.” You know very well how to underscore this word “look” and to put into it an infinite reality, an eternity. In this sense a married couple who have lived together for ten years and seen one another daily cannot “look” at one another. But might they not therefore be able to look lovingly at one another ? Now here we have again your old heresy. You have got to the point of limiting love to a certain age, and limiting love for one person to a very short period of time. Thereupon, like all conquering natures, you seek recruits in order to carry out your experiment — but this, indeed, is the very deepest prof- anation of the eternal power of love. This, indeed, is despair. However you turn and twist, you must admit that the gist of the matter is to preserve love in time. If this is impossible, then love is an impossibility. Your misfortune is that you recognize love simply and solely by these visible signs. If they are to be repeated again and again, and must be accompanied, you are to note, by a morbid reflection as to whether they continually possess the reality they once had by reason of the accidental

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circumstance that it was the first time, 'it is no wonder you are alarmed and that you associate these signs and “gesticulations” with things of which one dare not say decies repitita placebunt ; 42 for if that which gives them value was the characteristic qualification “the first time,” a repetition is indeed impossible. But healthy love has an entirely different worth; it is in time it accomplishes its work, and therefore, it will be capable of rejuvenating itself by means of these outward signs, and (what to me is the principal thing) it has an entirely different concep- tion of time and of the significance of repetition.
I have shown in the foregoing discussion that conjugal love has its conflict in time, its victory in time, its blessing in time. I then regarded time merely as simple progression; now I shall show that it is not merely a simple progression in which the original datum is preserved, but a growing progression in which the original datum increases^ You who have so many observations will certainly grant that I am right in making the general observation that men are divided into two great classes: those who predominantly live in hope; and those who predominantly live in recollection. Both have a wrong relation to time. The healthy individual lives at once both in hope and in recollection, and only thereby does his life acquire true and substantial continuity. So, then, he has hope and does not will, like those who live off of recollection, to return backward in time. What, then, does recollection do for him? For, after all, some influence it surely must have. It sets a cross over the note of the instant — the further back recollection goes, and the more frequent the repetition, the more crosses there are. Thus, if in the present year the individual experiences an erotic moment, this is enhanced by the fact that he recollects it in the preceding year, etc,' In a beautiful way this has also found expression in married life. I do not know what may now be the age of the world, but you know as well as I that people are accustomed to say that first comes the golden age, then the silver age, then the copper age, then the iron age. In marriage this is inverted : first comes the silver wedding, then the golden wedding. Is not recollection really the point of such a wed- ding ? And yet the marriage terminology declares that this is still more beautiful than the first wedding. Now you must not misunderstand this — as you would do, for instance, if you might be pleased to say, “Then it would be best to get married in the cradle in order to begin promptly with one’s silver wedding and have hope of being the first inventor of a brand-new term in the vocabulary of married life.” You yourself presumably perceive the fallacy of your witticism, and I s hal l

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not dwell upon it any further. What I would remind you of, however, is that the individuals are in fact not merely living m hope; they con- stantly have in the present both the one and the other, both hope and recollection. At the first wedding hope has the same effect that recol- lection has at the last. Hope hovers over them as the hope of eternity which fills the moment to the brim. You also will perceive the correct- ness of this when you reflect that if one were to marry merely in the hope of a silver wedding, and then hoped and hoped again for twenty- five years, one would be in no state to celebrate the silver wedding when the twenty-fifth year came around, for indeed, one would have nothing to recollect, since with all this hoping everything would have fallen apart. Moreover, it has often occurred to me to wonder why, according to the universal usage and way of thinking, the state of single blessedness has no such brilliant prospects, that on the contrary, people rather turn it to ridicule when a bachelor celebrates a jubilee. The reason, doubtless, is that in general it is assumed that the single state never can rightly grasp the true present, which is a unity of hope and recollection, and that therefore, bachelors are for the most part addicted either to hope or to recollection. But this again suggests the correct relation to time which common estimation also attributes to conjugal love.
There is also something else, however, in married life which you char- acterize by the word custom: “its monotony,” you say, “the total lack of events, its everlasting vacuity, which is death and worse than death.” You know that there are neurasthenics who may be disturbed by the slightest noise, who are unable to think when someone is walking softly across the floor. Have you observed that there is also another sort of neurasthenia? There are people so weak that they need loud noise and a distracting environment in order to be able to work. Why is this, unless for the fact that they have no command over themselves, except m an inverse sense ? When they are alone their thoughts disappear in the indefinite; on the other hand, when there is noise and hubbub around them, this compels them to pit their will against it. It is for this reason you are afraid of peace and quietness and repose. You are within yourself only when there is opposition, but therefore you are never within yourself. That is to say, the moment you assimilate opposition there is quiet again. Therefore, you do not dare to do so. But then you and the opposition remain standing face to face, and so you are not within yourself.
The same thing, of course, applies here which we noted earlier in the case of time. You are outside yourself and therefore cannot dispense

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with the other as an opposition; you believe that only a restless spirit is alive, and all men of experience think that only a quiet spirit is truly alive; for you, an agitated sea is the image of life, for me it is still deep waters. Often I have sat by a bit of purling water. It is always the same, the same soft melody, the same green plants on its floor, swaying beneath its quiet waves, the same little creatures running about at the bottom, a little fish which glides under the protection of the overhanging flowers, spreading out its fins against the current, hiding under a stone. How monotonous, and yet how rich in change! Such is the home life of mar- riage: quiet, modest, purling— it has not many changements, and yet like that water it purls, yet like that water it has melody, dear to the man who knows it, dear to him above all other sounds because he knows it. It makes no pompous display, and yet sometimes there is shed over it a luster which does not interrupt its customary course, like as when the moonbeams fall upon that water and reveal the instrument upon which it plays its melody. Such is the home life of marriage. But in order to be seen thus and to be lived thus it presupposes the one quality which I shall mention to you. I find it mentioned in a poem by Oehlen- schlager 43 upon which, at least in time gone by, I know you set great store. For the sake of completeness I shall transcribe the whole of it:
How much must come together in the world That love’s enchantment may be brought to pass!
First the two hearts which know each other well.
Then charm which doth accompany them both,
The moon then casting its bewitching beams Through the beech forests in the early spring,
Then that these two can meet there all alone —
Then the first kiss — and then . . . their innocence.
You, too, are given to eulogizing love. I will not deprive you of that which is not indeed your property, for it is the property of the poet, but which, nevertheless, you have appropriated; but since I too have ap- propriated it, let us share it— you get the whole poem, I the last words: “their innocence.”
Finally, there is still another side to married life which has often given you occasion for attack. You say, “Conjugal love conceals in itself something quite different. It seems so mild and heart-felt and tender, but as soon as the door is closed behind the married pair, then before you can say Jack Robinson out comes the word duty. You may deck out this scepter as much as you will, you can make it into a Shrovetide rod,

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it still remains a rod.” I deal with this objection here because it also is due essentially to a misunderstanding of the historical factor in conjugal love. You would have it that either obscure powers or caprice are the constituent factors of love. As soon as consciousness comes forward to join them this enchantment vanishes. But this consciousness is conjugal love. To express it quite crudely — in place of the wand with which the director of the orchestra indicates the tempo for the graceful attitudes assumed in the dance of first love, you show us the unpleasant stick of the policeman. First of all you must concede to me that so long as there is no alteration in first love (and this, we have agreed, is contained in conjugal love) there can be no question of the strict necessity of duty. So the fact is you do not believe in the eternity of first love. Here we are back again at your old heresy: it is you who so often assume to be the knight of first love, and yet you do not believe in it, yea, you profane it. So because you do not believe in it you dare not enter into an alliance which, when you no longer are volens may compel you nolens to remain in it. For you, therefore, love is obviously not the highest thing, for other- wise you would be glad there was a power capable of compelling you to remam in it. You will, perhaps, make answer that this remedy is no remedy; but to that I will remark that it depends upon how one looks at the matter.
This is one of the points to which we constantly return — you, as it seems, against your will and without being quite clear what it involves, I with full consciousness of its significance: the point, namely, that the illusory or naive eternity of first or romantic love cancels itself out, in one way or another. Just because you try to retain love in this immediate form, try to make yourself believe that true freedom consists in being outside oneself, intoxicated by dreams, therefore you fear the metamor- phosis, not regarding it as such but as something altogether hetero- geneous which implies the death of first love, and hence your abhorrence of duty. For, of course, if duty has not already subsisted as a germ in first love, it is absolutely disturbing when it makes its appearance. But such is not the case with conjugal love. Already in the ethical and re- ligious factors it has duty in it, and when this appears before it, it is not as a stranger, a shameless intruder, who nevertheless has such authority that one dare not by virtue of the mysteriousness of love show him the door. No, duty comes as an old friend, an intimate, a confidant, whom the lovers mutually recognize in the deepest secret of their love. And when he speaks it is nothing new he has to say, and when he has spoken the individuals humble themselves under it, but at the same time are

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uplifted just because they are assured that what he enjoins is what they themselves wish, and that his commanding it is merely a more majestic, a more exalted, a divine way of expressing the fact that their wish can be realized. It would not have been enough if he had encouraged them by saying, “It can be done, love can be preserved,” but when he says, “It shall be preserved,” there is in that an authority which answers to the heart-felt desire of love. Love drives out fear; but yet when love is for a moment fearful for itself, fearful of its own salvation, duty is the nutriment of all others love stands in need of; for it says, “Fear not, you shall conquer,” speaking not futuristically, for that only suggests hope, but imperatively, and in this lies an assurance which nothing can shake.
So then you regard duty as the enemy of love; I regard it as its friend. You will, perhaps, be content at hearing this declaration, and with your customary mockery will congratulate me on such an interesting and uncommon friend. I, on the other hand, will by no means be satisfied with this reply but will take the liberty of carrying the war into your own territory. If duty, once it has appeared in consciousness, is an enemy of love, then love must do its best to conquer it; for you, after all, would not think of love as a being so impotent that it cannot vanquish every opposition. On the other hand, you think that when duty makes its appearance it is all over with love, and you think also that duty, early or late, must make its appearance, not merely in conjugal love but also in romantic love; and the truth is that you are afraid of conjugal love because it has in it duty to such a degree that when it makes its appear- ance you cannot run away from it. In romantic love, on the other hand, you think this is all right, for as soon as the instant arrives when duty it mentioned, love is over, and the arrival of duty is the signal for you, with a very courtly bow, to say farewell. Here you see agam what your eulogies of love amount to. If duty is the enemy of love, and if love cannot vanquish this enemy, then love is not the true conquerer. The consequence is that you must leave love in the lurch. When once you have got the desperate idea that duty is the enemy of love, your defeat is certain, and you have done just as much to disparage love and deprive it of its majesty as you have done to show despite of duty, and yet it was only the latter you meant to do. You see, this again is despair, whether you feel the pain of it or seek in despair to forget it.Tf you cannot reach the point of seeing the aesthetical, the ethical and the religious as three great allies, if you do not know how to conserve the unity of the diverse appearances which everything assumes in these diverse spheres, then life is devoid of meaning, then one must grant that you are justified in

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maintaining your pet theory that one can say of everything, “Do it or don’t do it — you will regret both/)'
Now I am not, like you, under the tragic necessity of having to begin a campaign against duty which cannot but have an unfortunate ending. For me, duty is not one climate and love another, but for me duty makes love the true temperate climate, and for me loves makes duty the true temperate climate, and perfection consists in this unity. However, to make the falsity of your doctrine thoroughly evident, I will pursue this theme a little longer, begging you to reflect upon the various ways in which one might feel that duty is the enemy of love.
Imagine a man who had become a husband without ever having taken seriously into account the ethical factor in marriage. He loved with the whole passion of youth, and then suddenly was moved by an outward occasion to doubt whether it was not possible that she whom he loved, but to whom also he was tied by a bond of duty, might not think that he loved her after all only because it was his duty. You see that he was in a position like that of the man previously mentioned, to him, too, duty seemed to be in opposition to love; but he was m love, and for him love was truly the highest thing, and hence, his effort would be to overcome this enemy. So he would love her, not because duty pre- scribed it, not in the scant measure of a quantum satis which is all that duty can enjoin, but he would wish to love her with all his soul and with all his strength and with all his might, he would love her even at the moment when (if such a thing were possible) duty bade him desist. You can easily see the confusion in his train of thought. What did he do? He loved her with his whole soul — but this, indeed, is just what duty enjoins. For let us not be confused by the talk of those who have the notion that duty is only a congeries of ceremonial prescriptions. Duty is only one: to love truly with the inward movement of the heart; and duty is as protean in its forms as is love itself, and it pronounces everything good when it is of love, and denounces everything, however beautiful and specious it may be, if it is not of love. You see that this man, too, has assumed an incorrect attitude, but just because there was truth in him he does — although not willing to do only that — just what duty enjoins, neither more nor less. In a way he does more, for the fact that he does it; for the “more” which I find it possible for me to do is just this, that I am able actually to do what duty enjoins. Duty com- mands — more than that it cannot do. The “more” which I am capable of doing is to do what it commands, and the instant I do this I can in a certain sense say that I am doing “more.” Translate duty from the exter-

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nal to the internal, and with that I am well beyond duty. You see from this what infinite harmony and wisdom and consistency there is in the world of spirit. When a man starts from a definite point and calmly pursues his path with truth and energy, it must always be an illusion when everything else seems to be in contradiction to it; and when some- one believes he has thoroughly demonstrated discord, he has demon- strated harmony. Therefore, the husband we spoke about got off easily, and the only punishment he had to suffer was that duty made a bit of fun of him for his “little faith.” Duty constandy chimes in with love. If you separate them, as that man did, and make one part the whole, you are constantly in self-contradiction. It is as if in the word “be” a man were to separate “b” and “e” and so would have no “e” but would maintain that “b” was the whole. The moment he pronounces it he utters the “e” along with it. So it is with true love: it is not a dumb and unutterable letter, but neither is it a soft and inapprehensible indefinite- ness. It is an articulate sound, a letter. Is duty hard? Eh bien, then love pronounces it, it realizes it, and thereby does more than its duty. Is love by way of becoming so soft that it cannot be held fast, well then, duty imposes upon it boundaries.
Now if you were in the same case as that man we have been talking about, if your notion that duty is the enemy of love were only an inno- cent misunderstanding, things would turn out with you as fortunately as they did with him. But your interpretation, though no doubt it is a misunderstanding, is a guilty misunderstanding. Hence it is that you disparage not only duty but also love, hence it is that duty appears to be an insuperable enemy. For duty loves only true love and has a mortal hatred of false love and slays it. The individuals, if they are in the truth, will see in duty merely the eternal expression of the fact that the path into eternity is prepared for them, that the path in which they would gladly walk they not only are permitted to take but are commanded to take, and that over this path there watches a divine providence which constantly points out to them the prospect and sets up warning signs at all perilous places. The man who loves, why should he be unwilling to accept a divine authorization just because it is expressed divinely and does not say merely, “You may” but “You must”? By duty the way is cleared for the lovers, and I believe it is for this reason that duty is expressed by the future tense, to suggest its historical implication.
Now I am through with this little exposition. Presumably it has made an impression upon you, 70U have a feeling that everything is inverted, and you cannot harden yourself against the logical consistency with

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which I have spoken. If I had said all this to you, however, in a conver- sation, you would likely have found difficulty in refraining from the sarcastic remark that I am preachifying. But you cannot properly accuse my presentation of suffering from this fault or of being what it perhaps ought to be when one is speaking to such a hardened sinner as you. And as for your effusions, your wisdom, they not too infrequently recall to mind the Book of the Preacher, Ecclesiastes, and really, one might sup- pose that occasionally you choose your texts from it.
But I will let you provide me with an occasion for illuminating this matter. For the fact is, you do not generally make light of ethics, and one has first to drive you to a certain point before you throw it overboard. As long as you possibly can you keep it on your side. “I by no means despise ethics” — in this way your milder effusions commonly begin, the more refined assassination of duty. “But above all, let us have pure bread in the bag, as they say: duty is duty, love is love. Period I Above all, no mixing things up. Or is not marriage the only abortion of this kind, with this hermaphroditic ambiguity? All else is either duty or love. I recognize that it is a man’s duty to seek a definite profession in life, I legard it as his duty to be faithful to his calling, and, on the other hand, when he violates his duty he suffers well deserved punishment. Here is duty. I undertake something definite, I can state precisely what it is, I promise to perform it dutifully — if I do not, I am confronted by a power which is able to compel me. On the other hand, if I attach myself closely in friendship to another person, love is everything in this case, I recog- nize no duty; if love is at an end, then friendship is over. It is reserved for marriage alone to base itself upon such an absurdity. What after all does it mean to pledge oneself to love ? Where are the limits ? How is my duty exactly defined ? To what judicial board shall I appeal in case of doubt? And if I do not fulfil my duty, where is the power which will compel me ? The State and the Church, it is true, have established certain limits; but even though I do not overstep them, may I not be a bad husband ? Who will punish me ? Who will defend her who suffers under it?” The answer is: you yourself.
However, before I go on to resolve the confusion in which you have ensnared yourself and me, I must make one observation. There is often in your statements a certain degree of ambiguity, which to you is essen- tial and characteristic. What you say might be said as well by the most light-minded and the most heavy-minded of men. You know this very well, for it is one of the expedients you employ to swindle people. You say the same thing at various times, putting the emphasis at different

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places, and, lo, the whole thing turns out to be different! If some one objects that you are saying something different from what you said once before, you calmly reply, “Are the words not arranged the same way ?” But enough of this! Let us see how its stands with your classification. There is a proverbial expression preserved through the centuries, char- acterizing the shrewd policy of the Romans: Divide et impera. With a far profounder significance one can apply this to the operation of the human understanding, for its cunning policy is to divide and by thus dividing to assure itself of the mastery, seeing that the powers which would be invincible as allies cancel one another when they are separated and hostile. So your notion is that all the rest of life can be construed under the category of duty, or under its opposite, and that it never has occurred to anybody to apply a different criterion, marriage alone being guilty of this contradiction. You adduce professional duty as an example and think that it is an apt example of the pure relation of duty. This, however, is by no means the case. For if a man were to conceive of his profession as merely the sum total of appointments he had to keep at definite times and places, he would debase himself and his calling and his duty. Or do you think that such a view would make a man a good civil functionary ? What place would be left for the enthusiasm with which one sanctifies one’s calling, what room for the devotion with which one loves it? Or what judicial forum could keep check on him? Or is not this love and enthusiasm required of him precisely as a duty? And would not every man who assumed an office without these qualities be regarded by the State as a hireling, whose toil and moil it might indeed use and reward, though in another sense he was an unworthy official ? If the State does not say this expressly, it is because what it demands is something external, something tangible, and when that is performed, the other is assumed. On the other hand, the main point in marriage is inwardness, which can neither be seen nor pointed out — but of this the precise expression is love, Hence I see no contradiction in requiring love as a duty; for die fact that no one can check up on it has nodiing to do with the case, seeing that the man can keep check on himself. If you continue, then, to demand this external control, it is either because you want to shirk duty, or because you are so fearful for yourself that you would have yourself declared legally incompetent — but that is just as wrong and absurd as the other.
If you hold fast what I have set forth in the foregoing treatise, just as I have expounded it, you will easily perceive that in holding fast to the inwardness of duty in love I have not done so with the wild alarm

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which sometimes is displayed by men in whom prosaic common sense has first annihilated the feelings of immediacy and who, then, in then- old age have betaken themselves to duty, men who in their blindness cannot express strongly enough their scorn of the purely natural, nor stupidly enough sing the praise of duty — as though with this it was dif- ferent from what you call it. Of such a breach between love and duty I, thank God, know nothing; I have not fled with my love into wild regions and deserts where in my loneliness I return to savagery, neither have I asked all my neighbors what I should do. Such isolation and such participation are equally mad. I have constantly had impressa vestigia before me, even in the universally valid sphere which is duty. I have also felt that there are instants when the only salvation is to let duty speak, that it is wholesome to let it punish me. I have felt this not with the mel- ancholy effeminacy of a heautontimoroumenos,** but with all serious- ness and emphasis. But I have not been afraid of duty; it has not ap- peared before me as an enemy which would disturb the bit of happiness and joy I had hoped to preserve through life, rather it has appeared before me as a friend, the first and only confidant of our love. But this power of having constantly a free outlook is the blessing bestowed by duty, whereas romantic love goes astray or comes to an impass because of its unhistorical character.
Dixi et animam meam liberavi 15 — not as though my soul had been entangled hitherto, and now in this prolix expectoration had found vent. No, this is merely a wholesome respiration in which I have enjoyed my freedom. Respiration is a word which indicates the flowing back of that which first had flowed out. In respiration the organism enjoys its free- dom, and so have I in this letter enjoyed my freedom, the freedom I have every day.
So may you accept with a well prepared mind the well tested gift I offer you. If you should find it far too small a thing to satisfy you, then see if it might not be possible to prepare yourself better, see whether you have not forgotten some precautionary measure. The Serbs have a pop- ular legend 46 about a prodigious giant who had an appetite just as prodigious. He came to a poor cottager and wanted to share his midday meal. The cottager placed on the table the little his humble house afforded. The giant’s greedy eye had already devoured it all, and had likely made the observation that he would not have been any better fed if he had actually eaten it up. They seated themselves. It never occurred to the cottager that there might not be enough for both. The giant

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reached for the dish. The cottager stopped him by saying, “It is the custom in my house to say a prayer first.” The giant submitted to it — and, lo, there was enough for both.
Dixi et ammam meant liberav't — for I have liberated her, also, whom I love with the youthful enthusiasm of first love. Not as though she had previously been bound, but she has rejoiced with me in our freedom.
When you receive my affectionate greetings receive also, as you com- monly do, a greeting from her, as kindly and cordial as ever.
It is a long time since I have seen you chez nous . I can say this both in a literal and in a figurative sense. For during the fortnight I have employed my evenings tnstar omnium in writing this letter I have con- stantly seen you beside me; yet even in a figurative sense I cannot prop- erly say that I have seen you chez nous, i.e., in my house, in my room, but rather outside my door where with my reproaches I have driven you. On my part this has not been a disagreeable task nor unkindly meant, and I am sure you will not take it amiss. However, it will be still more agreeable to me to see you frequently chez nous, both in a literal and a figurative sense. I say this with all the pride of a husband who feels himself entitled to use the formula chez nous', I say it with all the humane respect which every person may always be sure of en- countering chez nous. Accept, therefore, an invitation for next Sunday — not a family invitation which reads “forever” and means a whole day — come when you will, sure of being always welcome; stay as long as you will, being always an acceptable guest; leave when you will, always with God’s speed.

EQUILIBRIUM
BETWEEN THE AESTHETICAL AND THE ETHICAL IN THE COMPOSITION OF PERSONALITY

EQUILIBRIUM
BETWEEN THE AESTHETICAL AND THE ETHICAL IN THE COMPOSITION OF PERSONALITY
My Friend,
What I have so often said to you I say now once again, or rather I shout it: Either/or, aut/aut. For a single aut adjoined as a rectification does not make the situation clear, since the question here at issue is so important that one cannot rest satisfied with a part of it, and in itself it is too coherent to be possessed partially. There are situations in life where it would be ridiculous or a species of madness to apply an either/or; but also, there are men whose souls are too dissolute (in the etymological sense of the word) to grasp what is implied in such a dilemma, whose personalities lack the energy to say with pathos, Either/or. Upon me these words have always made a deep impression, and they still do, especially when I pronounce them absolutely and without specific ref- erence to any objects, for this use of them suggests the possibility of starting the most dreadful contrasts into action. They affect me like a magic formula of incantation, and my soul becomes exceeding serious, sometimes almost harrowed. I think of my early youth, when without clearly comprehending what it is to make a choice I listened with child- ish trust to the talk of my elders and the instant of choice was solemn and venerable, aldiough in choosing I was only following the instruc- tions of another person. I think of the occasions in my later life when I stood at the crossways, when my soul was matured in the hour of deci- sion. I think of the many occasions in life less important but by no means indifferent to me, when it was a question of making a choice. For although there is only one situation in which either/or has absolute significance, namely, when truth, righteousness and holiness are lined up on one side, and lust and base propensities and obscure passions and perdition on the other; yet, it is always important to choose rightly, even as between things which one may innocently choose, 'it is important to test oneself, lest some day one might have to beat a retreat to the point from which one started, and might have reason to thank God if one had to reproach oneself for nothing worse than a waste of time. In common parlance I use these words as others use them, and it would indeed be a foolish pedantry to give up using them. But sometimes it occurs, nevertheless, that I become aware of using them with regard to things entirely indifferent. Then they lay aside their humble dress, I forget the

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insignificant thoughts they discriminated, they advance to meet me with all their dignity, in their official robes. As a magistrate in common life may appear in plain clothes and mingle without distinction in the crowd, so do these words mingle in common speech — when, however, the magistrate steps forward with authority he distinguishes himself from all. Like such a magistrate whom I am accustomed to see only on solemn occasions, these words appear before me, and my soul always becomes serious. And although my life now has to a certain degree its either/or behind it, yet I know well that it may still encounter many a situation where the either/or will have its full significance. I hope, how- ever, that these words may find me in a worthy state of mind when they check me on my path, and I hope that I may be successful in choosing the right course; at all events, I shall endeavor to make the choice with real earnestness, and widi that I venture, at least, to hope that I shall the sooner get out of the wrong path,
And now as for you — this phrase is only too often on your lips, it has almost become a byword with you. What significance has it for you ? None at all. You, according to your own expression, regard it as a wink of the eye, a snap of the fingers, a coup de mam, an abracadabra. At every opportunity you know how to introduce it, nor is it without effect; for it affects you as strong drink affects a neurasthenic, you become completely intoxicated by what you call the higher madness. “It is the compendium,” you say, “of all practical wisdom, but no one has ever inculcated it so pithily (like a god in the form of a puppet talking to suffering humanity) as that great thinker and true practical philosopher who said to a man who had insulted him by pulling off his hat and throwing it on the floor, ‘If you pick it up, you’ll get a thrashing; if you don’t pick it up, you’ll also get a thrashing; now you can choose.’ ” You take great delight in “comforting” people when they have recourse to you in critical situations. You listen to their exposition of the case and dien say, “Yes, I perceive perfeedy that there are two possibilities, one can either do this or that. My sincere opinion and my friendly counsel is as follows: Do it / or don’t do it — you will regret both.” But he who mocks others mocks himself, and your rejoinder is not a mere nothing but a profound mockery of yourself, a sorry proof how limp your soul is, that your whole philosophy of life is concentrated in one sin gle proposition, “I say merely either/or.’^In case this really were your serious meaning, there would be nothing one could do with you, one must simply put up with you as you are and deplore the fact that mel- ancholy [literally, heavy-mmdedness] or light-mindedness had enfee-

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bled your spirit. Now on the contrary, since one knows very well that such is not the case, one is not tempted to pity you but rather to wish that some day the circumstances of your life may tighten upon you the screws m its rack and compel you to come out with what really dwells in you, may begin the sharper inquisition of the rack which cannot be beguiled by nonsense and witticisms. Life is a masquerade, you explain, and for you this is inexhaustible material for amusement; and so far, no one has succeeded in knowing you; for every revelation you make is always an illusion, it is only in this way you are able to breathe and prevent people from pressing importunately upon you and obstructing your respiration. Your occupation consists in preserving your hiding- place, and that you succeed in doing, for your mask is the most enig- matical of all. In fact you are nothing; you are merely a relation to others, and what you are you are by virtue of this relation. To a fond shepherdess you hold out a languishing hand, and instantly you are masked in all possible bucolic sentimentality. A reverend spiritual father you deceive with a brotherly kiss, etc. You yourself are nothing, an enigmatic figure on whose brow is inscribed Either/or — “For this,” you say, “is my motto, and these words are not, as the grammarians believe, disjunctive conjunctions; no, they belong inseparably together and therefore ought to be written as one word, inasmuch as in their union diey constitute an interjection which I shout at mankind, just as boys shout ‘Hep’ after a Jew.”
Now although nothing you say in that style has the slightest effect upon me, or, if it has any effect, it is at the utmost the effect of arousing a righteous indignation, nevertheless, for your own sake I will reply to you. Do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when every one has to throw off his mask ? Do you believe that life will always let itself be mocked ? Do you think you can slip away a little before mid- night in order to avoid this? Or are you not terrified by it? I have seen men in real life who so long deceived others that at last their true nature could not reveal itself; I have seen men who played hide and seek so long that at last madness through them obtruded disgustingly upon others their secret thoughts which hitherto they had proudly concealed. Or can you diink of anything more frightful than that it might end with your nature being resolved into a multiplicity, that you really might become many, become, like those unhappy demoniacs, a legion, and you thus would have lost the inmost and holiest thing of all in a man, the unifying power of personality? Truly, you should not jest with that which is not only serious but dreadful. In every man there is some-

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thing which to a certain degree prevents him from becoming perfectly transparent to himself; and this may be the case in so high a degree, he may be so inexplicably woven into relationships of life which extend far beyond himself that he almost cannot reveal himself. But he who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all. My young friend, suppose there was no one who troubled himself to guess your riddle — what joy, then, would you have in it? But above all, for your own sake, for the sake of your salvation — for I am acquainted with no condition of soul which can better be described as perdition — stop this wild flight, this passion of annihilation which rages in you; for this is what you desire, you would annihilate everything, you would satiate the hunger of doubt at the expense of existence. To this end you cultivate yourself, to this end you harden your temper; for you are willing to admit that you are good for nothing, the only thing that gives you pleasure is to march seven times around existence and blow the trumpet and thereupon let the whole thing collapse, that your soul may be tranquilized, yea, attuned to sadness, that you may summon Echo forth — for Echo is heard only in emptiness.
However, I am not likely to get further with you along this path; moreover, my head is too weak, if you would put it that way, to be able to hold out, or, as I prefer to say, too strong to take pleasure in seeing everything grow dizzy before my eyes. I will therefore take up the matter from another side. Imagine a young man at the age when life really begins to have significance for him; he is wholesome, pure, joy- ful, intellectually gifted, himself rich in hope, the hope of every one who knows him; imagine (yea, it is hard that I have to say this) that he was mistaken in you, that he believed you were a serious, tried and experi- enced man from whom one could confidently expect enlightenment upon life’s riddles; imagine that he turned to you with the charming confidence which is the adornment of youth, with the claim not to be gainsaid which is youth’s privilege — what would you answer him? Would you answer, “I say merely either/or” ? That you would hardly do. Would you (as you are wont to express it when you would indicate your aversion to having other people vex you with their affairs of the heart), would you stick your head out of the window and say, “Try the next house” ? Or would you treat him as you do others who ask your advice or seek information from you, whom you dismiss as you do the collector of tithes by saying that you are only a lodger in life, not a householder and paterfamilias? No, you would not do this either. A young man with intellectual gifts is the sort of thing you prize only too

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highly. But in the case I suppose, your relation to the youth is not just what you would have wished, it was not an accidental encounter which brought you in contact with him, your irony was not tempted. Although he was the younger, you the older man, it was he, nevertheless, who by the noble quality of his youth made the instant serious. It is true, is it not, that you yourself would like to be young, would feel that there was something beautiful in being young but also something very serious, that it is by no means a matter of indifference how one employs one’s youth, but that before one there lies a choice, a real either/or. You would feel that, after all, the important thing is not to cultivate one’s mind but to mature one’s personality Your good nature, your sympathy, would be set in motion, in that spirif you would talk to him; you would fortify his soul, confirm him in the confidence he has in the world, you would assure him that there is a power in a man which is able to defy the whole world, you would insist that he take to heart the importance of employing time well. All this you can do, and when you will, you can do it handsomely.
But now mark well what I would say to you, young man — for though you are not young, one is always compelled to address you as such. Now what did you do in this case? You acknowledged, as ordinarily you are not willing to do, the importance of an either/or. And why? Because your soul was moved by love for the young man. And yet in a way you deceived him, for he will, perhaps, encounter you at another time when it by no means suits your convenience to acknowledge this importance. Here you see one of the sorry consequences of the fact that a man’s nature cannot harmoniously reveal itself. You thought you were doing the best for him, and yet perhaps you have harmed him; perhaps he would have been better able to maintain himself over against your distrust of life than to find repose in the subjective, deceitful trust you conveyed to him. Imagine that after the lapse of several years you again encountered him; he was lively, intellectual, daring in his thought, bold in his expression, but your ear easily detected doubt m his soul, you conceived a suspicion that he had acquired the questionable wisdom: I say merely either/or. It is true, is it not, that you would be sorry for him, would feel that he had lost something, and something very essen- tial. But for yourself you will not sorrow, you are content with your ambiguous wisdom, yea, proud of it, so proud that you will not suffer another to share it, since you wish to be alone with it. And yet you find it deplorable in another connection, and it is your sincere opinion that it was deplorable for the young man to have reached the same wisdom.

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What a monstrous contradiction! Your whole nature contradicts itself. But you can only get out of this contradiction by an either/or, and I, who love you more sincerely than you loved this young man, I, who in my life have experienced the significance of choice, I congratulate you upon the fact that you are still so young, that even though you always will be sensible of some loss, yet, if you have, or rather if you will to have the requisite energy, you can win what is the chief thing in life, win yourself, acquire your own self.
Now in case a man were able to maintain himself upon the pinnacle of the instant of choice, in case he could cease to be a man, in case he were in his inmost nature only an airy thought, in case personality meant nothing more than to be a kobold, which takes part, indeed, in the movements but nevertheless remains unchanged; in case such were the situation, it would be foolish to say that it might ever be too late for a man to choose, for in a deeper sense there could be no question of a choice. The choice itself is decisive for the content of the personality, through the choice the personality immerses itself in the thing chosen, and when it does not choose it withers away in consumption. For an instant it is as if, for an instant it may seem as if the thing with regard to which a choice was made lay outside of the chooser, that he stands in no relationship to it, that he can preserve a state of indifference over against it. This is the instant of deliberation, but this, like the Platonic instant , 1 has no existence, least of all in the abstract sense in which you would hold it fast, and the longer one stares at it the less it exists. That which has to be chosen stands in the deepest relationship to the chooser, and when it is a question of a choice involving a life problem the indi- vidual must naturally be living m the meantime, and hence, it comes about that the longer he postpones the choice the easier it is for him to alter its character, notwithstanding that he is constantly deliberating and deliberating and believes that thereby he is holding the alternatives distinctly apart. When life’s eijther/or is regarded in this way one is not easily tempted to jest with it. One sees, then, that the inner drift of the personality leaves no time for thought experiments, that it constantly hastens onward and in one way or another posits this alternative or that, making the choice more difficult the next instant because what has thus been posited must be revoked. Think of the captain on his ship at the instant when it has to come about. He will perhaps be able to say, “I can either do this or that”; but in case he is not a pretty poor navigator, he will be aware at the same time that the ship is all the while makin g its usual headway, and that therefore it is only an instant when it is

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indifferent whether he does this or that. So it is with a man. If he for- gets to take account of the headway, there comes at last an instant when there no longer is any question of an either/or, not because he has chosen but because he has neglected to choose, which is equivalent to saying, because others have chosen for him, because he has lost his self.
You will perceive also in what I have just been saying how essentially my view of choice differs from yours (if you can properly be said to have any view), for, yours differs precisely in the fact that it prevents you from choosing. For me the instant of choice is very serious, not so much on account of the rigorous cogitation involved in weighing the alternatives, not on account of the multiplicity of thoughts which attach themselves to every link in the chain, but rather because there is danger afoot, danger that the next instant it may not be equally in my power to choose, that something already has been lived which must be lived over again. For to think that for an instant one can keep one’s person- ality a blank, or that strictly speaking one can break off and bring to a halt the course of the personal life, is a delusion. The personality is already interested in the choice before one chooses, and when the choice is postponed the personality chooses unconsciously, or the choice is made by obscure powers within it. So when at last the choice is made one dis- covers (unless, as I remarked before, the personality has been completely volatilized) that there is something which must be done over again, something which must be revoked, and this is often very difficult We read in fairy talcs about human beings whom mermaids and mermen enticed into their power by means of demoniac music. In order to break the enchantment it was necessary in the fairy tale 2 for the person who was under the spell to play the same piece of music backwards without making a single mistake. This is very profound, but very difficult to perform, and yet so it is: the errors one has taken into oneself one must eradicate in this way, and every time one makes a mistake one must begin all over. Therefore, it is important to choose and to choose in time. You, on the contrary, have another method — for I know very well that the polemical side you turn towards the world is not your true nature. Yea, if to deliberate were the proper task for a human life, you would be pretty close to perfection. I will adduce an example. To fit your case the contrasts must be bold: either a parson / or an actor. Here is the dilemma. Now all your passionate energy is awakened, reflection with its hundred arms lays hold of the thought of being a parson. You find no repose, day and night you think about it, you go to church three times every Sunday, pick up acquaintance with parsons, write sermons

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yourself, deliver them to yourself; for half a year you are dead to the whole world, you can now talk of the clerical calling with more insight and apparently with more experience than many who have been par- sons for twenty years. When you encounter such men it arouses your indignation that they do not know how to get the thing off their chests with moie eloquence. “Is this enthusiasm you say. “Why I who am not a parson, who have not consecrated myself to this calling, speak with the voice of angels as compared with them.” That, perhaps, is true enough, but nevertheless, you have not become a parson. Then you act in the same way with respect to the other task, and your enthusiasm for art almost surpasses your clerical eloquence. Then you are ready to choose. However, one may be sure that in the prodigious thought- production you were engaged in there must have been lots of waste products, many incidental reflections and observations. Hence, the instant you have to choose, life and animation enter into this waste mass, a new either/or presents itself — jurist, perhaps advocate, this has something in common with both the other alternatives. Now you are lost. For that same moment you are at once advocate enough to be able to prove the reasonableness of taking the third possibility into account. So your life drifts on.
After you have wasted a year and a half on such deliberations, after you have with admirable energy exerted to the utmost the powers of your soul, you have not got one step further. You break the thread of thought, you become impatient, passionate, scolding and storming, and then you continue: “Either hairdresser / or bank teller; I say merely either/or.” What wonder, then, that this saying has become for you an offense and foolishness, that it seems, as you say, as if it were like the arms attached to the iron maiden whose embrace was the death penalty. You treat people superciliously, you make sport of them, and what you have become is what you most abhor: a critic, a universal critic in all faculties. Sometimes I cannot help smiling at you, and yet it is pitiful to see how your really excellent intellectual gifts are thus dissipated. But here again there is the same contradiction in your nature; for you see the, ludicrous very clearly, and God help him who falls into your hands if his case is similar to yours. And yet the whole difference is that he per- haps becomes downcast and broken, while you on the contrary become light and erect and merrier than ever, making yourself and others bliss- ful widi the gospel: vamtas vamtatum vamtas , hurrah I But this is no choice, it is what we call in Danish letting it go, or it is mediation like

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letting five count as an even number. Now you feel yourself free, you say to the world, farewell.
So Zieh ’ ich htn in die Feme,
JJeber meiner Mutze nur die Sterne.
Therewith you have chosen...not to be sure, as you yourself will admit, the better part., But in reality you have not chosen at all, or it is in an improper sense of the word you have chosen. Your choice is an aesthetic choice, but an aesthetic choice is no choice. The act of choosing is "essentially a proper and stringent expression of the ethical. Whenever in a stricter sense there is question of an either/or, one can always be sure that the ethical is involved. The only absolute either/or is the choice between good and evil, but that is also absolutely ethical. The aesthetic choice is either entirely immediate, or it loses itself in the multifarious. Thus, when a young girl follows the choice of her heart, this choice, however beautiful it may be, is in the strictest sense no choice, since it is entirely immediate. When a man deliberates aestheti- cally upon a multitude of life’s problems, as you did in the foregoing, he does not easily get one either /or, but a whole multiplicity, because the determining factor in the choice is not accentuated, and because when one does not choose absolutely one chooses only for the moment, and therefore can choose something different the next moment. The ethical choice is therefore in a certain sense much easier, much simpler, but in another sense it is infinitely harder. He who would define his life task ethically has ordinarily not so considerable a selection to choose from; on the other hand, the act of choice has far more importance for him. If you will understand me aright, I should like to say that ^in making a choice it is not so much a question of choosing the right as of the energy, the earnestness, the pathos with which one chooses. Thereby the personality announces its inner infinity, and thereby, in turn, the personality is consolidated. Therefore, even if a man were to choose the wrong, he will nevertheless discover, precisely by reason of the energy with which he chose, that he had chosen the wrong. For the choice being made with the whole inwardness of his personality, his nature is purified and he himself brought into immediate relation to the eternal Power whose omnipresence interpenetrates the whole of existence. Thi? trans- figuration, this higher consecration, is never attained by that man who chooses merely aesthetically. The rythym in that man’s soul, in spite of all its passion, is a spiritus levis . s
So, like a Cato* I shout at you my eifher/or, and yet not like a Cato,

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for my soul has not yet acquired the resigned coldness which he pos- sessed. But I know that only this incantation, if I have the strength for it, will be capable of rousing you, not to an activity of thought, for of that you have no lack, but to earnestness of spirit. Perhaps you will succeed without that in accomplishing much, perhaps even in astonish- ing the world (for I am not niggardly), and yet you will miss the highest thing, the only thing which truly has significance, perhaps you will gain the whole world and lose your own self.V What is it, then, that I distinguish in my eithcr/or? Is it good and evil ? No, I would only bring you up to the point where the choice be- tween the evil and the good acquires significance for you. Everything hinges upon this. As soon as one can get a man to stand at the cross- ways in such a position that there is no recourse but to choose, he will choose the right. Hence, if it should chance that, while you are in the course of reading this somewhat lengthy dissertation, which again I send you in the form of a letter, you were to feel that the instant for choice had come, then throw the rest of this away, never concern your- self about it, you have lost nothing — but choose, and you shall see what validity there is in this act, yea, no young girl can be so happy in the choice of her heart as is a man who knows how to choose. So then, one either has to live aesthetically or_one has to live ethically. In this alter- native, as I have said, there is not yet in the strictest sense any question of a choice; for he who lives aesthetically does not choose, and he who after the ethical has manifested itself to him chooses the aesthetical is not living aesthetically, for he is sinning and is subject to ethical deter- minants even though his life may be described as unethical. Lo, this is, as it were, a character indelebilis impressed upon the ethical^ that though it modestly places itself on a level with the aesthetical, it is nevertheless that which makes the choice a choice. And this is the pitiful thing to one who contemplates human life, that so many live on in a quiet state of perdition; they outlive themselves, not in the sense that the content of life is successively unfolding and now is possessed in this expanded state, but they live their lives, as it were, outside of themselves, they vanish like shadows, their immortal soul is blown away, and they are not alarmed by the problem of its immortality, for they are already in a state of dissolution before they die. They do not live aesthetically, but neither has the ediical manifested itself in its entirety, so they have not exactly rejected it either, they therefore are not sinning, except insofar as it is sin not to be either one thing or the other; neither are they ever m doubt about their immortality, for he who deeply and sincerely is in

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doubt of it on his own behalf will surely find the right, and surely it is high time to utter a warning against the great-hearted, heroic objectivity with which many thinkers think on behalf of others and not on their own behalf.. If one would call this which I here require selfishness, I would reply that this comes from the fact^that people have no concep- tion of what tins “self” is, and that it would be of very little use to a man if he were to gain the whole world and lose himself,' and that it must necessarily be a poor proof which does not first of all convince the man who presents it.*/
,My either/or does not in the first instance denote the choice between good and evil, it denotes the choice whereby one chooses good and evil / or excludes them. Here the question is under what determinants one would contemplate the whole of existence and would himself live. That the man who chooses good and evil chooses the good is indeed true, but this becomes evident only afterwards; for the aesthetical is not the evil but neutrality, and that is the reason why I affirmed that it is the ethical which constitutes the choice. It is, therefore, not so much a ques- tion of choosing between willing the good or the evil, as of choosing to will, but by this m turn the good and the evil are posited. He who chooses the ethical chooses the good, but here the good is entirely ab- stract, only its being is posited, and hence it does not follow by any means that the chooser cannot in turn choose the evil, m spite of the fact that he chose the good. Here you see again how important it is that a choice be made, and that the crucial thing is not deliberation but the baptism of the will which lifts up the choice into the ethicaLThe longer the time that elapses, the more difficult it is to choose, for the soul is constantly attached to one side of the dilemma, and it becomes more and more difficult, therefore, to tear oneself loose. And yet this is neces- sary if one is to choose and is therefore of the utmost importance if a choice signifies something, and that it does I shall show later.
You know that I have never pretended to be a philosopher, and least of all when I am conversing with you. Partly to tease you a bit, partly because it really is my dearest and most precious and also in a certain sense my most important position in life, I am accustomed to appear in the role of a married man. I have not sacrificed my life for art and learn- ing, what I have sacrificed myself for is insignificant in comparison with these things; I sacrifice myself for my profession, my wife, my children, or, more properly expressed, I do not sacrifice myself for them, but I find in them my satisfaction and joy. These are insignificant things in comparison with what you live for; and yet, my young friend, take heed

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lest the greater things for which you really are sacrificing yourself might deceive you. Now although I am not a philosopher, yet I am compelled at this point to venture upon a little philosophic inquiry which I would beg you not so much to criticize as to take to hearuFor the polemical result which resounds in all your songs of triumph over life has a strange resemblance to the pet theory of the newer philosophy, that the principle of contradiction is annulled. 0 I know very well that the standpoint you occupy is to philosophy an abomination, and yet it seems to me that philosophy is guilty of the same error, and that the reason why this has not been noticed immediately is that philosophy is not even in as correct a position as you are. Your place is the domain of action, that of philos- ophy is contemplation. As soon as one would transport philosophy into the practical domain it must reach the same result you reach, even though it does not express itself in the same way. You mediate contra- dictions in a higher madness, philosophy mediates them in a higher unity. You turn towards the future, for action is always futuristic. You say, “I can either do this or do that, but whichever of the two I do is equally mad, ergo I do nothing at allT Philosophy turns towards the past^towards the whole enacted history of the world, it shows how the discrete factors are fused in a higher unity, it mediates and mediates. On the other hand, it seems to me to give no answer at all to the question I put to it, for I ask about the future. You, after all, do in a way give an answer, even though it is nonsense. Now I assume that philosophy is m the right, that the prin- ciple of contradiction really is annulled, or that the philosophers tran- scend it every instant in the higher unity which exists for thought. This, however, surely cannot hold with respect to the future, for the opposi- tions must first be m existence before I can mediate them. But if the oppositions are there, then there must be an either/or, The philosopher says, “That’s the way it’s been hitherto.” I ask, “What am I to do if I do not want to be a philosopher ?” For if I want to be that, I see clearly enough that I shall soon get to the point of mediating the past. In the first place, there is no answer to my question what I ought to do; for if I were the most gifted philosophic mind that ever has lived in the world, there must be one thing more I have to do besides sitting and contemplating the past. In the second place, I am a married man and by no means a philosophic mind, but I turn with all due respect to this science to learn what I ought to do. However, I get no reply, for philos- ophy mediates the past and has its existence in it, the philosopher hastens

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back into the past to such a degree that, as a poet says of an antiquarian, “only his coat tails are left behind in the present.” ^
At this point you are united with the philosophers. What unites you is 'that life comes to a stop. To the philosopher world history is con- cluded, and he mediates?' l Hence, in our age as the order of the day we have the disgusting sight of young men who are able to mediate Chris- tianity and paganism, are able to play with the titanic forces of history, and are unable to tell a plain man what he has to do in life, and who do not know any better what they themselves have to do. You are very versatile in expressions for your pet result. I will call attention to one of them because in it you show a striking resemblance to the philos- opher, even though his real or assumed seriousness would forbid him to take part in the obligato variation in which you take delight. If you are asked whether you will sign your name to an address to the King, or whether you desire a constitution or the right to impose taxes, or whether you will join this or that benevolent movement, you reply, “My revered contemporary, you misunderstand me, I am not in the game at all, I am outside like a tmy Spanish ‘s’.” 8 So it is, also, with the philosopher, he is outside, he is not in the game, he sits and grows old listening to the songs of long ago, haikening to the harmonies of mediation. I honor science, I respect its devotees, but life, too, has its demands, and although on seeing a single particularly talented pate losing himself onesidedly in the past I should be perplexed how to judge him, doubtful what opinion I should form of him irrespective of the deference I would entertain for his intellectual ability, yet in our age I am not perplexed, since I see a host of young men who could not possibly be all of them philosophic minds losing themselves in the pet [ yndling ] philosophy of our age, or, as I am tempted to call it, the juvenal \yndhngs] philos- ophy. I have a valid claim upon philosophy, as has every one whom it does not dare show to the door on the ground of a total lack of parts. I am husband of a wife, I have children; what if in their name I were to ask philosophy what a man has to do in life? You will perhaps smile, in any case the philosophic youth will smile at a paterfamilias, and yet I think that it is a tremendous argument against philosophy if it has no answer. Has the course of life been brought to a stop ? If the generation that now is can live off of contemplation, what will the following gen- eration live off of? Contemplatmg the same thing? The foregoing gen- eration has on this hypothesis accomplished nothing, has left nothing behind it to be mediated. Here again I can lump you with the philoso- phers, and I say to both of you that you miss the highest thing. My

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position as a married man here comes to my aid and enables me to illustrate the better what I mean. If a married man were to say that the perfect marriage is one where there are no children, he would be guilty of the same misunderstanding as the philosophers. He makes himself the absolute, and yet every married man will feel that this is untrue and unbecoming, and that the fact that he himself becomes a relativity, as he does by means of the child, is far more true.
Perhaps, however, I have already gone too far, have embarked upon investigations which perhaps I ought not to have attempted, partly because I am not a philosopher, partly because it is not at all my purpose to entertain myself with you by discussing one or another phenomenon of this age, but rather to accuse you, to make you feel in every way that you are the accused party. However, since I have in fact gone so far, I will reflect a little more precisely upon the problem of the philosophic mediation of opposites. If what I have to say lacks stringency, it perhaps makes up for that by more earnestness, and it is only on this ground I set it forth. For I have no intention of competing for any philosophic distinction, but once having taken my pen in hand I have a mind to defend with diat the cause which ordinarily I defend in other and better ways.
As truly as there is a future, just so truly is there an either/or. The time in which the philosopher lives is not absolute time, it is itself a relative moment, and it always is a suspicious circumstance when philosophy is unfruitful; indeed, this must be regarded as a dishonor, just as in the East unfruitfulness in a woman is regarded as a disgrace. So time itself is a relative moment, and the philosopher is a relative moment in time. Our age therefore will in turn appear to a subsequent age as a discrete factor, and a philosopher of a subsequent age will in turn mediate our age, and so forth. To that extent philosophy is within its rights, and we should only have to regard it as an accidental mistake on the part of the philosophy of our time that it confounded our time with absolute time. However, it is easy to see that the category of media- tion has hereby suffered a considerable shock, and that the absolute mediation becomes possible only when history is finished, in other words, that the System is in a constant process of becoming. What philosophy maintains, however, is that there is an absolute mediation. Naturally, this is of the utmost importance to it, for if one gives up mediation, one gives up speculation. On the other hand, it is a precari- ous thing to concede this, for if we concede mediation, then there is no absolute choice, and if there is nothing of that sort, then there is no

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either/or. This is the difficulty, yet I believe that it is due partly to the fact that two spheres are confounded with one another, that of thought and that of freedom. The opposition does not subsist for thought, which goes over to the other side and thereupon combines both in a higher unity. For freedom the opposition does subsist, for freedom excludes the other sidey I am by no means confounding liberum arbitrium with the genuine positive freedom, for this, too, has to all eternity evil out- side itself, even if the evil be only an impotent possibility, and it does not become more perfect by more and more absorbing the evil but by more and more excluding it. But exclusion is precisely the opposite of mediation. That with this I am not espousing the notion of a radical evil I shall show later. v ' /
The spheres with which philosophy properly deals, which properly are the spheres for thought, are logic, nature, and history. Here neces- sity rules, and mediation is valid. That such is the case with logic and nature nobody will deny. On the other hand, there is some difficulty about history, for here, it is said, freedom rules. I believe, however, that history is wrongly conceived, and that the difficulty is due to this. For history is more than the product of the free actions of free individuals. The individual indeed acts, but his action passes into the order of things which sustains the whole of existence. What will be the issue of it the agent does not really know. But this order of things which digests, so to speak, the free actions and weaves them into its eternal law is neces- sity, and this necessity is the dynamic of world history, and hence it is quite right for philosophy to employ mediation, I mean the relative mediation. If I contemplate a world-historical individuality, I can dis- tinguish the works of which the Scripture says that “they follow him” from the works by which he belongs to history. Wnh what one might call the inward work philosophy has nothing whatever to do, but the inward work is the genuine life of freedom. Philosophy regards the out- ward work, and this it does not see in isolation but as it is absorbed into and transformed by the world-historical process. This is properly the subject matter of philosophy, and this it regards under the category of necessity. It therefore holds at a distance the reflection which would suggest that everything might have been different, it regards world history in such a way that there can be no question of an either/or.' That in this way of regarding history much foolish and inept talk is mingled is at least my opinion; that especially the young wizards who wish to conjure up the spirits of history seem to me ridiculous, I do not deny, but I also incline with profound reverence before the grand

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achievements which our age has to show. As I have said, philosophy views history under the category of necessity, not under that of freedom; for even if one speaks of the historic process as free, that is meant only in the same sense as when one talks of the organizing process in nature. With regard to the historical process there is no question of an either/or. Hence, the unconcernedness, the indulgence, with which philosophy contemplates history and its heroes; for it views them under the category of necessity. Hence again its inability to make a man act, its disposition to bring everydiing to a standstill; for properly it demands that one should act necessarily, which is a contradiction.
Thus, even the humblest individual has a dual existence. He also has a history, and this is not merely a product of his own free actions. The inward work, on the contrary, belongs to him and must belong to him unto all eternity; neither history nor world history can take that from him, it “follows him” either for joy or for sorrow. There rules in this inward world an absolute either/or, but with this world-philosophy has nothing to do. If I picture to myself an elderly man who looks back upon an eventful life, I admit that he can get a mediation out of it, for his history was intertwined with that of time; but m the most inward sense he gets no mediation. An either /or still separates enduringly that which was separated when he chose. If there is to be any talk of media- tion, one might say that repentance is such; but repentance is no mediation, it does not look with pleasure upon that which is to be mediated, it consumes it with its wrath— but this resembles exclusion, the opposite of mediation. Here it is evident that I do not assume a radical evil, since I posit the validity of repentance. Repentance, it is true, is an expression for reconciliation, but it is also an absolutely irrecon- cilable expression.
But all this, perhaps, you concede— you who, nevertheless, in many ways make common cause with the philosophers...except insofar as you undertake on your own private account to make game of them. You think perhaps that I as a married man may well be content with this concession and can make use of it in my household economy. Honestly speaking, I ask nothing more, but I should like to know which life is the highest, that of the philosopher, or that of the free man. In case the philosopher is merely a philosopher, completely lost in his profession, without knowing the blessed life of freedom, then he lacks a very im- portant thing, he gains the whole world and loses himself. This never can happen to a man who lives for freedom, even though he were to lose ever so much.'

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For freedom, therefore, I am fighting (partly in this letter, partly and principally within myself), I am fighting for the future, for either/or. That is the treasure I desire to bequeath to those whom I love in the world; yea, if my little son were at this instant of an age when he could thoroughly understand me, I would say to him, “I leave to thee no fortune, no title and dignities, but I know where there lies buried a treasure which suffices to make thee richer than the whole world, and this treasure belongs to thee, and thou shah not even express thanks to me for it lest thou take hurt to thine own soul by owing everything to another. This treasure is deposited in thine own inner self: there is an either/or which makes a man greater than the angels.”
Here I will break off this reflection. It perhaps does not satisfy you, your greedy eye devours it without being satisfied by it, but that is because the eye is the sense which is most insatiable, especially when like you one does not hunger but suffers from a lust of the eye which cannot be satisfied with seeing.
That which is prominent in my either /or is the ethical. It is therefore not yet a question of the choice of something in particular, it is not a question of the reality of the thing chosen, but of the reality of the act of choice. This, however, is the decisive thing, and it is to an apprehen- sion of this I would strive to arouse you. Up to this point one man can be of help to another, but having reached this point the importance one man can have for another becomes more subordinate. In the previous letter I remarked that the experience of having loved imparts to a man’s nature a harmony which never is entirely lost; now I would say that the experience of choosing imparts to a man’s nature a solemnity, a quiet dignity, which never is entirely lost. There are many who set great store upon having seen one or another distinguished world-historical per- sonality face to face. This impression they never forget, it has given to their souls an ideal picture which ennobles their nature; and yet such an instant, however significant, is nothing in comparison with the instant of choice. So when all has become still around one, as solemn as a starlit night, when the soul is alone in the whole world, then there appears before one, not a distinguished man, but the eternal Power itself. Then has the soul beheld the loftiest sight that mortal eye can see and which never can be forgotten, then the personality receives the accolade of knighthood which ennobles it for an eternity. He does not become another man than he was before, but he becomes himself, consciousness is unified, and he is himself, As an heir, even though he were heir to the treasure of all the world, nevertheless does not possess his property

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before he has come of age, so even the richest personality is nothing before he has chosen himself, and on the other hand even what one might call the poorest personality is everything when he has chosen himself; for the great thing is not to be this or that but to be oneself, and this every one can be if he wills it.
That in a sense it is not a question of a something, you will see from the fact that what appears as the alternative is the aesthetical, the indif- ferent. And yet nevertheless there is here question of a choice, yea, of an absolute choice, for only by choosing absolutely can one choose the ethical. By the absolute choice the ethical is always posited, but from this it does not follow by any means that the aesthetical is excluded. In the ethical the personality is concentrated in itself, so the aesthetical is absolutely excluded or is excluded as the absolute, but relatively it is still left. In choosing itself the personality chooses itself ethically and excludes absolutely the aesthetical, but since it is itself it chooses and since it does not become another being by choosing itself, the whole of the aesthetical comes back again in its relativity.
So die either/or I propose is in a sense absolute, for it is a question of choosing or not choosing. But since the choice is an absolute choice, so is the either/or absolute; in another sense, however, it is only by this choice die either/or comes to evidence, for with that [the choice between choosing and not choosing] the choice between good and evil makes its appearance. This choice between good and evil which is posited in and with the first choice need not concern me here; I would merely constrain you to go on to that point where the necessity of choice is manifest, and thereupon would contemplate existence under ethical categories. I am not an ethical rigorist, an enthusiast for a formal, ab- stract freedom. If only the choice is posited, all of the aesthedcal returns again, and you will see that only then does existence become beautiful, diat only in this way can a man succeed in saving his soul and g ainin g the whole world, can succeed in using the world without abusing it.
But what is it to live aesthetically, and what is it to live ethically ? What is the aesthetical in a man, and what is the ethical? To this I would reply: the aesthetical in a man is that by which he is immediately what he is; the ethical is that whereby he becomes what he becomes. He who lives in and by and of and for the aesthetical in him lives aesthetically.
It is not my intention to go more particularly into the investigation of all that is implied in this definition of the aesthetical. It also seems to me superfluous to enlighten you about what it is to live aesthetically

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— you who are such an expert practitioner in this mode of life that I might rather need your help. Nevertheless, I will sketch several of the stages of the aesthetic life in order that we may work ourselves up to the point where you properly belong. This to my mind is important lest you escape me too soon by one of your favorite side-leaps. Moreover, I have no doubt that in many ways I shall be able to enlighten you about what it is to live aesthetically. Although I would send to you as the most reliable guide any man who wished to live aesthetically, I would not send him to you if, in a higher sense, he wished to perceive what it is to live aesthetically, for about that you could not enlighten him, precisely because you are enmeshed; only he can do that who stands on a higher level and lives ethically. For an instant you might perhaps be tempted to make to me the sophistical rejoinder that then I am unable to give a reliable elucidation of what it is to live ethically, since I myself am enmeshed in it. This, however, would only furnish me with an occasion for a further elucidation. The reason why the man who lives aestheti- cally can in a higher sense explain nothing, is that he constantly lives in the moment, yet all the time is conscious only in terms of a certain rela- tivity and within certain bounds. It is by no means my intention to deny that to live aesthetically when such a life is at its highest may call for a multiplicity of intellectual gifts, yea, even that these must be intensively developed to an uncommon degree; but nevertheless, they are enslaved, and transparency is lacking to them. Thus one often finds certain species of animals which possess far sharper and more intense senses than man, but they are bound to the instinct of the animal. I would fain take you as an example. I have never denied that you possess distinguished intel- lectual gifts, as you can see also from the fact that I have often re- proached you for abusing them. You are witty, ironical, a close observer, a dialectician, experienced in pleasure, you know how to calculate the instant, you are sentimental or heartless according to circumstances; but beneath all this you are constantly only in the moment, and therefore your life dissolves, and it is impossible for you to explain it. If then a man would learn the art of enjoyment, he is quite right in going to you; but if he wishes to understand your life, he goes to the wrong person. By coming to me perhaps he would sooner find what he seeks, in spite of the fact that I am by no means in possession of your intellectual gifts. You are enmeshed and have, as it were, no time to tear yourself loose, I am not enmeshed, neither by my judgment of the aesthetical nor by my judgment of the ethical; for in the ethical I am raised above the instant,

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I am in freedom — but it is a contradiction that one might be enmeshed by being in freedom.
Every man, however lowly his talents are, however subordinate his position in life, naturally feels the need of forming a life view, a con- ception of life’s significance and of its purpose. The man who lives aesthetically does that too, and the universal expression which has been heard from age to age and in all stages is this: one must enjoy life. Naturally, there is great variety corresponding to the different concep- tions of enjoyment, but in this expression, that one is to enjoy oneself, all are agreed. But he who says that he wants to enjoy life always posits a condition which either lies outside the individual or is m the individual in such a way that it is not posited by the individual himself. With re- spect to this last sentence I would beg you to hold fast the expressions I have used, for they are chosen deliberately.
Let us now run through these stages quite briefly in order to press on to the place where you belong. You are already, perhaps, a bit annoyed at the generic expression I formulated for living aesthetically, and yet you will hardly be able to deny that it is correct. Only too often you are heard to scoff at people for not knowing how to enjoy life, believing that you on the other hand have mastered this study. It is quite possible that they do not understand it, but in the expression of their aim they are in entire agreement with you. You perhaps have a presentiment that in this deliberation of mine you will be yoked with the sort of people whom you especially abhor. You think perhaps that I ought to be gallant enough to treat you as an artist and to pass over in silence the bunglers you have trouble enough with in life and with whom you would not have anything in common if you could help it. I cannot help you, however, for you have something in common with them, never- theless, and something very essential at that, namely, your view of life, and in my eyes the matter in which you differ from them is something, unessential. I cannot help laughing at you. You see, my young friend, you are pursued by a curse: the many brothers in your art whom you are entirely unwilling to own. You incur the danger of falling into bad and common company — you who are so haughtily superior. I do not deny that it must be disagreeable to possess a view of life in common with drunken revelers and penny-sportsmen; nor is this exactly your case, for to a certain extent your position lies beyond the aesthetic do- main, as I shall show later.
Great as the differences within the aesthetic domain may be, all the stages have this similarity, that spirit is not determined as spirit but is

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immediately determined. The differences may be extraordinary, all the way from complete stupidity ( Aandlpshed ) to the highest degree of cleverness ( Aandnghed ), but even at the stage where cleverness is evi- dent the spirit ( Aanden ) is not determined as spirit but as talent.
I will describe quite briefly each particular stage and will dwell only upon that which in one way or another fits you or which I could wish you would apply to yourself. Personality immediately determined is not* spiritual but psychical. Here we have a view of life which teaches that health is the most precious good, that on which everything hinges. The same view acquires a more poetic expression when it is said that beauty is the highest. Now beauty is a very fragile good, and therefore, one seldom sees this view carried through. One encounters often enough a young girl (or maybe a young man) who for a brief time prides herself upon her beauty, but soon it deceives her. I remember, however, to have once seen it carried through with rare success. In my student days I sometimes went during the vacation to the residence of a count in one of the provinces. In his younger days the Count had had a diplomatic post, he was now elderly and lived quietly at his countryseat. The Countess had been extraordinarily beautiful as a young girl, as an elderly person she was still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The Count in his youth had great success with the fair sex because of his manly beauty. At the Court the handsome young gentleman-in-waiting was still remembered. Old age had not broken him, and a noble, gen- uinely superior dignity made him still more good-looking. Those who had known them in their earlier days declared that this was the hand- somest couple they had ever seen, and I who had the good fortune to learn to know them in their later years, found this perfectly natural, for they were still the handsomest couple one could see. Both the Count and the Countess were highly cultivated, and yet the life view of the Countess was concentrated in the thought that they were the handsomest couple in the whole land. I still remember vividly an occurrence which con- vinced me of this. It was a Sunday morning, there was a little festival in the church close to the countryseat. The Countess was not feeling quite well enough to venture to attend, but the Count went elegantly dressed in his uniform of gentleman-in-waiting, decorated with his orders. The win- dow of the great hall looked out on an allee which led up to the church. By one of them stood the Countess. She was dressed in a tasteful morn- ing gown and was really charming. I had enquired of her health and had entered into conversation about a yachting party which was to come off the following day. Then far down the allee the Count was seen. She

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relapsed into silence, became more beautiful than I had ever seen her, had an expression almost sad, the Count had come so near that he could see the Countess through the window, she threw him a kiss with the utmost grace, then turned to me and said, “Little William, my Detlev is surely the handsomest man in the whole kingdom, is he not? Yes, I can see well enough that he has sunk together a little bit on one side, but no one can see that when I am walking with him, and when we walk together we are surely the handsomest couple in the whole land.” No little miss of sixteen years could be more blissfully happy over her fiance, the handsome page at Court, than was her ladyship over the already aged lord-in-waiting.
Both views of life agree in the principle that one must enjoy life, and that the requisite condition lies in the individual himself, but in such a way that it is not posited by the individual himself.
We go further. We encounter views of life which teach that one must enjoy life but which place the condition for it outside the individual. This is the case with every view of life where wealth, glory, high station, etc., are accounted life’s task and its content. In this connection I would also speak of a certain kind of love. If I picture to myself a young girl heart and soul in love, whose eye knew no pleasure but in seeing her lover, whose soul had no thought but him, whose heart had no desire but to belong to him, for whom nothing in heaven or on earth had any significance except him, then here we have again an aesthetic view of life where the condition is located outside the individual. You, of course, regard it as foolishness to be m love in this fashion, you think of it as something which occurs only in romances. Nevertheless, it is a thing that can be thought, and it is certain, at least, that in the eyes of many people such a love would be regarded as something admirable. I shall explain to you later why I cannot approve of it.
We go further. We meet views of life which teach that one must enjoy life, but the conditions for this lie in the individual himself, yet in such a way that they are not posited by him. In this case the personality is generally determined as talent, a merchantile talent, a practical talent, a mechanical talent, a mathematical talent, a poetical talent, an artistic talent, a philosophical talent. Satisfaction in life and enjoyment is sought in the development of this talent. One does not, perhaps, stop with the talent in its immediacy, one cultivates it in all ways, but the condition for satisfaction in life is the talent itself, a condition which is not posited by the individual. The men in whom one finds this view of life often belong to the class which you are accustomed to make sport of for their

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tireless activity. You think that you yourself are living artistically and you are entirely unwilling to concede that they are. That you have a different view of what it is to live artistically is undeniable, but this is not the essential thing; the essential thing is that one wants to enjoy life. Your life is far more vornehm than theirs, but theirs is far more inno- cent than yours.
Just as all these views of life have this in common that they are aesthetical, so also they resemble one another in the fact that they have a certain unity, a certain coherence, there is one definite thing upon < which they all turn. That upon which they build their life is in itself something simple, and therefore, it is not split up as is the life view of those who build upon what is in itself a multiplicity. The latter is the case with a view of life upon which I shall now dwell at a little more length. Its teaching is, “enjoy life,” and it explains it thus: “live for your pleaure.” Pleasure, however, is in itself a multiplicity, and so one easily perceives that this life is split into a boundless multiplicity, except insofar as in a particular individual from childhood up pleasure is deter- mined as a particular pleasure, e.g., a lust for fishing or hunting or for keeping horses, etc. Inasmuch as this view is split into a multiplicity one easily perceives that it lies in the sphere of reflection; this reflection, however, is only a finite reflection, and the personality remains in its immediacy. In lust itself the individual is immediate, and however deli- cate and refined, however crafty it may be, the individual remains immediate in this lust; in the enjoyment of pleasure he is in the moment, and however multifarious he is in this respect, he remains constantly immediate because he is in the moment. To live m order to satisfy one’s taste for pleasure implies a proudly superior station in life, and very seldom, God be praised, does one see this view carried through con- sistently, on account of the troubles of earthly life which give man something else to think about. If such were not the case, I have no doubt we would often be witnesses of this dreadful spectacle, for it is certain, at least, that we often enough hear people complain that they feel themselves hampered by a prosaic life — which unfortunately means, very often, that they only long to enjoy themselves in all the wildness lust may whirl them into. For in order that this view may be carried out the individual must be in possession of a multiplicity of outward conditions, and this good fortune, or rather misfortune, is seldom allot- ted to a man — this misfortune, for it is certainly not from the gracious but from the angry gods this “fortune” comes.
It is seldom one sees this view of life carried out on any considerable

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scale, but it is not so rare to see people who bungle at it a little, and when the conditions requisite for it are lacking, are inclined to think that if only they had the conditions under their control they surely would have attained the happiness and joy they longed for in life. However, in history one meets now and then with an example, and as I believe that it may be useful to see where this view of life ends when everything favors it, I will portray such a figure, selecting for this purpose that omnipotent man the Emperor Nero, who always found himself sur- rounded by a countless throng of obliging ministers of pleasure. With your habitual audacity you once maintained that one could not blame Nero for burning Rome in order to get a conception of the conflagration of Troy, but one might question whether he was enough of an artist to know how to enjoy it. It is one of your imperial pleasures never to shrink from any thought, never to be dismayed by it. To enjoy that pleasure one has no need of a praetorian guard, nor of silver and gold, nor of the treasures of all the world; one can be quite alone with it and come' 'to a decision in perfect quiet; it is a wiser indulgence, therefore, but not less dismaying. Your mtent was surely not to defend Nero, and yet a kind of defer’ se is implied in fixing attention not upon what he did but upon how' he did it. I know very well that this audacity of thought is something one often finds m young men, who at such mo- ments try it out, as it were, on the world, and then are easily tempted to make much of it themselves, especially when others are listening to it. I know very well that you as well as I, indeed every man, even Nero himself, would shrink from the thought of such savagery, and yet I never would counsel any man to credit himself in the strictest sense with strength enough not to become a Nero. For note that when I seek to characterize Nero’s nature and apply to it a term which in my opinion essentially explains it, it will perhaps seem to you too mild a word, and yet as a judge I am certainly not mild, though in another sense I never judge any man. But believe me, the word is not too mild, it is the true expression, but at the same time it may serve to show how close to a man such an aberration may be; one may say that to every man who does not go through his whole life like a child there comes a moment when he has a presentiment, even if it is a distant one, of this perdition. Nero’s nature was melancholy. In our age it has become something great to be melancholy. For this reason I can understand that you find this word too mild.\l attach myself to an earlier church doctrine 7 which reckoned melancholy among the cardinal sins. If I am right, this is a very unpleasant piece of intelligence for you, for it turns upside down

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your whole view of life: But to avoid misunderstanding I will remark at once that a man may iiave sorrow and distress, yea, it may be so great that it pursues him perhaps throughout his whole life, and this may even be beautiful and true, but a man becomes melancholy only by his own fault.
So I picture to myself the imperial voluptuary. Not only when he ascends his throne or marches to the Senate is he surrounded by lictors, but especially when he sallies forth to satisfy his lust, in order that they might clear the way before his gang of robbers. I imagine him some- what older, his youth is past, the light heart has escaped from him, he is already familiar with every conceivable pleasure, satiated with it. But this life, depraved as it may be, has nevertheless matured his soul, and yet in spite of all his understanding of the world, in spite of his experi- ence, he is still a child or a youth. The immediacy of the spirit is unable to break through, and yet it demands a metamorphosis, it demands a higher form of existence.’ ; But if this is to come about, an instant will arrive when the splendor of the throne, his might and power, will pale, and for this he has not the courage. Then he grasps after pleasure; all the world’s cleverness must devise for him new pleasures, for only in the instant of pleasure does he find repose, and when that is past he gasps with faintness. The spirit constantly desires to break through, but it cannot attain the metamorphosis, it is constantly disappointed, and he would offer it the satiety of pleasure. Then the spirit within him gathers like a dark cloud, its wrath broods over his soul, and it becomes an anguishing dread which ceases not even in the moment of pleasureJLo, therefore is his eye so lowering that no one can bear to look uponit, his glance so flashing that it terrifies, for behind the eye lies the soul as a gross darkness. They call this glance an imperial glance, and the whole world trembles before it, and yet his inmost nature is anguished dread, a child who looks at him in an unaccustomed way or any casual glance may terrify him, it is as though this person owned him,, for the spirit wills to break through, wills that he shall possess himself in his con- sciousness, but that he is unable to do, and the spirit is repressed and gathers new wrath. He does not possess himself, only when the world trembles before him is he tranquilized, for then there is no one who ventures to lay hold of him.
Hence this dread of men which Nero shares with every personality of this sort. He is as though possessed, in himself unfree, and hence it seems as if every glance would bind him. He, the Roman Emperor, may be afraid of the glance of the most wretched slave. He meets such

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a glance, his eye consumes the man who thus ventures to look upon him. A ruffian stands by the Emperor’s side, comprehends this wild glance of his, and that man is no more. Nero has no murder upon his conscience, but the spirit has a new dread. Only in the moment of pleasure does he find distraction. He burns up half of Rome, but his torment remains the same. Before long such things entertain him no more. There is a still higher pleasure available, he would terrify {aengste) men. To himself he is enigmatic, and dread {Angst) is his very nature, now he would be a riddle to all and find delight in their dread. jHence this imperial smile which no one can comprehend. People approach his throne, he greets them with a friendly smile, and yet a terrible dread grips them, perhaps the smile is their death sentence, per- haps the floor is opening and they are about to plunge into the abyss. A woman approaches his throne, he smiles graciously upon her, and yet she becomes almost impotent with dread; perhaps this smile already singles her out as a sacrifice to his lust. And this dread delights him. He does not wish to produce awe, he wishes to terrify. He does not step forth with imperial dignity — weak, impotent, he slinks here and there, for this powerlessness is still more disquieting. He looks like a dying man, his breathing is feeble, and yet he is the Emperor of Rome and holds in his hands the lives of men. His soul is faint, only witty sayings and clever conceits are capable for an instant of giving him breath. What a world he has drained! and yet he is unable to breathe if this source of pleasure is dried up. He is capable of having a child cut down before the mother’s eyes to see if her despair would give passion a new expression which would entertain him. If he were not Emperor of Rome, he perhaps would end his life with suicide; for in truth it is only another expression for the selfsame thing when Caligula wishes that the heads of all men were set upon one neck so as to be able with one stroke to annihilate the whole world, and also when a man puts him- self to death.
Whether it was the case with Nero, I do not know, but in such char- acters one sometimes finds a certain good humor, and if Nero had it, I have no doubt that the people who surrounded him were prompt to call it graciousness. There is something very singular about this, but it fur- nishes also a new proof of the immediacy which constitutes by its repres- sion genuine melancholy. So it comes about that at the very time when all the treasures of the world and its glory hardly avail to delight him, a single word, a curious little happening, the outward appearance of a man, or some other such insignificant thing, is enough to give him ex-

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traordinary joy. A Nero can rejoice over such a thing like a child. Like a child — that is precisely the right expression, for it is the whole immedi- acy of the child which appears in him unaltered and unexplained. A thoroughly developed character cannot rejoice in this way, for it is true that the man has retained childlike qualities, but he has ceased to be a child.
Here I will bring to an end this description, which upon me at least has made a very serious impression. Nero is alarming even after his death, for, depraved as he is, he is, nevertheless, flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone, and even in a monster there is something human after all. I have not set this forth in order to busy your imagination, I am not an author that sues for a reader’s favor, least of all for yours, and as you know, I am not an author at all, and I am writing only for your sake. Neither have I set this forth in order to give you and me occasion to thank God along with that Pharisee that we are very different. It awak- ens in me other thoughts, though I thank God that my life has been too uneventful to suggest more than a remote presentiment of suqh a horror, and now I am a happy married man. As for you, I rejoice that you are still young enough to learn something from this. Let each learn what he can, at least we both can learn that a man’s unhappiness is never due to the fact that he has not the outward conditions in his power, this being the very thing which would make him unhappy.
What, then, is melancholy.® It is hysteria of the spirit. There comes a moment in a man’s life when his immediacy is, as it were, ripened and die spirit demands a higher form in which it will apprehend itself as spirit. Man, so long as he is immediate spirit, coheres with the whole earthly life, and now the spirit would collect itself, as it were, out of this dispersion and become m itself transformed, the personality would be conscious of itself in its eternal validity. If this does not come to pass, if the movement is checked, if it is forced back, melancholy ensues. One may do much by way of inducing forgetfulness, one may work, one may employ other expedients more innocent than those of Nero, but melan- choly remains. There is something inexplicable in melancholy. The man who has sorrow and anxiety knows why he is sorrowful or anxious. If a melancholy man is asked what ground he has for it, what it is that weighs upon him, he will reply, “I know not, I cannot explain it.” Herein lies the infinity of melancholy. This reply is perfectly correct, for as soon as a man knows the cause, the melancholy is done away with, whereas, on the contrary, in the case of the sorrowful the sorrow is not done away when a man knows why he sorrows. But melancholy is sin,

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really it is a sin instar omnium , for not to will deeply and sincerely is sin, and this is the mother of all sins. This sickness, or rather this sin, is very common in our age, and so it is under this all young Germany and France now sighs. I do not wish to provoke you, I would threaten you as leniently as possible. I am willing to admit that in a way melancholy is not a bad sign, for as a rule only the most gifted natures are subject to it. Neither shall I vex you by assuming that every one who suffers from indigestion has for this cause a right to call himself melancholy — a thing often enough to be seen in our time when to be melancholy is the dignity to which everybody aspires. But he who would claim to be more eminently gifted must put up with it when I charge him with the accountability of being also more guilty than other men. If he will see this situation rightly, he will not see in it a disparagement of his per- sonality, though it will teach him to bow with genuine humility before the eternal Power. As soon as that movement comes about, melancholy is essentially done away with, although to the same individual it may well happen that his life has in store many sorrows and anxieties, and a propos of this you know that I am the last man to teach the wretched commonplace that sorrow is of no avail, that one must drive sorrow away. I should be ashamed of myself if with these words I were to approach a person in sorrow. But even the man in whose life this move- ment comes about quietly, peaceably and seasonably, will, nevertheless, always retain a little melancholy; but this is connected with something far deeper, with original sin, and it is due to the fact that no man can become perfecdy transparent to himself. On the other hand, the men whose souls are acquainted with no melancholy are those whose souls have no presentiment of a metamorphosis. With them I have nothing to do here, for I am writing only to and about you, and to you I believe this explanation will be satisfactory, for you hardly assume like many physicians that melancholy is an ailment of the body — and for all that, strangely enough, the physicians cannot relieve it. Only spirit can relieve it, for it is a spiritual ailment. And when the spirit finds itself, all the small troubles vanish, all the causes which according to some people produced melancholy, for example, that one cannot find oneself in the world, that one comes to the world both too late and too early, that one cannot find one’s place in life; for he who owns his own self eternally can come neither too early nor too late, and he who possesses himself in his eternal validity surely finds his significance in this life.
However, this was an episode, for which I hope you will forgive me since it came about essentially for your sake. I return to the view of

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life which represents that man should live for the satisfaction of pleas- ure. A shrewd common sense readily perceives that this cannot be car- ried through and that therefore it is not worth while making a start at it. A refined egoism perceives that it misses the very point in pleasure. So here we have a view of life which teaches one to enjoy life but expresses it thus: “Enjoy yourself, in enjoyment it is yourself you must enjoy.’*. This is a higher reflection, but for all that it does not penetrate to the personality itself, which remains in its accidental immediacy. In this case the condition requisite for enjoyment is after all an outward one which is not within the control of the individual, for although he says he enjoys himself, yet he enjoys himself only in the enjoyment, but the enjoyment is dependent upon an outward condition. So the difference is that he enjoys reflectively, not immediately. To that extent even this Epicureanism is dependent upon a condition over which it has no con- trol. A certain callousness of the understanding then contrives an ex- pedient and teaches: “Enjoy yourself while constantly casting away the conditions.” But it follows as a matter of course that he who enjoys him- self by casting away the conditions is just as dependent upon them as is he who enjoys them. His reflection constantly turns back to himself, and as his enjoyment consists in providing as little content as possible for enjoyment, he is constantly scooping himself out, as it were, since such a reflection is, of course, incapable of opening the personality.
I believe that by these reflections I have now outlined, intelligibly enough at least for you, the territory of the aesthetical views of life. All of the stages have this in common, that what one lives for is that whereby one immediately is what one is; for reflection never grasps so high that it grasps beyond this. It is only a very cursory indication I have fur- nished, but I had no desire to give more, it was not the various stages which were important to me, but only the movement which is impera- tively necessary, and it is upon that I would beg you to fix your atten- tion.
So I assume that the man who lived for his health was, to use an expression of yours, just as hale when he died as ever he was; that the above-mentioned noble couple danced at their golden wedding, and that a whisper of admiration passed through the hall just as it did when they danced on the day of their nuptials; I assume that the rich man’s gold mines were inexhaustible, that honors and dignities followed the happy man’s pilgrimage through life; I assume that the young girl got the man she loved, that the man of mercantile talent harnessed with his trade connections all quarters of the globe and held the purses of all the

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world in his purse, that the mechanical talent succeeded in connecting heaven and earth— I assume that Nero never yawned, but that new pleasures surprised him every instant, that the cunning Epicurean could find delight in himself every instant, that the Cynic constantly had con- ditions to cast away in order to rejoice in his lightness — this I assume, and so all these people were happy. That, surely, you will not affirm, and the reason for it I shall explain later on; but this you will willingly concede, that many people would think them happy, and that one or another would imagine he said something very clever when he added that what they lacked was that they did not appreciate it. I will now make the opposite movement. Nothing of all this comes to pass. What then? Why, then, they despair. You will do no such thing, you will say perhaps that it is not worthwhile. Why it is that you will not admit despair I shall explain later on. Here I only require you to acknowledge that a great many men would find it natural to despair. Let us see now why they despair. Is it because they discovered that what they built their life upon was transient? But is that, then, a reason for despairing? Has any essential change occurred in that upon which they built their life ? Is it an essential change in the transitory that it shows itself to be transi- tory? Or is it not rather something accidental and unessential in the case of what is transitory that it does not show itself to be such ? Noth- ing has happened which could occasion a change. So if they despair, it must be because they were in despair beforehand. The only difference is that they did not know it. But this is an entirely fortuitous difference. So it appears that every aesthetic view of life is despair, and that every one who lives aesthetically is in despair, whether he knows it or not. But when one knows it (and you indeed know it), a higher form of existence is an imperative requirement, v- With only a few words I will explain myself further with respect to my judgment about the young girl and her love. You know that in my capacity as a married man it is my custom on every occasion to main- tain against you, both orally and in writing, the reality of love, and therefore, to prevent any misunderstanding, I will also give expression to my thought here. Perhaps a man who is shrewd in a finite sense would become a little dubious about such a love, he would perhaps perceive its fragility and in opposing it would express his paltry wisdom by the proverb, “Love me little, love me long” — as if his worldly wisdom were not still more fragile or at least far more paltry than her love! You will easily perceive that I could not express my disapproval of it in that way. It is very repulsive to me to carry on a thought experiment

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in the domain of love. I have only loved once and am still indescribably happy in this love. It is repulsive to me to think of being loved by any other person than the one to whom I am joined and in any other way than that by which she makes me so happy. But I will make the venture. Suppose, then (however it may have come about), that I have become the object of such a love. It would not make me happy, and I would never accept it — not because I should disdain it, for God knows that I would rather have a murder on my conscience than to have disdained a maiden’s love — but for her own sake I would not permit it. So far as in me lieth, I desire to be loved by everybody, by my wife I desire to be loved as dearly as one person can love another and it would pain me if I were not so loved, but I do not desire more, I will not permit any one to take harm to her soul by loving me; I should love her too truly to permit her to abase herself. To a proud mind there is something seduc- tive in being loved thus, and there are men who understand the art of infatuating a girl so that she forgets everything else but them — let them look to it how they justify this. Such a girl is for the most part pumshed severely enough, but the despicable thing is to let this occur. Observe that it is for this reason I said and still say that the young girl was equally in despair whether she got the loved one or not, for in fact it was an accidental circumstance if the man she loved was so upright that he would help her out of her heart’s delusion, and even though the means he employed to this end were never so hard, I would affirm, neverthe- less, that he acted towards her uprightly, sincerely, faithfully, chival- rously.
So the aesthetic view of life has proved itself to be despair. It might therefore seem to be in place to undertake the movement which brings to evidence the ethical. However, there still remains one stage, an aesthetic life view which is the most refined and superior of them all, into which I must inquire with the greatest care, for what I have to say applies to you. You can follow with composure everything I have set forth hitherto, and in a way it is not to you I have been speaking, and it would be of little use to talk in this fashion to you or to explain to you that life is vanity. That you know very well and in your way have sought to adjust yourself. The reason why I have expounded this is that I desire to protect my rear and would prevent you from suddenly leap- ing back. This last life view is despair itself. It is an aesthetic life view, for the personality remains in its immediacy; it is the last aesthetic life view, for to a certain degree it is conscious of its own nullity. There is a difference, however, between despair and despair. If I ima g ine an

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artist, a painter, for example, who becomes blind, he then perhaps will despair if there is nothing deeper in him. He despairs then over this particular thing, and if his sight were restored to him again, his despair would cease. Such is not the case with you, you are far too intellectually gifted for that, and your soul is in a certain sense too deep for this to befall you. Nor in outward respects has any such misfortune happened to you. You still have in your power all the factors requisite for an aesthetic life view, you have wealth and independence, your health is unimpaired, your mind still vigorous, nor have you yet become unhappy fpr the fact that a girl would not love you. And yet you are in despair. It is not despair about any actual thing but a despair in thought. Your thought has hurried on ahead, you have seen through the vanity of all things, but you have got no further. Occasionally you plunge into pleasure, and every instant you are devoting yourself to it you make the discovery in your consciousness that it is vanity. So you are constantly beyond yourself, that is, in despair. This is the reason why your life lies between two prodigious contradictions; sometimes you have enormous energy, sometimes an indolence just as great.
I have often observed that the more costly the fluid with which a man intoxicates himself, the more difficult it is to cure him, the intoxication being more beautiful and the consequences apparently not so dreadful. The man who gets drunk on brandy is at once sensible of the dreadful consequences, and one may have hope of his salvation. He who uses champagne is cured with more difficulty. And you, you who have chosen the most refined means! For no intoxication is so beautiful as despair, so becoming, so attractive, especially in a maiden’s eyes (that you know full well), and especially if one possesses the skill to repress the wildest outbursts, to let despair be vaguely sensed like a distant conflagration while only a glimpse of it is visible outwardly. It imparts a light swing to the hat and to the whole body, it gives one a proud and defiant air. The lips smile arrogantly. It gives an indescribable lightness to life and a lordly survey of all things. And now when such a figure approaches a young girl, when this proud head is bowed only before her, before her alone in the whole world, this flatters, and alas, there might be one who was innocent enough to believe in this false bow. Is it not shameful when a man thus ... but no, I shall not deliver a thundering speech; that would only provoke you, I have other expedi- ents. I have that hopeful young man, he is perhaps in love, he comes to you, he is mistaken in you, he believes that you are a trustworthy, up- right man, he would take counsel of you. In reality you can shut your

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door against every such unhappy young man, but your heart you cannot shut; though you do not wish him to be a witness of your humiliation, you shall not be spared it, for you are not so depraved as all that, and when you are alone with yourself you are more good-natured perhaps than anybody believes.
Here, then, I have your view of life, and believe me, much in your ,]& will be explicable to you if with me you regard it as thought-despair. You are a hater of all activity in life. Very reasonably, for before there can be any meaning in activity there must be continuity, and that is what your life lacks. You occupy yourself with your studies, it is true, but it is only for your own sake, and it is done with as little teleology as possible. For the rest you are idle, like the laborers in the Gospel you stand in the market place, you thrust your hands into your pockets and look on at life. Then you take repose in despair, nothing concerns you, you will not get out of the way of anything, you say, “If one were to throw a tile from the roof, I wouldn’t get out of the way.” You are like a dying man, you die daily, not in the serious significance usually at- tached to 'this word, but life has lost its reality, and, as you say, you always count your days by the number of times notice is served on you to quit your lodging. You let everything pass you by, it makes no impression, but now suddenly there comes something that grips you, an idea, a situation, a smile from a young girl, and then you are “in it.” For as there are certain occasions when you are not “in it,” so there are others when you are and when you are very much “at your service.” Wherever there is something happening you are “in it.” You behave in life as you say you are accustomed to do in a crowd, working your way into the thickest group, contriving, if possible, to be pressed up above die others, and when you are up you make yourself as comfortable as possible, and so, also, you let yourself be carried through life.
But when the crowd has dispersed and the event is over you stand agam at the street corner and look on at the world. A dymg man, as you know, possesses supernatural energy, and so it is also with you. If it is an idea that has to be thought through, a book to be read through, a plan to be carried out, a little romance to be experienced — yes, even a hat that has to be bought, then you take hold of the thing with prodi- gious strength. According to circumstances, you work indefatigably for a day, for a month; you take joy in convincing yourself that you still possess the same vigor as before, you take no rest, “Satan himself could not keep up with me,” you say. If you work in common with others, you work diem till they are ready to drop. But then when the month

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is up, or the half year, which you regard as the maximum, you break off, saying, “Here the story ends”; you retire and leave the other party to finish the work, or if you have worked at it alone, you say nothing about it to anybody. You then pretend to yourself and to others that you have lost the inclination and flatter yourself with the vain thought that you could have continued to work with the same intensity if you had been inclined to do so. But this is a prodigious deception. You would have succeeded as most others do in finishing the work if you had patiently willed to do so, but at the same time you also would have learned by experience that it requires an entirely different sort of per- severance than that which you have. So in this way you have deluded yourself and have learnt nothing for your subsequent life. I can serve you here with a little piece of enlightenment. I am not unaware how deceitful one’s own heart is, how easily one can deceive oneself — not to speak of a person like you who are in possession of a dialectical power to loose, which not only bestows dispensation for everything but dis- solves and obliterates it.
So for my part, when something has confronted me in life, when I have resolved upon something which I feared in the course of time might acquire for me a different aspect, when I have done something which 1 feared in the course of tune I might interpret differently, I have written down in a few clear words what it was I purposed to do or what I had done and why. Then when it seems to me I have need of it, some time when my resolution or my action did not stand out vividly before me, I take out my charter and pass judgment upon myself. It seems to you, perhaps, that this is pedantic, that it is too tedious and not worth making such a fuss about. I have no reply to make but this : if you feel no need of it, if your consciousness is always so unfailing and your mem- ory so faithful, then let it be. But that I do not believe, for the talent your soul lacks is memory, I do not mean for this and that, not for witty sayings or dialectical quirks — far be it from me to maintain that— but I mean memory of your own life, of what you have experienced in it. If you had such memory, the same phenomenon would not so often repeat itself in your life, and your life would not exhibit what I would call half-hour works, and would call them this even if you had spent half a year on them, seeing that you have not finished them. But you enjoy deluding yourself and others. If you were always as strong as you are in the instant of passion, I do not deny that you would be the strongest man I have ever known. But that you are not, as you yourself know right well. Hence, you retire, hiding yourself almost from yourself, and give

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yourself up to the repose of indolence. In my eyes, from whose watch- fulness you cannot always withdraw, you become almost ludicrous by reason of your momentary zeal and the justification you derive from this for your derision of others. Once upon a time there were two Englishmen who went to Arabia to buy horses. They brought with them several -English race horses, wishing to try their qualities in comparison with the Arabian steeds. They proposed a race, and the Arabs were willing and left it to the Englishmen to select what horse they would from the Arabian steeds, what horse they would race against; but they were not willing to hold the race at once, they said that forty days was needed for training. They waited forty days, the amount of the prize was fixed, the horses saddled, and then the Arabs asked how long they should ride. “One hour,” was the answer. This surprised the Arab, and he replied laconically, “I thought we should ride for three days.”
Behold, thus it is with you. If one would run a race with you for an hour, Satan, as you say, couldn’t keep up with you; a three days’ race would be too much for you. I remember once telling you this story, and I remember your reply, that it was a ticklish thing to run a race of three days, there was risk of acquiring such headway that one could never come to a stop, and that therefore you refrained from all such violence, “once in a while I ride horseback, but I neither wish to be a cavalryman nor to pursue any other unflagging activity in life.” And to a certain degree this is quite true, for you are always afraid of continuity, prin- cipally for the reason that it deprives you of the opportunity of deceiv- ing yourself. The strength you possess is the strength of despair; it is more intense than ordinary human strength, but also it lasts a shorter time.
You are constantly hovering above yourself, but the ether, the fine sublimate into which you are volatilized, is the nullity of despair, and beneath you you behold a multiplicity of subjects for learning, informa- tion, study, observation, which for you, indeed, have no reality, but which you capriciously combine and employ to adorn as tastefully as possible the palace of the mind’s luxurious delight where occasionally you soj'ourn. What wonder, then, that for you existence is a fairy tale, that (to use your own words) you are often tempted to begin every speech by saying, “Once upon a time there was a king and a queen who unfortunately had no children,” and that thereupon you forget every- thing else for the sake of the remark that strangely enough this is always the reason given by fairy tales for the sorrow of a king and a queen, whereas m ordinary life we hear rather of the sorrow of having chil-

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dren, as asylums and such like institutions go to prove. Now you have got the notion that “life is a fairy tale.” You are capable of spending a whole month reading nothing but fairy tales, you make a profound study of them, you compare and analyze, and your study is not barren of result — but what do you use it for? To divert your mind; you let the whole thing go off in a brilliant display of fireworks.
You are hovering above yourself, and what you behold beneath you is a multiplicity of moods and situations which you employ to find interesting contacts with life. You can be sentimental, heartless, ironical, witty — in this respect one must grant that you are well schooled. Then as soon as any one is capable of rousing you out of your indolence you throw yourself with your whole passion into your practice, and in •your practice you have no lack of art, being only too thoroughly equipped with wit, agility, and all the seductive gifts of the mind. You are (as with self-complacent arrogance you express it) never so ungallant as to present yourself without bringing with you a little odorous, freshly-plucked bouquet of wit. The more one knows you, the more one is struck by the calculated shrewdness which pervades all that you do in the short time you are moved by passion. For passion never blinds you but makes you more clear-sighted. You then have forgotten your despair and all that commonly weighs upon your soul and thought, the accidental contact you have established with a person engages your attention absolutely. I will remind you of a little occurrence which took place in my own house. It is presumably to the two young Swedish girls who were present I must express my thanks for the prize speech you delivered. The conversation had taken a rather serious turn and reached a point where it was not agreeable to you. I had expressed myself a bit in opposition to the exaggerated respect for intellectual gifts which is so characteristic of our age, I had insisted that what really matters is something quite different, an inwardness of the entire being for which language possesses no other expression but faith. By this you were, perhaps, placed in a less favorable light, and as you perceived clearly enough that along the path on which we had struck out you could get no further, you felt called upon to try your hand at what you yourself call “higher madness”" in a sentimental key: “What! Am I supposed not to have faith ? Why, I believe that in the inmost depths of the stillness of die forest, where the trees are reflected in the dark water, in its mysterious darkness, where even at midday there is twi- light, there lives a being, a nymph, a maiden; I believe she is more beautiful than any one can conceive, I believe that in the morning she

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plaits garlands, that at midday she bathes in the cool water, that in the evening she sadly plucks the leaves from the garlands; I believe that I should be happy, the only man deserving to be so called, if I could catch her and possess her; I believe that in my soul there is a longing to search the whole world, I believe that I should be happy if that longing were satisfied; I believe that after all there is some meaning in the world if only I could find it — do not say, then, that I am not strong in faith and fervent in spirit.” Perhaps you think that such a speech might entitle you to become a worthy member of a Greek symposium, for it is to this end among others you are cultivating your talents, and this you would legard as the most beautiful life, to gather together every night with Greek youths, to sit with a garland woven about your hair and deliver panegyrics upon love or upon whatever subject might occur to you; yea, you are willing to devote yourself wholly to delivering panegyrics. To me this speech seems claptrap, however artful it is, and however impressive at the moment, especially when you yourself are permitted to declaim it with your feverish eloquence; and it seems to me, also, an expression of your disturbed mental condition, for it is quite natural that one who believes nothing that other people believe should believe in such imaginary beings, just as it often happens that one who is not afraid of anything in heaven or on earth is afraid of spiders. You smile, you think that I am falling into a trap, that I believed that you believed this which you were further from believing than any other man. That is quite so, for your speech always ends in absolute scepticism, but shrewd and calculating as you are, you cannot deny that for an instant you warm yourself with the morbid heat which lies in such an extrava- gance. Your intent, perhaps, is to deceive others, and yet there is a moment when without being aware of it you deceive yourself,
What applies to your studies applies to everything you do, you exist m the instant, and for an instant you attain a preternatural size, you sink your whole soul into the thing by an exertion of the will, for at the instant your whole nature is dioroughly under your command. He who sees you only at such an instant is very much deceived, whereas if he waits till the next instant, he may easily manage to exult over you. You remember, perhaps, the familiar fairy tale by Musaeus 10 about the three young squires of Roland. One of them acquired from the old witch they visited in the forest a thimble which rendered him invisible. By means of that he penetrated into the chamber of the beautiful princess Urraca and declared his love to her, making a strong impression upon her since she saw nobody and surmised that it was a fairy prince who

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honored her with his love. Nevertheless, she required him to reveal himself. Here lay the difficulty: as soon as he showed himself the enchantment might vanish, and yet there was no joy to be had from his love if he could not reveal himself. I have at hand, as it happens, ibis fairy tale of Musaeus and will transcribe a little passage which I would beg you to read through for the true good of your soul. ‘ He consented unwillingly, as it seemed, and the imagmation of the princess thrust before her the picture of the most beautiful man whom she thought with tense expectancy she was about to see. But what a con- trast between the original and the ideal, since nothing appeared but a common visage, an ordinary person whose physiognomy betrayed neither genius nor sentiment!” What you wish to attain by these con- tacts with men, that you do attain, for you are considerably shrewder than that young squire, so you easily perceive that it doesn’t pay to become revealed. When you have imposed upon a man an ideal picture of yourself (and here one must concede that you can make yourself appear ideal in any direction whatsoever) you generally withdraw and then enjoy the pleasure of having duped a person. What you attain at the same time is that the coherence in your life view is broken and you have a new element which causes you to begin afresh.
Theoretically you are through with the world, finiteness cannot sub- sist before your thought; practically you are through with it to a certain degree, that is, in an aesthetic sense. Nevertheless, you have no world view, you have something which resembles a view, and this gives your life a certain composure, which must not, however, be confounded with a secure and refreshing confidence in life. You are composed only in contrast with one who is still pursuing the phantoms of pleasure, per mare paupenem fugiens, per saxa, per 'ignes. xl In relation to pleasure you are superbly proud. That is quite natural, for indeed, you arc through with finiteness altogether. And yet you are not able to give it up. You are content in comparison with those who are pursuing con- tentment, but it is in absolute discontent you find contentment. You are not concerned about seeing all the glories of the world, for in thought you are beyond them, and if they were offered to you, you would likely say as you commonly do, “Well, one might well devote to them a whole day.” You are not concerned because you have not become a millionaire, and if this were offered to you, you would likely answer, “Well, it might be quite interesting to have been that, and one might well spend a month at it.” And if one were able to offer you the love of the most beautiful maiden, you would answer, “Well, for half a year

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that would not be so bad.” I will not here join in the cry of complaint often raised against you that you are insatiable, -I would say rather that in a certain sense you are right, for nothing finite, not the whole world, can satisfy the soul of the man who feels need of the eternal. If one could offer you dignities and honor, the admiration of your contem- poraries (for that is your weak point), you would answer, “Well, for a short time that would be pretty good.” You do not really desire it, and you would not take one step to attain it. You would perceive that for this to have any significance you must actually be so eminently gifted in mind that this would be truth, and even in this case your thought sees even the highest degree of intellectual talent as something transi- tory. Your polemical temper gives you a more extreme expression for this when in your exasperation with life as a whole you could wish you were the most foolish of all men and yet were admired and adored by your contemporaries as the wisest of all, for this would be a far more profound mockery of existence than if the really clever man were honored as such. You therefore desire nothmg, wish for nothing, the only thing you might wish for would be a divining twig which could give you everything, and that you would use to scrape your pipe.
So you are through with life, and, as you say, you have no need to make a will, for you have nothing to leave. But you are unable to hold yourself erect on this pinnacle, for it is true that your thought has taken everything from you, but it has given you nothing in place of it. The next instant a little insignificance captivates you. It is true that you regard it with all the superiority and pride which your arrogant thought bestows upon you, you disdain it as a paltry toy you are almost tired of before you take it in hand, but it preoccupies you, nevertheless, and though it is not the thing itself which preoccupies you (that is never the case with you), yet you are preoccupied by the fact that you are willing to condescend to it. When you treat persons in this way your nature exhibits a high degree of faithlessness, for which, however, no one can reproach you, for you are situated outside of ethical deter- minants. Fortunately, you are very little inclined to participate with others, and therefore this defect is not noticed. You often come to my house, and you know that you are always welcome, but you know, too, that it never occurs to me to invite you to participate m the least thing. I would not even take a drive with you in the forest, not because you cannot be very merry and entertaining, but because your participation is always a falsehood, for if you really take pleasure, it is not in something which gives pleasure to the rest of us, or in the drive, but in something

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you have in mente\ and if you are not pleased, it is not because some- thing unpleasant occurs which puts you out of sorts (for that might happen to the rest of us), but already at the instant you are getting into the carriage you have discerned the nullity of this diversion. I am ready to forgive you for this, for your mind is always too active, and it is a true word you often apply to yourself, that you are like a midwife, and when one is in such “interesting” situations it is no wonder that one is a little different from others.
However, the spirit will not let itself be mocked, it revenges itself upon you, it binds you with the chain of melancholy. My young friend, this is the way to become a Nero — if in your soul there were not a pristine seriousness, if in your thought there were not an innate depth, if you had not a spirit of magnanimity...and if you had become Em- peror in Rome. However, you take another path. Now there appears before you a life view which seems to be the only one able to satisfy you, that is, to immerse your soul in sadness and sorrow. However, your thinking is so sound that this view cannot meet the test; for such an aesthetic sorrow is as vain for existence as every other aesthetic life view. If a person cannot sorrow more profoundly, I can say with truth that sorrow wears off just as joy does. And if many find it a comfort that sorrow wears off, it seems to me that this thought is just as comfortless as the observation that joy wears off. So your thought annihilates again this life view; and when one has annihilated sorrow one retains joy; instead of sorrow you choose a joy which is sorrow’s changeling. This joy you have now chosen, this laughter of despair. You return again to life, under this illumination existence acquires a new interest for you. Just as you find great joy in talking to a child in such a way that what you say is understood by it very well and easily and naturally, while for you it means somediing entirely different, so you find joy in deceiving men by your laughter. When you can get people to laugh with you and shout for joy and delight themselves, then you triumph over the world, then you say to yourself, “If only ye knew what ye are laughmg at!”
However, the spirit will not suffer itself to be mocked, and the gloom of melancholy grows denser around you, and the lightning flash of a mad wit reveals this to you more strikingly, more dreadfully. And there is nothing that diverts you, all the pleasure of the world possesses no significance for you, and though you envy the simple their foolish enjoyment of life, you do not pursue it. Pleasure does not tempt you; and pitiful as your condition is, it is a mercy it does not. It is not my intention to extol the pride within you which disdains pleasure, but

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rather to extol the grace which holds your thought fast. For if pleasure tempted you, you would be lost; But the fact that it does not tempt you shows what path you now must take, that you must go forward, not backward^There is another false path not less dreadful, and here again I rely not upon your pride but upon the grace which constantly sustains you. It is true enough that you are proud, and that it is better for a man to be proud than to be vain, it is true that there is a dreadful passion in your thought and that you regard it as a claim you have no intention of relinquishing, that, to use your own words, you prefer to regard your- self as a creditor in the world who has not been paid rather than to annul the claim — and yet all human pride affords a frail security.
Behold, my young friend, this life of yours is despair. Hide this if you will from others, from yourself you cannot hide it, it is despair. And yet in another sense this life is not despair. You are too frivolous to despair, and you are too melancholy not to come in touch with despair. You are like a woman in childbirth, and yet you are constantly deferring the moment and remain constantly in pain. If a woman in her travail were to get the idea that she might give birth to a monster, or were to ponder within herself what it really was she would bring forth, her case would be similar to yours. Her effort to check the course of nature would be unavailmg, but yours is indeed possible, for that to which a man gives birth in a spiritual sense is a nisus formattvus lJ of the will, and that is m a man’s own power. 'What is it then you fear ? You are not about to give birth to another human being, you are merely to give birth to yourself. And yet, as I know well, there is a seriousness in this which perturbs the whole soul: to become conscious of oneself in one’s eternal validity is more significant than everything else in the world. It is as though you were caught and ensnared and could nevermore, either in time or eternity, make your escape, it is as though you lost your own self, as though you ceased to be, it is as though the next instant you would regret it and yet it could not be undone. It is a serious and sig- nificant moment when for an eternity one attaches oneself to an eternal power, when one receives oneself as a person whose memory no lapse of time shall efface, when in an eternal and unfailing sense one becomes aware of oneself as the person one is. And yet one can leave it alone!
So here there is an either/or. Let me talk to you as I never would do if anybody else were listening, partly because I can claim no right to speak to you thus, and partly because I am speaking only of future pos- sibilities. If you will not harken to this, if you will continue to divert your soul with the trumpery of wit and the vanity of esprit , then do so,

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leave your home, travel abroad, go to Paris, devote yourself to journal- ism, sue for the smile of effete women, cool their hot blood with the coldness of your wit, let it be the proud theme of your life’s labor to drive away the boredom of an idle woman or the gloomy thoughts of an enfeebled voluptuary, forget that you were a child, that there was piety in your soul and innocence in your thought, silence every higher voice in your breast, doze your life away in the glittering inanity of society, forget that there is an immortal spirit within you, and when wit grows mute there is water enough in the pond and gunpowder in the store and traveling companionship at every time of day. But if you cannot do this, if you will not (and this you neither can nor will), then collect yourself, quell every rebellious thought which would presume to commit high treason against your better nature, despise all the pettiness which would envy your intellectual gifts and itself desires them in order to put them to a still worse use, despise the hypocritical virtue which unwillingly bears life’s burdens and yet would be honored because it bears them; but do not for this cause despise life, respect every honest effort, every unassuming endeavor which modestly hides itself, and above all have a little more reverence for woman; believe me, it is from her comes salvation, as surely as hardening comes from man. I am a married man and to that extent I am partial, but it is my conviction that if it was a woman that ruined man, it was woman also that has fairly and honestly made reparation and still does so; out of a hundred men who go astray in the world ninety and nine are saved by women and one by immediate divine grace. And as I am also of the opinion that it is the nature of man to go astray in one way or another, and that to a man it applies as truly as to a woman that he ought to abide in the pure and innocent peace of immediacy; you can easily see that in my opinion woman [when she restores a man to this state] makes due requital for the harm she has done.
What then must you do ? Another perhaps would say, “Get married. Then you will have something else to think about.” Yes, that you will, but the question remams whether this will be any advantage to you, and whatever you may think of the other sex, you think at all events too chivalrously to wish to marry for that reason; and moreover, if you are unable to sustain yourself, you will hardly get another person who is capable of sustaining you. Or one might say, “Look for a job, throw yourself into the life of affairs, that is a distraction, and you will forget your melancholy. Get to work. That’s the best thing.” Perhaps you will succeed in getting to the point where your melancholy seems as if it

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were forgotten, but forgotten it is not; occasionally it will break out and will be more dreadful than ever, it will then perhaps be capable of doing what it could never do before, it may take you off your guard. Furthermore, however you may think of life and its affairs, you will nevertheless think too chivalrously of yourself to choose a profession for that reason, for that, after all, is a kind of falsehood, like marrying for the same reason/ 'What then must you do? I have only one answer: despair.^
'""I am a married man, my soul clings firmly and wisely to my wife, to my children, to this life which I shall always extol for its beauty. So when I counsel you to despair, it is not a fantastical youth who would whirl you away in the maelstrom of the passions, nor a mocking demon who shouts this comfort to the shipwrecked, but I shout it to you, not a? a comfort, not as a condition in which you are to remain, but as a deed which requires all the power and seriousness and concentration of the soul, just as surely as it is my conviction, my victory over the world, that every man who has not tasted the bitterness of despair has missed the significance of life, however beautiful and joyous his life might be. By despairing you do not delude the world in which you live, you are not lost to it because you have overcome it, as surely as I can affirm of myself that I am a proper married man, in spite of the fact that I, too, have despaired.
So when I view your life in this aspect I will not declare you fortunate, for at the instant of despair it is truly of the utmost importance for a man not to be mistaken about his life; this is just as dangerous for him as for a woman in travail to go amiss. He who despairs over one par- ticular thing incurs the danger that his despair may not be genuine and profound, that it may be a delusion, a sorrow only for a particular loss. It is not thus you are to despair, for no particular thing has been taken from you, you still possess evcrythmg you had. If the despairing man makes a mistake, if he believes that the misfortune lies in his multi- farious surroundings, then his despair is not genuine and it will lead him to hate the world and not to love it, for true as it is that the world is a burden to you because it is as if it would be to you something else than it can be, it is also just as true that when in despair you have found yourself you will love the world because it is what it is. If it is a fault or guilt or a troubled conscience which brings a man to despair, he will perhaps have difficulty in regaining his joyfulness. So, then, despair with all your soul and with all your mind; the longer you put it off, tjie harder the conditions become, and the demand remains the same. I

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shout this to you, like the woman who offered to sell to Tarquin a col- lection of books and when he would not give the sum she demanded burned one-third of them and demanded the same sum, and when again he would not give the sum she demanded burned another third of them and demanded the same sum, until finally he gave the original sum for the last third.
It is on beautiful terms despair is offered to you, and yet there are more beautiful terms. Imagine a young man as talented as you are. Let him love a girl, love her as dearly as himself. Let him once ponder in a quiet hour upon what it is he has constructed his life and upon what she can construct hers. Love they have in common, and yet he will feel that there are differences. She possesses, perhaps, the gift of beauty, but this has no importance for him, and after all, it is so fragile; she has, per- haps, the joyful temper of youth, but that joy has no great significance for him, but he possesses the power of the mind and feels the might of it. He desires to love her in truth, and it never occurs to him to attribute this power to her, and her meek soul does not demand it, and yet there is a difference, and he will feel that tins must be done away if he is to love her in truth. Then he will let his soul smk into despair. It is not for his own sake he despairs but for hers, and yet it is for his own sake too, for he loves her as dearly as himself. Then will despair devour every- thing till he finds himself m his eternal validity, but then he has also found her, and no knight can return more happily and gladly from the most perilous adventures than does he from this fight with flesh and blood and the vain differences of the finite, for he who despairs finds the eternal man, and in that we are all equal. The foolish thought of wish- ing to dull his mind or neglect its culture will not occur to him as a way of bringing about equality; he will preserve the gifts of the mind, but in his inmost heart he knows of himself that he who possesses these gifts is one who possesses them not. Or imagine a profoundly religious tem- perament, a man who from a true and smcere love for mankind cast himself into the ocean of despair till he found the absolute, the point where it is indifferent whether a forehead is squat or is arched as high as heaven, the point which is not indifference but absolute validity.
You have sundry good ideas, many whimsical notions, and a great quantity of follies — retain them all if you will, though I do not require you to. But one idea you have which I would beg you to hold fast, an idea which assures me that my mind is akin to yours. You have often said that you would rather be anything but a poet, since as a rule a poet- existence is a human sacrifice. For my part, I would not deny that there

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have lived poets who had found themselves before they began to write poetry or who found themselves by poetizing, but on the other hand, it is also certain that a poet-existence as such lies in the obscurity which it due to the fact that a beginning of despair was not carried through, that the soul keeps on shivering with despair and the spirit cannot attain its true transformation'. This poetic ideal is always a sickly ideal, for the true ideal is always the real. So when the spirit is not allowed to soar up into the eternal world of spirit it remains midway and rejoices in the pictures reflected in the clouds and weeps that they are so transi- tory. A poet-existence is therefore, as such, an unhappy existence, it is higher than finiteness and yet not infiniteness. The poet sees the ideals, but he must flee away from the world in order to rejoice in them, he cannot bear about in the midst of life’s confusion these divine images within him , 18 cannot tranquilly pursue his course unaffected by the caricatures of these ideals which appear on all sides, not to speak of having strength to clothe himself in them. The poet’s life is, therefore, often an object of paltry compassion on the part of men who think them- selves secure because they have remained in finiteness. You said once in a moment of despondency that doubtless there were some people who had privately cast up their accounts with you and were willing to be quits on the following terms: you were to be recognized as a clever pate, and in requital for that you were to sink out of sight and be no efficient member of society. Yes, it is undeniable, there is such paltriness in the world which would triumph in this way over everything which projects even an inch above the ordinary level. However, do not let it disturb you, do not defy it, do not show your contempt for it — in this instance I would say as you are wont to say, “It’s not worth the trouble.” But if you do not wish to be a poet, there is no other way for you except that which I have indicated: despair I
So then choose despair, for even despair is a choice; for one can doubt without choosing to, but one cannot despair without choosing. And when a man despairs he chooses again — and what is it he chooses ? He chooses himself, not in his immediacy, not as this fortuitous individual, but he chooses himself in his eternal validity.
This point I shall endeavor to illuminate with application to you. In modern philosophy there has been more than enough talk about specu- lation beginning with doubt, but on the other hand, as far as I have been able to concern myself occasionally with such reflections, I have sought in vain for illumination upon the point of difference between doubt and despair. I will here attempt to throw light upon this distinction, in the

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hope that it will serve to orient you and put you in the correct position. I am far from presuming to claim any real competence as a philosopher, I have not your virtuosity in playing with the categories, but what in the deepest sense is the significance of life must be comprehensible also to a simpler man. Doubt is a despair of thought, despair is a doubt of the personality; hence it is I hold so stoutly to the category of choice, which is my solution, the nerve in my life view — and such a thing as a life view l have, even though I do not by any means presume to have a system . 14 \Doubt is the inward movement in thought itself, and in doubting I behave as impersonally as possible! Now I assume that thought, by carry- ing doubt through, finds the absolute and rests in it — rests in it, there- fore, not as a consequence of choice but m consequence of the same necessity in consequence of which it doubted. For doubt itself is deter- mined by necessity, and so, likewise, is rest. This is the lofty character- istic of doubt for which it has so often been extolled and praised by people who hardly know what they are saying. But the fact that it is determined by necessity shows that the whole personality is not engaged in the movement. Hence, there is a good deal of truth in it when a man says, “I would willingly believe, but I cannot, I must doubt.” Hence, one often sees that a doubter has in himself a positive content which lives apart from all communication with thought, that he may be an exceedingly conscientious person who has no doubt whatever about the validity of duty and the rule of his behavior, no doubt whatever about a multitude of sympathetic feelings and moods. On the other hand, in our age especially, one sees men who have despair in their hearts but yet have conquered doubt. This has struck me particularly in consider- ing certain of the philosophers of Germany. Then thought is tranquil- ized, the objective logical thought is brought to rest in its corresponding objectivity, and yet they are in despair, even though they find distraction in objective thinking; for a man can find distraction in many ways, and there is hardly any anaesthetic so powerful as abstract thinking, because here it is a question of behaving as objectively as possible.
Doubt and despair therefore belong in entirely different spheres, dif- ferent sides of the soul are set in motion. Yet with this I am by no means satisfied, for doubt and despair would then be coordinate, and such is not the case. (Despair is a far deeper and more complete expression, its movement much more comprehensive than that of doubt. Despair is precisely an expression for the whole personality, doubt only an ex- pression for thought. The presumptive objectivity of doubt, whereof it is so proud, is precisely an expression for its incompleteness and imperfec-

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tion. Doubt therefore is related to difference, despair to the absolute,' Talent is requisite for doubting, but no talent at all is requisite for despair; but talent as such is a difference, and that which has need of talent in order to assert itself can never be the absolute, for the absolute as absolute can only be for the absolute. The lowliest, the least talented man, can despair, a young girl who is anything but a thinker can despair, whereas every one readily feels the foolishness of saying of them that they are doubting souls. The reason why a man’s doubt may be tranquilized and he, nevertheless, may be in despair and continue in it, is that in a deeper sense he does not will despair. One cannot despair at all without willing it, but to despair truly one must truly will it, but when one truly wills it one is truly beyond despair; when one has willed despair one has truly chosen that which despair chooses, i.e., oneself in one’s eternal validity. The personality is tranquilized only in despair, not by necessity, for I never despair by necessity, but by freedom, and only thereby does one win the absolute. In this respect our age, in my opin- ion, will make progress — if I may venture to. have an opinion about our age, seeing that I know it only from my reading of the newspapers and an occasional book or from my conversations with you. The time is not far off when people will learn, perhaps at a dear price, that the true point of departure for finding the absolute is not doubt but despair.
But I return to my category. I have only one, for I am not a logician, but I assure you that it is the choice both of my heart and of my thought, my soul’s delight and my bliss — I return to the importance of choosing. So, then, in choosing absolutely I choose despair, and in despair I choose the absolute, for I myself am the absolute, I posit the absolute and I myself am the absolute; but in complete identity with this I can say that N I choose the absolute which chooses me, that I posit the absolute which posits me; for if I do not remember that this second expression is equally absolute, my category of choice is false, for the category is precisely the identity of both propositions. That which I choose I do not posit, for in case this were not [already] posited, I could not choose it, and yet if I do not posit it by the fact that I chose it, then I did not choose it. It exists, for in case it were not in existence I could not choose it; it does not exist, for it only comes into being by the fact that I choose it, otherwise my choice would be an illusion.
But what is it I choose ? Is it this thing or that ? No, for I choose absolutely, and the absoluteness of my choice is expressed precisely by the fact that I have not chosen to choose this or that. I choose the abso-_ lute. And what is the absolute? It is I myself in my eternal validity. ^

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Anything else but myself I never can choose as the absolute, for if I k choose something else, I choose it as a finite thing and so do not choose it absolutely. Even the Jew who chose God did not choose absolutely, for he chose, indeed, the absolute, but did not choose it absolutely, and thereby it ceased to be the absolute and became a finite thing.'
But what, then, is this self of mine ? If at the first instant I were to give the first expression for this, my answer is: It is the most abstract of all things, and yet at the same time it is the most concrete— it is f reedom- Permit me at this point to make a little psychological observation. One often hears people give vent to their discontent with life, and often hears them express their wishes. Picture to yourself such a bungler — let us skip over the wishes which illuminate nothing because they have to do with the accidental. He wishes: Would that I had that man’s intelligence, or that man’s talent, etc. — yea, to go to the extremest point, would that I had that man’s firmness. 1 , Such wishes one hears frequently, but have you ever heard a man seriously express the wish that he might become another man? This is so far from being the case that it is precisely characteristic of the individualities we call unfortunate that for the most part they cling tightly to their own selves, that in spite of all then- sufferings they would not for all the world be anybody else. And the reason for this is that such individualities are very close to the truth and feel the eternal validity of their personality, not in its blessings but in its bane, even though they have reframed from giving voice to this per- fectly abstract expression for the gladness of being themselves rather than anybody else. But then, that man of the many wishes thmks con- stantly that he would remain himself although everything were to be changed. So there is something in him which is absolute in relation to everything else, something whereby he is the man he is, even though the alteration he would accomplish by his wish were the greatest pos- sible. That he is mistaken I shall show later, but here I would merely find the most abstract expression for this “self” which makes him the man he is. And this is nothing other than freedom) It would actually be possible in this way to produce a plausible proof for the eternal validity of the personality. Yea, even a suicide does not really desire to do away with his self, he too wishes, he wishes another form for his self, and therefore one may find a suicide who was in the highest degree con- vinced of the immortality of the soul but whose whole being was so entangled that by this step he expected to find the absolute form for his spirit.
The reason, however, why it seeihs to an individual as if he might

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constantly be changed and yet remain the same (as if his inmost nature were an algebraic sign which could signify anything whatever) is to be found in the fact that he is not correctly situated, has not chosen him- self, has no conception of such a thing; and yet even in his lack of understanding there is implied a recognition of the eternal validity of the personality. He, on the other hand, who is correctly situated has a different experience. He chooses himself, not in a finite sense (for then this “self” would be something finite), but in an absolute sense; and yet, in fact, he chooses himself and not another] This self which he then chooses is infinitely con crete , for it is in fact himself, and yetit is abso- lutely distinct from his former self, for he has chosen it absolutely. This self did not exist previously, for it came into existence by means of the choice, and yet it did exist, for it was in fact himself^'
( Jn this case choice performs at one and the same time the two dia- lectical movements: that which is chosen does not exist and comes into existence with the choice; that which is chosen exists, otherwise there would not be a choice. For in case what I chose did not exist but abso- lutely came into existence with the choice, I would not be choosing, I would be creating; but I do not create myself, I choose myself. There- fore, while nature is created out of nothing, while I myself as an in- dividual personality am created out of nothing, as a free spirit I am born of the principle of contradiction, or born by the fact that I choose

myself..
The” man we are speaking of discovers now that the self he chooses contains an endless multiplicity, inasmuch as it has a history, a history in which he acknowledges identity with himself. This history is of

various sorts; for in this history he stands in relation to other individuals of the race and to the race as a whole, and this history contains some- thing painful, and yet he is the man he is only in consequence of this history. Therefore, it requires courage for a man to choose himself; for at the very time when it seems that he isolates himself most thoroughly he is most thoroughly absorbed in the root by which he is connected with the whole. This alarms him, and yet so it must be, for when the

passion of freedom is aroused in him (and it is aroused by the choice, as also it is presupposed in the choice) he chooses himself and fights for the possession of this object as he would for his eternal blessedness; and it is his eternal blessedness. He cannot relinquish anything in this whole, not the most painful, not the hardest to bear, and yet the expression for this fight, for this acquisition is... repentance._ He repents himself back into himself, back into the family, back into the race, until

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he finds himself in God) only on these terms can he choose himself and he wants no others, foronly thus can he absolutely choose himself(What is a man without love? But there are many sorts of love: I love a father and a mother differently, and every distinct sort of love has its distinct expression, but there is also a love by which I love God^and there is only one word in the language which expresses iL.lt is repentance. When I do not love Him thus, I do not love Him absolutely, do not love Him with my inmost being, and every other sort of love for the absolute is a misunderstanding, for (to take for example what is usually extolled most highly and which I myself hold in honor) when thought clings to the absolute with all its love, it is not the absolute I love, I do not love abso- lutely, for I love necessarily; as soon as I love freely and love God I repent. And if there might be any other reason why the expression for my love of God is repentance, it would be because He has loved me first. And yet this is an imperfect account of the reason, for only when I choose myself as guilty do I choose myself absolutely, if my absolute choice of myself is to be made in such a way that it is not identical with creating myself; and though it were the iniquity of the father which passed by inheritance to the son, he repents of this as well, for only thus can he choose himself, choose himself absolutely; and though tears were almost to blot out everything, he holds on to repentance, for only thus can he choose himself, ^iis self is, as it were, outside of him, and it has to be acquired, and repentance is his love for this self, because he chooses it absolutely out of the hand of the eternal God.)
/ What I have stated here is not professorial wisdom, it is something every man can, state who wills to do so, and which every man can will to do if he will/ 1 have not learned it in lecture rooms, I have learned it in the drawing room, or in the nursery, if you will, for when I see my small son running about the room, so joyful, so happy, I then think, “Who knows if after all I have not had an injurious influence upon him. God knows I take all possible care of- him, but this thought does not tranquilize me.” Then I say to myself, /‘There will come a moment in his life when his spirit will be ripened by the instant of choice, then he will choose himself, then also he will repent what guilt of mine may rest upon him. And it is a beautiful thing for a son to repent his father’s fault, and yet he will not do this for my sake but because he only thus can choose himself.- So come what may, that which one regards as the best may after all have the most injurious consequences for a person, and yet all this is nothing. I can be of much use to him, that I shall endeavor to do, but the highest thing he alone can do for himself.” Here is the

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reason why it is so painful for men to choose themselves, it is because absolute isolation is in this case identical with the profoundest con- tinuity, because so long as one has not chosen oneself there is, as it were, .thje possibility of being somewhat different either in one way or another.
Here you have my humble opinion about what it is to choose and to repent. It is unseemly to love a young girl as if she were one’s mother, or to love one’s mother as though she were a young girl. Every kind of love has its distinct characteristic love for God has its absolute characteristic, its expression is repentance^ And what is all other love in comparison with this ? It is only childish prattle in this contrast. I am not a fantastic youth who seeks to recommend his theories, I am a married man, I dare let my wife hear me say that all love in comparison with repentance is only childish prattle; and yet I know that I am a proper husband, “I who as a married man still fight under the triumphant banner of first love”; I know that she shares my view, and therefore, I love her even more dearly, and therefore, I would not love that young girl we spoke about, because she did not share this view.
That new paths, devious and dangerous, present themselves at this point, that he who creeps upon the ground is not so much exposed to the danger of falling as is he who climbs to the mountain summit, that he who remains in the chimney corner is less liable to go astray than is he who ventures out into the world, all this I know, but for all that I hold no less confidently to my choice.
Here a theologian will discover a point of departure for manifold reflections. I will not go into them further since I am only a layman. I will pnly try to illuminate the foregoing discussion by the observation that,in Christianity repentance found for the first time its true expres- sion. The pious Jew felt the iniquity of the fathers resting upon him, and yet he did not feel this nearly so deeply as the Christian, for the pious Jew could not repent it, because he could not absolutely choose himself. The guilt of his forefathers weighed upon him, brooded over him , he sank under this burden, he sighed, but he could not lift it; that he only can do who absolutely chooses himself through repentance. The greater the freedom the greater the guiltj and this is one of the secrets of blessed- ness, and if it be not cowardice' it is at least faint-heartedness not to be willing to repent the guilt of the forefathers; if not paltriness, it is at least pettiness and lack of magnanimity.
So then the choice of despair is “my self”— for though when I despair it is true that, among all the other things I despair of, I despair also of myself, yet this self of which I despair is a finite thing like every other

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finitude, whereas the self I choose is the absolute self, or myself accord- ing to its absolute validity.' Such being the case, you will see again in v this instance why I said in the foregoing and continue to say that the either/or I posited between living aesthetically and living ethically is hot a complete dilemma because it properly has to do with only one object of choice, since in this choice I am not really choosing between good and evil but I choose the good, but in the fact that I choose the good I make eo ipso the choice between good and evil. The original choice is constantly present in every subsequent choice.^/
So, then I bid you despair, and never more will your frivolity cause you to wander like an umjiiiet spirit, like a ghost, amid the ruins of a world which to you is lost. Despair, and never more will your spirit sigh in melancholy, for again the world will become beautiful to you and joyful, although you see it with different eyes than before, and your liberated spirit will soar up into the world of freedom.
Here I might break off, for I have now brought you to the point where I would have you, that is, if you yourself will to be there. I wanted you to tear yourself loose from the illusions of the aesthetic life and awake from a dream of half despair to the earnestness of the spirit. It is not my intention, however, to break off, for from this point of vantage I would give you a reflection upon life, an ethical life view. It is but a frugal gift I offer you, partly because my talent is not adequate to the task, partly because frugality is a prime characteristic of everything ethical, a characteristic which may seem strange to one who comes from the abundance of the aesthetical. Here it is in pomt to say, nil ad osten- tationem, omnia ad conscicntiam. For still another reason it might seem precarious to break off here, because it might easily appear as if I ended in a sort of quietism where the personality comes to repose with the same necessity as thought comes to repose in the absolute. What, then, would be the advantage of having gained oneself? What is the advan- tage of procuring a sword which is able to conquer the whole world if one were to make no other use of it but to thrust it into the scabbard ?
But before I go on to set forth more in detail such an ethical view of life I would indicate in a few words the danger which lies before a man at the instant of despair, the ledge upon which he may run aground and be totally shipwrecked. The Scripture says: “What would it profit a man if he were to gain the whole world and suffer damage to his soul P 15 What compensation would he have?” The converse of this is not expressly stated in the Scripture but it is implied m this sentence. It would read thus: what harm would it do a man if he were to

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lose the whole world and yet receive no damage to his soul? What compensation would he need? There are expressions which in them- selves seem simple and yet fill the soul with an uncanny dread because they become almost more obscure the more one thinks over them. With respect to religion the sin against the Holy Ghost is such an expression. I do not know if the theologians have succeeded in giving a precise explanation of this; I do not count myself capable of doing so, but then I am only a layman. On the other hand, the expression, “suffer damage to one’s soul,” is an ethical expression, and he whp pretends to have an ethical life view must be supposed to have an explanation of it. One often hears this saying used, and yet every man who would under- stand it must have experienced profound emotions in his soul, yea, he must have been m despair, for it is properly the movements of despair which are described here: on the one side the whole world; on the other side one’s own soul. You will easily see that by following up this expres- sion one reaches the same abstract definition of “soul” which was reached earlier as the definition of the “self” when we were considermg the fact that wishing does not imply wanting to be another person. For if I may gain the whole world and yet suffer damage to my soul, then the expression “whole world” must comprise all the finite things of which I, as such, am immediately in possession. My soul appears, then, to be indifferent to these things. If I lose the whole world without suffer- ing damage to my soul, then again the expression “whole world” com- prises all the determinants which I as such immediately~have, and yet my soul is unharmed, and so it is indifferent to them^I may lose my wealth, my honor in the eyes of others, my intellectual powers, and suffer no damage to my soul. What then is my soul ? What is this inmost being of mine whiqh can remain unaffected by this loss and suffer damage by this gain? ;
Before the eyes of the despairing man this movement is manifest, it is no rhetorical expression but the only adequate one, when on the one side he secs the whole world, and on the other side his self, his soul. In the instant of despair this v distinction is manifest, and then all depends upon how a man despairs) For, as I have expounded this in a previous passage dealing with every aesthetical view of life, it is despair to gain the whole world, and to gain it in such a way that one suffers damage to one’s soul, and yet it is my sincere conviction that it is a man’s true salvation to despair. Here again is manifest the importance of w illin g one’s despair, of willing it in an infinite sense, in an absolute sense, for such a willing is identical with the absolute resignation. If on the other

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hand I will in a finite sense, then I suffer damage to my soul, for then my inmost being does not undergo its transformation in despair; on the contrary it shuts itself up, it is hardened, so that finally despair is obduracy, whereas the absolute despair is an experience which irifini- tizes. So when in my despair I gain the whole world I suffer damage to my soul for the fact that I finitize myself by living for it; when I despair at having lost the whole world I suffer damage to my soul, for I finitize it in quite the same way, since here again I regard my soul as posited by finiteness. That a man by his crimes can gain the whole world and yet suffer damage to his soul goes without saying, but there is a seemingly far more innocent way by which this may come about. Hence, I said that the young girl we spoke about was just as much in despair whether she got the man she loved or not.
Every finite despair is a choice of finiteness, for I choose it just as really when I lose it as when I gain it; whether I shall obtain it does not depend upon my power, but whether I choose it does. The finite despair is, therefore, an unfree despair, it does not really will to be in despair, it wills to possess fimtude, but to will this is despair. Upon this narrow point a man may maintain his position, and so long as he holds himself there I cannot quite resolve to venture to declare that he has suffered damage to his soul. He is standing upon an exceedingly dangerous point. Every instant there is a possibility of danger. Despair is there, but it has not yet attacked his inmost being, only when in a finite sense he hardens himself in despair has he suffered damage to his soul. His soul is, as it were, anaesthetized by despair, and only when upon awakening he chooses a finite way out of despair has he suffered damage to his soul, for then he has shut himself up, then his rational soul is smothered and he is transformed into a beast of prey which will shun no expedient because all is self-defense. There is a horrible dread suggested by this thought that a man has suffered damage to his soul, and yet every one who has despaired will have had a presentiment of this false way, this way of perdition. That a man may thus suffer damage to his soul is certain; how far such is the case with the particular individual can never be determined, and let no man venture on this point to judge another. A man’s life may appear strange, and one may be tempted to believe that such is the case with him, and yet he may possess an entirely different interpretation which assures him of the contrary. On the other hand, he may have suffered damage to his soul without anybody suspecting it, for the damage does not he in the outward semblance, it lies in man’s in- most being, it is like the decay which dwells in the heart of the fruit

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while the outward appearance may be pleasant to look upon, it^is like the hollowness of the nut of which the shell gives no intimation. ^
So when you choose yourself absolutely you easily discover that this self is not an abstraction or a tautology; at the most it may seem so at the moment of orientation in which one is employed in separating until one finds the most abstract expression for the self, and yet for all that it is an illusion to suppose that the self is entirely abstract and empty, for it is not conscious simply of freedom in general, as thought might conceive it, but it was produced by a choice, and is conscious of this definite free being who is himself and no other.flThis self contains a rich concretion, a manifold variety of determinants4nd characteristics, being the whole aesthetical self which is chosen ethically. Therefore, the deeper down you go into yourself, the more you will feel the signifi- cance even of insignificance (not in a finite but in an infinite sense) because it is posited by you, and when a man thus chooses himself in an ethical sense this does not mean merely a reflection about himself, but one might characterize this act by recalling the passage of Scripture which speaks of giving an account for every idle word. For when the passion of freedom is aroused, the self is jealous of itself and will by no means allow it to remain undetermined what belongs to it and what does not/Hence, in the first instant of choice the personality issues forth apparently as naked as does a child from the body of its mother, the next instant it is concrete in itself and only by an arbitrary abstraction can it come to pass that a man is able to remain at this point. He be- comes himself, quite the same self he was before, and yet he becomes another, for the choice permeates everything and transforms it. Thus his finite personality is infinitized by the choice whereby he infinitely chooses himself.
Now he is in possession of his self as posited by himself, that is, as chosen by himself, as free; but in the fact that he thus pos- sesses himself there comes to evidence an absolute difference, the difference between good and evil. So long as he has not chosen himself this difference is latent. How is it possible at all that the difference between good and evil emerges ? Is it something we can think, that is to say, is it an affair for thought ? No. With this I have again reached the point where we were in the foregoing discussion when I raised the question why it could seem as if philosophy had abolished the principle of contradiction 10 when as a matter of fact it had not got so far as that. In the act of thinking, my relation to the thing thought is one of neces- sity, but precisely for this reason the difference between good and evil

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does not exist.y Think anything you will, think the most abstract of all categories, think the most concrete, you never think under the rubric of good and evil; think the whole of history, and you think the neces- sary movements of ideas, but you never think under the rubric of good and evik You are constantly thinking relative differences, never the absolute difference. As I see it, therefore, one can readily concede to philosophy that it cannot think an absolute contradiction, but it by no means follows from this that such a contradiction does not exist. In thinking I mfinitize myself too, but not absolutely, for I disappear in the absolute. Only when I absolutely choose myself do I mfinitize my- self absolutely, for I myself am the absolute, for only myself can I choose absolutely, and this absolute choice of myself is my freedom, and only when I have absolutely chosen myself have I posited an absolute differ- ence, the difference, that is to say, between good and evil.
In order to abolish the factor of self-determination in thinking philos- ophy says, “The absolute is for the fact that I think it,” but since philosophy itself perceives that by this way of expressing it free think- mg is indicated, not the necessary thinking it is wont to extol, it substi- tutes in place of this another expression, to wit, that my thinking of the absolute is the self-thinking of the absolute in me: This expression is by no means identical with the foregoing, but it is exceedingly significant, nevertheless; For it represents that my thought is a constituent factor of the absolute, and this implies the necessity of my thinking, it implies the necessity which obliges me to thmk this thought. Such is not the case with the good. The good is for the fact that I will it, and apart from my willing it it has no existence. This is the expression for freedom. It is so also with evil, it is only when I will it. By this the distinctive notes of good and evil are by no means belittled or disparaged as merely sub- jective distinctions^ On the contrary, the absolute validity of these dis- tinctions is affirmed. ( The good is the an-und-jur-stch-Seiende posited by the an-und-fur-sich^Setende, and this is freedom.
It might seem as though with doubtful propriety I use the expression, “to choose oneself absolutely,” for this might seem to imply that with the same absoluteness I choose both good and evil and that with the same necessity both good and evil belong to me. In order to prevent this misunderstanding I use the expression that I “repent myself out of the whole of existence.” For repentance is the expression for the fact that evil belongs to me necessarily, and at the same time the expression for the fact that it does not necessarily belong to me. If the evil in me did not belong to me essentially, I could not choose it, but if there were

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something in me which I could not choose absolutely, I would not be able to choose myself absolutely at all, so I would not myself be the absolute but only a product.
Here I will bring these inflections to an end in order to show how an ethical view of life regards personality and life and their significance. For regularity’s sake I will return to a few observations which were made at an earlier point with regard to the relation between the aesthet- ical and the ethical.' Every aesthetical life view is despair, it was said. This was attributed to the fact that it was built upon what may be and may not be. Such is not the case with the ethical life view, for it builds upon what essentially belongs to being. The aesthetical, it was said, is that in a man whereby he immediately is the man he is; the ethical is that whereby a man becomes what he becomes^By this I do not intend to say that the man who lives aesthetically dbes not develop, but he develops by necessity not by freedom, no metamorphosis takes place in him, no infinite movement whereby he reaches the point from whence he becomes what he becomes.
When an individual regards his self aesthetically he becomes con- scious of this self as a manifold concretion very variously characterized; but in spite of the inward diversity, all of it taken together is, neverthe- less, his nature, each component has just as much right to assert itself, just as much right to demand satisfaction. His soul is like a plot of ground in which all sorts of herbs are planted, all with the same claim to thrive; his self consists of this multifariousness, and he has no self which is higher than this, If, then, he has the aesthetic seriousness you talk about so often and a little worldly wisdom, he will see that all cannot possibly thrive equally, so he will choose, and what determines his choice is a more or less, which is a relative difference. So let us imagine that a man might live without coming in contact with the ethical; he would then be able to say, “I have a bent to be a Don Juan, a Faust, or a robber chieftain; this bent I must cultivate, for the aesthetical seriousness requires that I become something definite, that I permit the germ deposited in me to develop completely.” Such a view of the per- sonality and its development would be perfectly correct aesthetically. You see from this what an aesthetic development means, it is a develop- ment like that of the plant, and although the individual becomes, he becomes what he immediately is. He who regards personality ethically is at once in possession of an absolute difference, viz., that between good and evil, and if in himself he finds more of the evil than of the good, this does not mean that the evil is what is to come forth, but it means

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that the evil is to be repressed and the good is to come forth. So when the individual develops ethically he becomes that which he becomes; for even when he allows the aesthetical within him to possess validity (which for him has not at all the same meaning as for the man who lives aesthetically) it is nevertheless dethroned . )
Even the aesthetic seriousness, like seriousness of every sort, is profitable to a man, but it can never save him completely. To a certain extent this is true in your case, I believe; for just as the ideal has always done you harm for the fact that you have stared yourself blind in gaz- ing at it, so also it has been profitable to you, inasmuch as the bad ideal has always exercised a repellent effect upon you. Of course your aesthetic seriousness cannot cure you, for you never get further than letting the bad alone for the reason that it cannot be ideally carried out, but you do not let it alone because it is bad or because you abhor it. You have not got further than the feeling that you are just as impotent with relation to the good as with relation to the evil. Moreover, evil never exercises, perhaps, a more seductive influence than when it makes its appearance in an aesthetic guise. It requires a very high degree of seriousness never to be willing to construe evil under aesthetical categories. Such a con- ception of it sneaks cunningly into every man, and the predominant aesthetical culture of our age is in no small measure contributory to this. Hence, one hears not infrequently even a moralizer inveigh against evil in a way which makes it evident that the orator, although he extols the good, takes satisfaction, nevertheless, in the thought that he might have been the most intriguing and crafty of men but had disdained this possibility in comparison with being a good man. Yet this betrays a secret weakness and shows that the difference between good and evil does not stand out clearly before him in all its seriousness. After all, there is so much good left in every man that, while he feels that to be a good man is the highest thing, yet for the sake of having some little mark of distinction from the common herd he demands a high degree of appreciation for the fact that he who had so many qualifications for becoming bad had nevertheless become good. Just as if having many qualifications for becoming bad were a merit, and just as if by dwelling upon these qualifications he did not show a predilection for them.
So, too, one often finds men who really in their inmost heart are good but have not the courage to acknowledge it because they would thereby come under categories which they account too trivial. These men also recognize the good as the highest, but they have not the courage to own that evil is what it is. One also hears people say very often, “That was a

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poor ending to the story,” and as a rule one can be sure that what is in this way hailed and advertised is the ethical. When, in whatever way it may be, a man has become an enigma to other men, and then there is an explanation and it turns out that he was not, as people hoped and delighted to think, a sly and crafty deceiver, but is a good-natured and worthy man, then they say, “Nothing but that! Was that all?” Yes, verily, it requires much ethical courage to acknowledge the good as the highest, because thereby one falls under perfectly general categories. To that people stoutly object, they would like to have for themselves the distinction of difference. For every one can be a good man who wills it, but it always requires talent to be bad.(Hence, many would like to be philosophers, not Christians, for to be a philosopher talent is required, to be a Christian humility, and that every one can have who wills it) What I say here you are well able to take to heart, for in your inmost nature you are not a bad man. Now do not be angry with me; I have no intention of offending you; you know that I have had to make a virtue of necessity, and as I have not your talents I must try to hold in some honor the thing of being a good man.
In our time they have sought also in other ways to enervate the ethical view of life. For although they find diat the business of being a good man is a pretty poor career in life, they nevertheless, retain a certain respect for it and are disquieted when they see its claim asserted. I do not mean, of course, that a man should make display of his virtue and flaunt before the eyes of everybody the fact that he is a good man; but on the other hand, neither should he take pains to hide it or fear to acknowledge his effort to be good. If he does acknowledge it, they will at once raise against him the cry that he wants to make himself im- portant, wants to make out that he is better than others, they unite in the same flippant expression: “Let us be men . 17 Before God we are all miser- able sinners.” I do not need to tell you this, but I do need to warn you against far too much activity into which your mockery often carries you. It is quite natural, therefore, that in the modern drama the bad is always represented by the most shining talents; the good, the upright, by a grocer’s clerk . 18 The spectators find this a matter of course and learn from the play what they knew beforehand, that it is far beneath their dignity to be put in the same class with a grocer’s clerk. Yes, my young friend, it requires much ethical courage not to wish to be distinguished by differences but to be content with the universal. In this respect our age needs a thorough shaking-up — which also will not tarry, for there surely will come the instant when our age will have a chance to see how

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the individuals most distinguished in an aesthetic sense, being singled out by differences, are in despair over these differences and want to find the universal. That may be good for us little people, inasmuch as we, too, sometimes feel embarrassed at not being distinguished by differ- ences because we are too insignificant for that...and not because we have been great enough to disdain them. sS Every man who lives aesthetically has for this reason a secret terror at the thought of despair, for he knows very well that what is brought forth by despair is the universal, and he knows also that it is the differ- ences which make him what he is. The higher an mdividual stands, the more differences he has annihilated or despaired over, but he always has one difference left which he is not willing to annihilate, that, namely, in which his life consists. It is remarkable how even the sim- plest men discover with admirable promptitude what might be called their aesthetic difference, however unimportant it may be; and one of the pitiful things in life is the foolish strife commonly carried on to determine which difference is more significant than the other. The aesthetic minds also express their aversion to despair by saying that it is a sudden break. This expression is quite correct on the assumption that life’s development ought to consist in the necessary unfolding of the immediate. If this is not the case, despair is no break but a transfigura- tion. Only the man who despairs over something in particular suffers a break, but that is due precisely to the fact that he does not fully despair. Aestheticists are also afraid that life will lose the diverting multifarious- ness it possesses as long as it is so conceived that every single individual is living under aesthetic categories. This, again, is a misunderstanding, occasioned, it may be, by various rigoristic theories.^ By despair nothing is destroyed, all of the aesthetical remains in a man~only it is reduced to a ministering role and thereby precisely is preserved. Yes, it is true that one does not live in it as before, but from this it by no means follows that it has been lost; it may perhaps be employed in a different way, but from this it by no means follows that it is gone. The ethicist simply carries through the despair which the higher aestheticist began but arbitrarily broke off; for however great the differences may be, they are only relative. And when the aetheticist himself admits that even the difference which lends significance to his life is transitory and yet adds that it is always best to take delight in it so long as one has it, this is really cowardice which loves a certain sort of snugness where it is not too high to reach the ceilmg, and this is unworthy of a man. It is as though a man were to take delight in a relationship based on a misun-

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derstanding which sooner or later must come to light and had not courage to become conscious of it or to admit it but would enjoy the relationship as long as possible. You, however, are not in this case, but you are like one who has admitted the misunderstandmg, broken off the relationship, and yet would now be constantly taking leave of it.
(The aesthetic view takes account of the personality in its relation to the environment, and the expression for this relation in its repercussion upon the individual is pleasure. But the aesthetic expression for pleasure in its relation to the individual is mood. In mood the personality is present but only dimly present. For he who lives aesthetically seeks as far as possible to be absorbed in mood, he seeks to hide himself entirely in it, so that there remains nothing in him which cannot be inflected into it; for such a remainder has always a disturbing effect, it is a con- tinuity which would hold him back. The more the personality dis- appears in the twilight of mood, so much the more is the individual in the moment, and this, again, is the most adequate expression for the aesthetic existence: it is in the moment^ Hence the prodigious oscilla- tions to which the man who lives aesthetically is exposed^He, too, who lives ethically experiences mood, but for him this is not the highest experiences because he has infinitely chosen himself he sees the mood below him!) The remainder which will not “go into” mood is precisely the continuity which is to him the highest thing. He who lives ethically has (if I may recall an earlier expression) memory of his life — and he who lives aesthetically has not.^e who lives ethically does not anni- hilate mood, he takes it for an instant into consideration, but this instant saves him from living in the moment, this instant gives him mastery over the lust for pleasure, for the art of mastering lust consists not so much^in annihilating it, or entirely renouncmg it, as in deter mining the instant} Take whatever lust you will, the secret of it, the power m it, consists in the fact that it is absolutely in the moment. One often hears people say that the only remedy is for one to abstain from it entirely. This is a very wrong method, which also can be successful only for a short time/llmagine a man who is addicted to gambling. Lust awakens with all its passion, it is as if his life were in jeopardy if the lust were not satisfied. He is capable of saying to himself, “This instant I will not do it, in an hour I will.” Then he is cured. This hour is the continuity which saves him. When a man lives aesthetically his mood is always eccentric because he has his center in the periphery. Personality has its center within itself, and he who has not his self is eccentric. When a man lives ethically his mood is centralized, he is not moody, he is not in a mood,

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but he has mood and he has mood in himself. What he labors for is continuity, and this is always master over mood. His life does lack mood, yea, it has a total mood, but this is acquired, it is what one might call aequale temperamentum , 1B but this is no aesthetic mood, and no ope has it by nature or immediately.
, But he who has now infinitely chosen himself — can he say, “Now I possess myself, I require nothing more, and to all the changes of the world I oppose the proud thought: I am the man I am?” By no manner of means! In case a man were to express himself thus he would easily isee that he was on a wrong path. The fundamental error would, in that case, too, lie in the fact that in the strictest sense he had not chosen himself. He had chosen himself maybe, but outside himself. He had interpreted quite abstractly what it is to choose and had not grasped himself in his concretion, he had not chosen in such a way that by the choice he became himself, became invested with his self; he had chosen himself from necessity, not with freedom; aesthetically he had taken in vain the ethical choice. The more significant the result which is to issue from the choice, the more dangerous are the byways, and here there appears a dreadful byway. When the individual has grasped himself in his eternal validity this overwhelms him by its fullness. The temporal vanishes from before his eyes. At the first instant this fills him with indescribable bliss and gives him a sense of absolute security. If then he begins to gaze upon this bliss, the temporal advances its claim. This is scorned. What the temporal can give, the more or the less which now presents itself, is so very unimportant in comparison with what he eternally possesses. Everything comes- with him to a standstill, he has, as it were, reached eternity before the time. He relapses into contempla- tion, he gazes at himself, but this gaze cannot fill up the time. Then it appears to him that time,” that the temporal, is his ruin; he demands a more perfect form of existence, and at this point there comes to evidence a fatigue, an apathy, which resembles the languor which is the attend- ant of pleasure. This apathy may rest so broodingly upon a man that suicide appears to him the only way of escape. No power can wrest from him his self, the only power is time, but neither can that wrest from him his self; it checks him and delays, it arrests the embrace of the spirit with which he grasps his self. He has not chosen himself, like Narcissus he has fallen in love withjiimself. Such a situation has certainly ended not infrequendy in suicide. ,
(jThe error lies in die fact that he has not chosen in the right way, not simply in the sense that he had no eye for his error,

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but that he has seen himself under the category of necessity — himself, this personality, with all these manifold characteristics, he has seen as part and parcel of the world-process, he has seen this self con- fronted by the eternal power the fire of which pervades it without consuming it . 80 But he has not seen himself in his freedom, has not chosen himself with freedom. If he does that, then the very instant he chooses himself he is in motion; concrete as his self is, he has neverthe- less chosen himself in accordance with his possibility, in repentance he has ransomed himself for the sake of remaining in his freedom, but he can remain in his freedom only by constantly realizing it. He, therefore, who has chosen himself is eo ipso active.)
This perhaps may be the place to mention a life view in which you take a high degree of pleasure, especially in your quality as Docent, sometimes as practitioner .(it comes to nothing less than that sorrow is, after all, the real meaning of life and to be the unhappiest man is to be the happiest . 21 At first glance this view does not seem to be an aesthetic life view, for pleasure can hardly be the solution it offers. Neither is it ethical, however, but it has its place in the perilous transition from the aesthetical to the ethical, when the soul is so easily ensnared by one expression or another of the theory of predestination^ You hold many false doctrines; this is nearly the worst, but you know also that it is the most serviceable when it is a question of stealing up to men and sucking them into your power. You can be as heardess as anybody, you can make jest of everything, even of a man’s pain. You are not unaware that this is tempting to youth, yet in the end you put yourself by this conduct at a considerable distance from the young, for such behavior is just as re- pellent as it is attractive. If it is a young woman you would deceive in this way, it does not escape you that a womanly soul has too much depth to be captivated long by such devices; yea, even though for a moment you have engaged her attention, yet it soon will end by her getting tired of the thing and almost conceiving an aversion for you, for her soul does not require such stimulants. Then the method is changed; by a single enigmatic outburst which only she can understand you suggest a pre- sentiment of a far away melancholy, leaving it to her imagination to picture the deep sadness which you hide profoundly within you. You are shrewd, one cannot deny that, and true it is as a young girl said of you, that you would end presumably by becoming a Jesuit. The more cunningly you know how to spin the thread which leads deeper and deeper into the secret places of melancholy, the more joyful you are, the more sure of drawing her to you. You do not make long speeches, you

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do not proclaim your pain by a faithful grasp of the hand, by “a ro- mantic gaze into a kindred soul’s romantic eyes”; you are too shrewd for that. You shun witnesses and rarely allow yourself to be taken off your guard. There is an age when no poison is more dangerous to a young girl than sadness; that you know, and in itself this knowledge, like every sort of knowledge, may be all right, but on the other hand, the use you make of it I shall not praise.
Since you have hardened your mind to construe the whole of existence under aesthetic categories, it is a matter of course that sorrow has not escaped your attention, for in itself it is as interesting as joy. The tenacity with which you hold on to the interesting wherever it is to be found gives constant occasion to your companions to misunderstand you and at one moment to regard you as absolutely heartless, at another as a good-natured man, whereas, in fact, you are neither. Such a misunder- standing may even be occasioned by the fact that one quite as often sees you seeking out sorrow as attending upon joy — if, be it noted, there is in sorrow as well as in joy an idea, for only by that is the aesthetic interest awakened. If you could be light-minded enough to make a per- son unhappy, you might give occasion to the strangest delusion. Unlike others who faithlessly are seeking only for joy, you would not retire then and pursue joy along other paths; no, sorrow exhibited in the same individual would become even more interesting to you than joy, you would remain with the man, you would be absorbed in his sorrow. You have experience, inwardness, the power of words, the pathos of tragedy, you know how to proffer to the afflicted the only assuagement sorrow yearns for — the expression. You delight in seeing how the sor- rower finds repose in the string-music of mood when you are the per- former; you soon become indispensable to him, for your expressive rendering lifts him up above the dark waves of care. He, on the other hand, is not indispensable to you, and soon you are tired. For to you it is not merely joy which
Is like a fleeting friend
One meets upon die road, 2 '*
but it is sorrow too, since you are a traveler always on the road. So when you have comforted the sorrower, and as a compensation have distilled the interesting out of this experience, you leap into your carriage and shout, “Away!” If the question is asked, “Whither?” you respond like the hero Don Juan, “To pleasure and merriment .” 23 For you are weary of sorrow, and your soul craves the opposite.

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You do not really behave quite so badly as I have described; I will not deny that you often take a genuine interest in the afflicted person, that you really want to heal him and win him back to joy. Then, as you say, you strain like a mettlesome steed to work him out of the snares of sorrow, you spare neither time nor strength, and once in a while you succeed. Even then I cannot praise you, for under all this something is concealed. In fact, you are jealous of sorrow, you cannot bear to think that anybody else has sorrow, or has a sorrow which it might not be possible to overcome. So when you heal the afflicted you enjoy the satis- faction of saying to yourself, “But my sorrow no one can heal.” That is the result. Whether you are seeking the distraction of joy or of sorrow you always keep m mente, have firmly fixed in your soul, that there is one sorrow which cannot be relieved.
So I have reached the point where you affirm that the meaning of life is sorrow. The whole more recent development is characterized by the fact that people have a greater inclination to be sorrowful than to be joyful. This is regarded as a higher view of life — and it is too, in the sense that to want to be joyful is natural, the other unnatural. And there is the further consideration that being joyful does, after all, impose upon the individual a certain obligation to be thankful, even if his thoughts are so confused that he doesn’t quite know whom to thank; sorrow exempts one from that, and so vanity is all the more contentvjOur age, moreover, has in so many ways had experience of the vanity of life that it does not believe in joy, and so to have something to believe in, it believes in sorrow. Joy, it says, passes away but sorrow lasts, and there- fore, he who constructs his view of life upon this builds upon solid ground)
If we inquire now more expressly what sort of a sorrow it is you talk about, you are shrewd enough to evade the ethical sorrow. It is not repentance you mean; no, it is aesthetic sorrow, especially reflective sorrow. That has its ground not in guilt but in misfortune, in fate, in a sad disposition, in the effect others produce, etc. All of that is what you know very well from romances. If you read it in books, you laugh at it; if you hear others speak of it, you mock them; but when you yourself hold forth on this theme, there is sense in it, you think, and truth.
Now the view which takes sorrow to be the meaning of life might in itself seem sorry enough, yet I cannot refrain from pointing out one aspect which perhaps you did not expect to hear mentioned: that it is a disconsolate view. I say here again, as I said before, that in the same sense that joy passes away, so also does sorrow. This is something I do

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not need to tell you, for you can learn it from your master Scribe, 2 * the famous French playwright, who has often derided the sentimentality which believes in an eternal sorrow. He who says that sorrow is the meaning of life has joy outside him in the same way that he who would be joyful has sorrow outside him. Joy may take him by surprise in exactly the same way that sorrow may take the other by surprise. (His life view thus hinges upon a condition which is not in his power, for it is really just as little in a man’s power to give up being joyful as to give up being sorrowful. But ey.ery life view which hinges upon a con- dition outside itself is despauyAnd so, wanting to sorrow is despair in exactly the same sense as wanuftg to be joyful, since it always is despair to have one’s life dependent upon that which may pass aw ayT jBe there- fore as shrewd and as inventive as you will, frighten joy away by a tearful exterior, or, if you prefer, deceive it by your exterior in order to conceal your sorrow, joy is able nevertheless to take you by surprise; for time devours the children of time , 26 and such a sorrow is one of time’s children, and the eternity it falsely pretends to is a deceit.
The deeper the reason for sorrow, the more plausible it may seem that it might be possible to preserve it for a whole lifetime, yea, that one had no need to do anything, but that it would remain as a matter of course. If it is sorrow for a particular occurrence, it will appear indeed very difficult to preserve it. That you perceive clearly enough, and there- fore, when you would express yourself about the significance of sorrow for the whole life you think more especially of unfortunate individuali- ties and tragic heroes. The whole disposition of the unfortunate indi- vidual is characterized by the fact that he cannot become happy or joyful, there broods over him a fate, as there does over the tragic hero. .Here, then, it is quite in place to say that sorrow is the meaning of life, and here we have reached an out and out fatalism, which always has something seductive about it. Here you put forward your pretension which amounts to neither more nor less than that you are the most unfortunate man. And yet it is undeniable that this is the proudest and most defiant thought that can arise in the brain of a man.;
' Let me make answer to you as you deserve. First of all, you do not sorrow. That you know full well, for it is your favorite expression that the unhappiest man is the happiest. But this is a falsehood more dread- ful than any other, it is a falsehood which turns against the eternal Power which governs the world, it is a rebellion against God, like laughing when one ought to weep, and yet there is a despair which is capable of this, there is a despair which sets at naught even God Him-

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self. But this is also treason against the human race. It is true you too make a distinction, but still you think that there is to be distinguished a sorrow so great that it is impossible to bear it. But if there exists such a sorrow, it is not for you to determine which it is, the one distinction is as good as the other, and you have betrayed man’s most sacred right and the grace he relies upom) There is a treason against greatness, a base envy, which affirms substantially that the great men have not been tested by the most perilous temptations, that they have slipped easily into their honors, and that they too would have succumbed if the super- human temptation you talk about had come upon them. And is it thus you think to honor greatness...by belittling it? thus you propose to bear witness to it...by denying it?
Now do not misunderstand me. I am not the sort of person who thinks that one has no business to sorrow; I despise that petty common sense, and if I have a vote in this matter, I choose sorrow ^No, I am well aware that it is beautiful to sorrow, that there is sense in tears, but I know too that a man should not sorrow as one without hope.,'Between us two there is an absolute opposition which cannot be resolved. I am unable to live under aesthetic determinants, I feel that with this the things I hold most sacred perish, I require a higher expression, and the ethical gives me that. And here it is that sorrow receives its true and profound significance: Be not shocked by what I am about to say, be not amazed that when I speak of a sorrow which heroes can scarcely bear I talk of children. It is a mark of a well behaved child that it is disposed to ask permission without taking too much into account whether it may reasonably assume a right to do the thing, and so too it is a mark of a magnanimous man, of a profound soul, that he is disposed to repent, that he does not take the matter up legally with God but repents and loves God in his repentance. Without this his life is nothing, merely froth upon water. Yea, I assure you that though without fault of mine my life were so fraught with sorrow and suffering that I might call myself the greatest tragic hero, take delight in my pain, and appal the world by reciting it, my choice is jnade, I divest myself of the hero’s dress and the pathos of tragedyil am not the sorrower who can be proud of his sufferings, I am the Humbled man, conscious of m/ guilt, I have only one expression for what I suffer...guilt, one expression for my pain...repentance, one hope before my eyes...forgiveness, and if I find this difficult, ah, I have only one prayer, I would cast myself upon the ground and implore of the eternal Power who guides die world one boon, that sooner or later it might be granted me to repenyFor I know

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only one sorrow which could bring me to despair and with that hurl down all things, the sorrow of discovering that repentance was a delu- sion, not a delusion with respect to forgiveness but with respect to the accountability forgiveness implies.
And do you think that by treating it thus I do not give sorrow its due, that I run away from sorrow? By no manner of means! I deposit it in my very being, and therefore, never forget it. It is nothing but disbelief in the competency of spirit if I do not dare to believe that I can possess something within me without looking at it every instant. Ordinarily what one would treasure most securely one deposits in a place where one does not go every day, and so it is too in a spiritual sense. I have sorrow within me, and I know that it will continue to be a part of my being, I know this far more surely than does he who for dread of losing it takes it out every day. Never has my life been so tumultuous that I have felt tempted by the wish to confound chaotically the whole of existence, but in my every-day life I have often realized how profitable it is to give sorrow an ethical expression — notto obliterate the aesthetical factor in sorrow but to master it ethically. So long as sorrow is quiet and humble I do not fear it; if it becomes vehement and passionate, becomes sophis- tical and beguiles me into despondency ,'yhen I arise, I brook no rebel- lion, I will not suffer anything in the world to trickme out of that which I have received from God’s hand as a gift of grace; I do not chase sorrow away, do not seek to forget it, but I repent. And even if sorrow is of such a sort that I myself am not to blame for it, I repent of letting it acquire power over me, I repent that I did not at once carry it to God, and if this had been done, it would have had no power to beguile me. ;
Forgive me for speaking here again about children. When a child begins to whimper and is not content with either this or that, then people say, “I will give you something to cry about,” and this is ac- counted an excellent method. So it is with me, for even when one has reached maturity one always retains something of the child. So when I whimper I say to myself, “You wifi get something to cry about,” and then I undergo a transformation/And this I can assure you is very salutary for a man, for the tears an aesthetic sorrower sheds in behalf of himself are hypocritical tears and bear no fruit, but to feel oneself guilty is truly something to cry about, and in the tears of repentance there is an eternal benediction, When the Saviour went up to Jerusalem and wept over the great city it is possible that He might have moved it also to weep with Him; but if it had been aesthetic tears the city shed, it would have been of little avail, and yet surely the world has not seen man y

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tragedies like that which was in store for the chosen people. If they had been tears of repentance, yes, then there would have been substance in them, and yet in this case it was a question of repenting more than one’s own guilt, for it was not the generation then living which alone was guilty, it was the iniquity of the fathers which rested upon them. And here repentance is revealed in its deeper significance, for while in a sense it isolates me, in another way it unites me with the whole race, for my life does not begin in time with nothing, and if I cannot repent the past, freedom is a dream.
You now perceive, perhaps, why I deal with this life view. Personality is here again viewed under the category of necessity, and only so much freedom is left that like a restless dream it is able to keep the individual half awake and lead him astray in the labyrinth of sufferings and fateful dispensations where he everywhere beholds himself and yet cannot come to himself. It is incredible how frivolously one often sees such a problem treated! Even systematic thinkers treat it as a natural phenomenon which they can only describe and have nothing more to say— without ever reflecting that if there were such a natural phenomenon, all the rest of their wisdom is nonsense and illusion. Hence it is that one feels so much more helped by the Christian view than by the wisdom of all philoso- phers. The Christian view concludes all under sin, a thing which philos- ophy has not the ethical courage to do, being too aesthetic. And yet this courage is the only thing that can save life and save man)-unless a man expects to be helped by breaking off his scepticism capriciously and com- bining with several like-minded persons to determine what the truth is.
The first form which the choice takes is complete isolation. For in choosing myself I detach myself from the whole world till by this detachment I end in abstract identity. The individual having chosen himself in terms of his freedom, is eo ipso active. His action, however, has no relation to any surroundmg world, for the individual has reduced this to naught and exists only for himself. The life view here revealed is none the less an ethiial view. It found expression in Greece in the effort of the single individual to develop, himself into a paragon of virtue/^ Like the anchorites in Christendom of a later time he withdrew from the activities of life, not to be absorbed in metaphysical ruminations, but in order to act — not outwardly but in himself. This inward action was at once his task and his satisfaction, for in fact it was not his purpose to cultivate himself for the sake of being able later to serve the state all the better; no, in this self-cultivation he was sufficient unto himself, and he forsook civic life never to return to it.t|le did not, therefore, in a real

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and proper sense withdraw from life; on the contrary, he remained in its multifarious relationships because, contact with it was pedagogically necessary for his own sake, but civic life as such had no significance for him; by one magic formula or another he had made it innocuous, indifferent, unimportant to him. The virtues he developed were thus not civic virtues (as were the true virtues in paganism, corresponding to the religious virtues in Christendom), they were the personal virtues — courage, valor, temperance, moderation," etc. Naturally one very seldom t sees this view of life realized in our age, because every one is too much^ affected by the religious to stop with this abstract definition of virtue^ [The imperfection of this life view is easily seen. The fault lay in the fact tKat this individual had chosen himself altogether abstractly, and hence the perfection he aspired after and attained was likewise abstract. It was for this reason I emphasized the fact that choosing oneself is identical with repenting oneself; for repentance puts the individual in the most intimate connection and the most exact cohesion with a sur- rounding world. )
« ’ /There has often been seen, and even in the Christian world one may sometimes see, analogies to this Greek view of life, only that in Chris- tianity by the admixture of mystical and religious elements it becomes fuller and more beautiful. A Greek who developed himself into a perfect compendium of all the personal virtues, by however high a de- gree of virtuosity, finds his life nevertheless no more immortal than the world whose temptations his virtue overcame, his blessedness is a lonely self-satisfaction, as transient as every thing else^The life of a mystic is far deeper. He has chosen himself absolutely.’ For although one rarely hears a mystic express himself in these terms, although he generally uses the seemingly opposite expression that he has chosen God, yet substan- tially, as was shown above, this comes to the same thing. For if he has not chosen himself absolutely, he is not in any free relation to God, and precisely in freedom consists the characteristic Christian piety. This free relation is often expressed in the language of the mystic by saying that he is the absolute Thou/The mystic has chosen himself absolutely and so in terms of his freedom, and thus he is eo ipso active, but his action is inward action. The mystic chooses himself in his complete isolation; the whole world is for him dead and reduced to naught, and the weary soul chooses God or its elfy This expression, “the weary soul,” must not be misunderstood, must not be misused to belittle the mystic, as though it were a questionable thing that the soul chose God only when it had become weary of the world. By this expression the mystic doubtless

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indicates his repentance that he has not chosen God before, and his weariness must not be regarded as identical with being tired of life. You will see already at this point how little the life of the mystic is ethically determined, since it is the highest expression of his repentance to repent that earlier, before he became concrete in the world, while his soul was merely abstractly defined, that is, as a child, he had not chosen God.
^The mystic, in the fact that he has made a choice, is eo ipso active, but his action is an inward action. Inasmuch as he is active his life has a movement, a development, a history) A development may, however, be metaphysical or aesthetical in such-a degree that it is doubtful whether in a proper sense one dare call it a history, since this word implies de- velopment in the form of freedom. A movement may be desultory to ^uch a degree that it is doubtful whether one dare call it a development.
, When such a movement consists in the fact that one experience returns again and again, we have undoubtedly a movement^ yea, we may per- haps be able to discover a law for this movement, but we have no devel- opment. The repetition in time is without significance, and continuity is lacking. This is true in a high degree of the life of the mystic. It is appalling to read a mystic’s lament over the dull moments. Then when the dull moment is past comes the luminous moment, and thus his life is constantly changing, it has movement indeed, but no development. His life lacks continuity) ^Vhat really supplies the continuity is a feeling, the feeling of longing,'whether this longing be directed towards what is past or towards what is to come. But the fact that a feeling fills the intervening space shows precisely that cohesion is lacking. The life of the mystic is determined metaphysically and aesthetically to such a degree that one dare not call it a history except in the sense in which one speaks of the history of a plant. The whole world is a dead world for ( the mystic, he has fallen in love with God. The development of his life j is then the unfolding of this lovejAs there are instances of lovers who have a certain resemblance to one another, also in their outward appear- ance, their looks, the shape of the face, so too the mystic is absorbed in the contemplation of the Deity, whose image is more and more reflected in his loving soul, and thus the mystic renews and revives the lost divine image in man. The more he contemplates, the more clearly this image is reflected in him, the more he himself comes to resemble this image. His inward action therefore does not consist in the acquisition of the personal virtues but in the development of the religious or contemplative virtuesiYBut even this is too ethical an expression for his life, and we

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must say that his real life is grayer. I will not deny that prayer, too, belongs to the ethical life, but the more ethically a man lives the more purposeful is his prayer, so that even in the prayer of thanksgiving there is an element of purpose. It is not so with the prayer of the mystic. Prayer is all the more significant for him the more erotic it is, the more it is inflamed by a burning love. His prayer is the expression of this love, is the only language in which he can address the Deity with whom he is in love. As in earthly life the lovers long for the moment when they can breathe out their love for one another and let their souls fuse in a gentle whisper, so for the mystic his soul is all the more blissful, his love a happier one, the less content his prayer has and the more nearly with his sigh he disappears from before his own eyesT)
(It might, perhaps, not be amiss to characterize more in detail the false- ness of such a life, especially in view of the fact that every deeper per- sonality always feels an attraction to mysticism. Thus you are by no means lacking in the factors which might dispose you, for a time at least, to become a mystic. Here is a field on which the greatest contrasts meet, the purest and most innocent ^soul with the most culpable, the most talented man and the simplest.^
• / First I will state quite simply what it is that offends me most in such a life. This is my personal judgment. Later I shall seek to show that I correctly indicated the perils, and I shall show too the reasons for them '■^nd point out the false paths which lie so near.
tin my opinion one cannot acquit the mystic of a certain intrusiveness in his relation to God. Who will deny that a man shall love God with all his heart and with all his mind, yea, that he is not only to do this but that to do it is blessedness itself P'fror this, however, it by no means fol- lows that the mystic is to disdauTthe reality of existence to which God has assigned him, for thereby he really disdains God’s love or requires a different expression of it than that which God is willing to give. Here applies the serious saying of Samuel, “To obey is better than sacrifice, and to harken than the fat of rams^ But this intrusiveness may assume an even more questionable form. As for example when a mystic proves his relationship to God by the fact that he himself is precisely what he is, regarding himself because of some accidental trait or another as the object of the partiality of the Deity. For thereby he degrades the Deity and himself. Degrades himself, for it is always degrading to be distin- guished from others by reason of some accidental trait; and degrades God, for he makes of the Deity a false god in whose court he is a
favorite. >
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(What in the next place is displeasing to me in the life of a mystic is the softness and w eakness of w hich one cannotacquit hum That a man wishes to Be assured in his inmost Heart that He loves God in truth and sincerity, that many a time he feels prompted to convince himself thoroughly of this, that he may pray God to let His Spirit bear witness along with his own spirit that he does so love Him — who would deny the beauty and the truth in this ? But from this it by no means follows that every instant he will repeat the experiment, will every instant make trial of his love. He will have enough greatness of soul to believe in God’s love, and then he will also have the frankheartedness to believe in his own love and to c ont inue gladly in the situation assigned to him, knowing that this continuance is the surest expression of his love, of his humility?!

Finally, the life of the mystic displeases me because I regard it as a

deceit against the world in which he lives, against the men to whom he is bound by obligations and with whom he might have come into rela- tionship if he had not been pleased to become a mystic. Generally the mystic chooses the solitary life, but with that the situation is not clear, for the question is whether he has a right to choose it. In choosing the solitary life he practices no deceit upon the others, for thereby he says to them in effect, “I will have no relationship with you”; but the ques- tion is whether he has a right to say this, a right to do this. It is especially as a husband, as a father, that I am an enemy of mysticism) My house- hold has also its aS vtov , 27 but in case I were a mystic I must have still another for myself alone, and then I would be a pretty poor husband. Now since in my opinion, which I shall set forth later, it is the duty of every man to marry, and as it cannot possibly be my meaning that a man shall marry in order to become a poor husband, you will easily see that I must have an aversion to all mysticism.
i He who devotes himself onesidedly to the mystical life becomes at last so alien to all men that every relationship, even the tenderest, the most heartfelt, becomes indifferent to him. It is not in this sense one is to love God more dearly than father and mother; God is not so self-loving as that, neither is He a poet who wishes to torment men with the most frightful collisions — and hardly could a more frightful thing be con- ceived than that there might be a collision between love for God and love for the persons for whom love has been planted by Him in our hearts.^
You surely have not forgotten young Ludwig Blackfeldt 28 with whom a few years ago we both of us, and I especially, were in pretty close

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touch. ^He certainly was a very talented fellow, his mi sfort une was that he lost himself in a mysticism which was not so much Christian as Indian. If he had lived in the Middle Ages, he doubtless would have found refuge in the cloister. Our age has no such helps. If a man goes astray, he must necessarily perish if he be not entirely healedy We have no such relative salvation to offer him. You know that he 6nded with suicide^ With me he had a sort of intimacy and to that extent contra- dicted his pet theory that one should not put oneself in relationship to any man but only to God immediately. Hence his intimacy with me was not great, and he never opened himself to me fully. During the last half year of his life I was an anxious witness of his eccentric movements. It is possible that I stopped him several times. I cannot know this definitely since he never opened himself to any one. He had an unusual gift for concealing his psychic condition and for giving to one passion the sem- blance of another. Finally he put an end to his life without any one being able to explain the reason for it. His physician expressed the opin- ion that it was due to partial insanity. Well, that was a very sensible thing for him to say. In fact, his mind was unimpaired up to the last moment. Perhaps you do not know that there exists a letter which he wrote to his brother, the Councillor of Justice, in which he informs him of his intention. I enclose herewith a copy of it. It has harrowing evi- dence of genuineness and is a highly objective expression of the last agony of complete isolation.*
Poor Lucjwi g was certainly not affected religiously, yet he was affected mystically jU for the characteristic of mysticism is not the religious factor but the isolation in which the individual, heedless of every relation with the given reality, would put himself in immediate rapport with the Eternal. The fact that as soon as the word mysticism is mentioned

“Honorable Mr Councillor,

I write to you because in a way you are my nearest of km, and yet in another way you are not nearer to me than other men When you receive these lines I am no more Should any one ask you the reason, you can say that once there was a princess called Morning Glory, or something else like that, for so it is I myself would reply if I had the joy to survive myself Should any one ask you the occasion for it, you can say that it was on the occasion of the great conflagration. Should any one ask you about the tune, you can say that it was in the month of July, so notable for me. Should no one ask you any of these questions, you are to make no reply.
I do not regard suicide as a praiseworthy thing It is not out of vanity I have resolved upon it On the contrary, I believe in the correctness of the proposition that no man can bear to behold the infinite. That once became evident to me in an intellectual respect, and the expression for this is ignorance 39 That is to say, ignorance is the negative expression for infinite knowledge Suicide is the negative expression for infinite freedom. It is a form of the infinite freedom, but the negative form Hail to him who finds the posiuve form./
With the highest respect,
I am deferentially yours."

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one thinks at once and most naturally of something religious is ac- counted for by the consideration that religion has a tendency to isolate the individual, as you may be convinced by the simplest observation^) You perhaps go to church rather seldom, but you are likely to be all the more observant. Have you not noticed that, though in a sense one gets an impression of a congregation, yet the individual feels isolated? People are as strangers to one another, and it is only by a long detour, as it were, they are again united. And to what is this due but to the fact that one’s God-relationship is so strongly felt that along side of this the earthly relationships lose their importance ? In the case of a healthy man this instant of isolation will not be long, and such a momentary withdrawal is so far from being an illusion that it rather increases the inwardness of the earthly relationships But what may be wholesome as a transient factor becomes a very serious sickness when it is'onesidedly developed^)
Since I cannot boast of theological culture, I do not feel capable of setting forth more fully the character of religious mysticism. I have regarded it only from my ethical standpoint and therefore I am justified,
I believe, in attaching to the word mysticism a much broader meaning than it generally has. I do not doubt that in religious mysticism there is to be found much that is beautiful, that the many deep and earnest natures who devoted themselves to it have experienced much in their lives and were thereby qualified to give counsels and directions and hints which are of service to others who venture upon that perilous path; but in spite of all that, this path is not only a perilous path but a wrong - path. There is always an inconsistency implied. When the mystic has no respect for reality in general it is not obvious why he does not regard with equal distrust that moment in reality when he was affected by the . higher experience.
So the fault of the mystic is not that he chooses himself, for in my opinion he does well in doing that, but his fault is that he does not choose rightly, he chooses with freedom, and yet he does not choose ethically; but one can choose oneself with freedom only when one chooses oneself ethically, but one can choose oneself ethically only by repenting oneself, and only by repenting does one become concrete, and only as a concrete individual is one a free individual. The fault of the mystic does not therefore consist in any later phase but in the very first movement.) If this first movement is right, then every further with- drawal from life, every ascetic self-torment, is only a further and correct consequence. The fault of the mystic is that by his choice he does not become concrete for himself, nor for God either; he chooses himself

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abstractly and therefore lacks transparency. For it is a mistake to think that the abstract is the transparent. The abstract is the turbid, the foggy. Therefore, his love for God reaches its highest expression in a feeling, a mood: in the dusk of evening when fogs prevail he melts with vague movements into one with his God. But when one chooses oneself ah-
\ t
stractly one does not choose oneself ethically). Only when in his choice a man has assumed himself, is clad in himself,' has so totally penetrated himself that every movement is attended by the consciousness of a re- sponsibility for himself, only then has he chosen himself ethically, only then has he repented himself, only then is he concrete, only then is he' in his total isolation in absolute continuity with the reality to which he belongs.
v I cannot often enough repeat the proposition, however simple it may be in itself, that choosing oneself is identical with repenting oneself. For upon this everything turns. The mystic too repents, but he repents him- self out of himself, not into himself; he repents metaphysically, not ethically. To repent aesthetically is detestable because it is effeminate; to repent metaphysically is an untimely superfluity, for the individual did not in fact create the world and so does not need to take it so much to heart if the world really turns out to be vanity. The mystic chooses himself abstractly and so must repent abstractly. (This one can see best from the judgment the mystic passes upon existence, the finite reality in which nevertheless he lives. For the mystic teaches that it is vanity, illusion, sin. But every such judgment is a metaphysical judgment and does not define ethically my relation to existence. Even when he says that finiteness is sin he says after all about the same thing as when he calls it vanity) If on the other hand he would hold fast the ethical mean- ing of the word sin, he does not define his relation to it ethically but metaphysically, for the ethical expression would not be to flee from it but to enter into it, to abolish it or to bear it. Ethical repentance has only two movements: either to abolish its object'or to bear it. These two ( movements indicate also a concrete relationship between the repentant individual and the object of his repentance, whereas fleeing away indi- cates an abstract relationship/
» (The mystic chooses himself abstractly. One can therefore say that he constantly chooses himself out of the world. But the consequence is that he is unable to choose himself back again into the world. The truly concrete choice is that wherewith at die very same instant I choose myself out of the world I am choosing myself back into the world. For when I choose myself repentantly I gather myself together in all my

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finite concretion, and in the fact that I have thus chosen myself out of the finite I am in the most absolute continuity with it)
'(JJince the mystic chooses himself abstractly his misfortune is that he has so much difficulty in starting to move, or rather that this is an impossibility for him. As it is in your case with your earthly first love, so it is in the case of the mystic with his religious first love: he has ta sted the whole bliss of it and now has nothing to do but wait to see if it will come again in just as much glory^and of this he can easily be tempted to nourish a doubt which I have so often pointed out when I remark that development is retrogression, a postponement. Reality is for the mystic a delay, indeed a delay of so perilous a sort that he almost incurs the danger that life may deprive him of that which he once possessed. If therefore one were to ask a mystic what is the significance of life, he would perhaps reply, “The significance of life is to learn to know God and become in love with Him.” This, however, is not an answer to the question, for fyere the significance of life is conceived as a moment, not as succession^ Hence, if I were to ask him what significance it has for life that life has this significance, or in other words, what is the signifi- cance of the temporal as a wfrole, he has not much to answer, at any rate not much that is cheerful. If he says that the temporal is an enemy which must be overcome, then one could ask him further whether it might have any significance that this enemy was overcome. In fact this is not what the mystic really means, what he wants rather is to be through with the temporal. Consequently, just as he misunderstood reality and construed it metaphysically as vanity, so, too, he misunder- stands the historical and construes it metaphysically as unprofitable labor. The highest significance he can ascribe to the temporal is that it is a time of probation in which again and again one is put to the test without anything really resulting from it and without the individual getting further than he was at the beginning) This, however, is a mis- understanding of the temporal, for though it always retains something characteristic of the ecclesia pressa , so it constitutes at,the same time the possibility of the glorification of the finite spirits It is precisely the beauty of the temporal that in it the infinite Spirit and the finite spirits are separated, and it is precisely the greatness of the finite spirit that the temporal is assigned to it/The temporal therefore, if I may venture to say so, does not exist for God’s sake, in order that in it, speaking mysti- cally, He may test and try the loved one, but it exists for man’s sake and is the greatest of all the gifts of grace^For man’s eternal dignity consists in the factlhaFhe can have a history, the divine element in him consists

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in the fact that he himself, if he will, can impart to this history conti- nuity, for this it acquires only when it is not the sum of all that has happened to me or befallen me but is my own work, in such a way that even what has befallen me is by me transformed and translated from necessity to freedom. The enviable thing in human life is that one can come to the aid of the Deity, can understand Him, and again the only way of understanding Him which is worthy of a man is by freely appro- priating everything which comes to one, both the joyful and the sorrow- ful) Does it not seem so to you ? It does to me, indeed it seems to me as if one had only to say this aloud to a man to make him envious of himself. \J
The two standpoints here suggested might be regarded as an attempt to realize an ethical view of life. The only reason why this attempt does not succeed is that the individual has chosen himself in his isolation or has chosen himself abstractly. This can also be expressed by saying that the individual has not chosen himself ethically.(He is therefore not in connection with reality, and such being the case, no ethical view of life can be consistently carried out. He on the other hand who chooses him- self ethically chooses himself concretely as this definite individual, and he attains this concretion by the fact that this act of choice is identical with this act of repentance which sanctions the choice. The individual thus becomes conscious of himself as this definite individual, with these tal- ents, these dispositions, these instincts, these passions, influenced by these definite surroundings, as diis definite product of a definite environment. But being conscious of himself in this way, he assumes responsibility for all this), He does not hesitate as to whether he shall include this particular trait or the other, for he knows that he stands to lose something much higher if he does not. Thus at the instant of choice he is in the most com- plete isolation, for he withdraws from the surroundings, and the same moment he is in absolute continuity, for he chooses himself as product, and this choice is the choice of freedom, so that when he chooses him- self as product he can just as well be said to produce himself. Thus at the instant of choice he is at the conclusion, for he concludes himself in a unity, and yet the same instant he is at the beginning, for he chooses himself freely. As product he is pressed into the forms of reality, in the choice he makes himself elastic, transforming all the outwardness into inwardness. He has his place in the world, with freedom he chooses his place, that is, he chooses this very place. He is a definite individual, in the choice he makes himself a definite individual, for he chooses himself )

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(So the individual chooses himself as a concretion determined in mani- fold ways, and he chooses himself therefore in accord with his conti- nuity )(This concretion is the r eality _o f the individual, but as he chooses it in accord with his freedom one can also say that it is his possibility, or (to avoid an expression so aesthetical) that it is his task. For he who lives aesthetically sees only (possibilities^ very where, they constitute for him the content of the future, whereas he who lives ethically seesj tashq everywhere. The individual therefore sees this actual concretion of his as his task, his goal, his aim. But the fact that the individual sees his possi- bility as his task expresses precisely his sovereignty over himself, which he never relinquishes, even though he can find no pleasure in the very embarrassing sovereignty which characterizes a king without a country. This gives the ethical individual a sense of assurance which he who lives merely aesthetically lacks entirely. * v He who lives aesthetically ex- pects everything from without. Hence, the morbid dread with which many people speak of the appalling experience of not having found one’s place in the world. Who will deny that it is a pleasant dung to have been fortunate in this respect ? >But such a dread always indicates that the individual expects everything from the place, nothing from himself. )He, too, who lives ethically will try to choose his place rightly; however, if he notices that he has made a mistake, or that obstacles arise over which he has no control, he does not lose courage, for he never relinquishes the sovereignty over himself. He at once sees his task and is instantly active. In like manner one often sees men who are afraid that if once they Were to fall in love they might not get the girl who is exactly the ideal which suits them. Who will deny that it is pleasant to get such a girl ? But nevertheless, it is a superstition to believe that what is outside a man is what is able to make him happy.
He, too, who lives ethically wishes to be fortunate in his choice; how- ever, if it turns out that the choice was not completely in accordance with the wish, he does not lose courage, he at once sees his task and knows that the art is not to wish but to will. Many, though they have a just conception of what a human life is, wish to be contemporary with great events, to be involved in important situations^ Who will deny that such things have their validity? But nevertheless, it is superstition to think that an event or a situation as such is capable of making a man something. He who lives ethically knows that it all depends upon what one sees in every situation, with what energy he regards it, and that he who thus cultivates himself in the unimportant situations may experi- ence more than he who has been a witness to, yea, a part in the most

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notable events. ^He knows that everywhere there is a dancing floor , 81 that even the lowliest man has his, that his dance, if he will, can be as beautiful, as graceful, as mimic, as brisk as that of those who were assigned a place in history. It is this proficiency of the fencer, this supple- ness, which is properly the immortal life of the ethical. To him who lives aesthetically applies the old saying, “to be/or not to be,” and the more he is allowed to live aesthetically, the more requirements h\s life makes, and if merely the least of these is not fulfilled, he is dead, ^de who lives ethically has always a way of escape when everything goes against him; when the storm broods over him so darkly that his neighbor cannot see him, he nevertheless has not perished, there is always a point he holds fast, and that is...his self, '

Only one thing I would not omit to mention, namely, that so soon as the gymnastic of the ethicist becomes an experimentation he has ceased to live ethically. All such gymnastic experimentation is nothing else but what sophistry is in the realm of knowledge.
yHere I would recall the definition I gave a while ago of the ethical, as that by which a man becomes what he becomes. The ethical then will not change the individual into another man but makes him himself, it will not annihilate the aesthetical but transfigures it. It is essential to a man who is to live ethically that he become so radically conscious of himself that no adventitious trait escapes him. This concretion the ethical would not obliterate but it sees in .this its task, it sees what it has to build upon and what it has to build) Commonly one regards the ethical quite abstractly and therefore has i secret horror of it. The ethical is thus regarded as something foreign to the personality, and one shrinks from abandoning oneself to it since one cannot be quite certain what it may lead to in the course of time. So it is that many men are afraid also of death because they entertain dark and obscure conceptions of the soul passing over in death to another dispensation where the prevailing laws and conventions differ from those with which they have become acquainted in this world. The reason for such a fear is the reluctance of the individual to become transparent to himself; for, provided one is
CasiIy 5CeS the absurdit y of this ^ar. So it is also with the ethica . When a man is afraid of being transparent he always shuns the ethical, for precisely this is what the ethical wills. )
, In opposition to an aesthetical view-which would enjoy life, one often bear , S °f ano^er view which finds the significance of life in living for the fulfillment of its duties. With this one intends to indicate an ethical life view. However, the expression is very imperfect, and one might

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almost believe that it was invented in order to bring the ethical into disrepute. At all events, in our age one often hears it used in such a way that one is almost inclined to smile, as for example when Scribe 82 allows this thesis to be expressed with a sort of burlesque seriousness which con- trasts very unfavorably with the joy and merriment of pleasure. (The fault is that the individual is placed in an outward relation to duty. The ethical is defined as duty, and duty in turn is defined as a congeries of particular propositions, but the individual and duty stand outside of one another. Such a life of duty is of course very uncomely and tire- some, and if the ethical had not a far deeper connection with personality, it would be very difficult to defend it against the aesthetical. I will not deny that there are men who get no further, but that is not due to duty but to the man himsejjp
It is strange that the word duty can suggest an outward relation, inas- much as the very derivation of the word [Phgt\ indicates an inward relation; for what is incumbent upon me, not as this fortuitous indi- vidual but in accordance with my true nature, that surely stands in the most inward relation to my self. For duty is not an imposition [Paalaeg] but something which is incumbent [paalegger]. When duty is viewed thus it is a sign that the individual is in himself correctly oriented. For him, therefore, duty will not split up into a congeries of particular defi- nitions, for that is always an indication that he stands in an outward relation to it. He has clad himself in duty, for him it is the expression of his inmost nature. When he has thus oriented himself he has become absorbed in the ethical and will not chase breathlessly after the fulfill- ment of his duties. ^The genuine ethical individual therefore possesses calmness and assurance because he has not duties outside himself but in himself. The more profoundly a man has planned his life ethically, the less will he feel the need of talking every instant about duty, of being fearful every instant as to whether he has fulfilled it, of taking counsel every instant with others about what his duty is. When the ethical is rightly viewed it makes the individual infinitely secure in himself, when it is not rightly viewed it makes the individual insecure, and I cannot imagine a more unhappy and agonizing existence than that of a man who manages to put duty outside himself and yet would endeavor to realize it. )
If one views the ethical as outside the personality and in an external relation to it, then one has abandoned everything, then one has fallen into despair. The aesthetical as such is despair, the ethical is the abstract and as such it is incapable of producing anything whatever. Therefore,

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when one sometimes sees men with a certain honest zeal toiling and moiling to realize the ethical which constantly flees like a shadow, the sight is at once comic and tragic, v
x ^The ethical is the universal and so it is the abstract. In its complete abstraction the ethical is therefore always prohibitive. So it appears as law. Whenever the ethical has the form of a positive command it already contains something of the aesthetical JThe Jews were the people of the Law. Hence they understood perfectly most of the commandments in the Laws of Moses, but the commandment they seem not to have under- stood was that commandment to which Christianity most closely, at- tached itself:. “Thou shalt love God with all thy heart.” This command- ment is not at all negative, neither is it abstract, it is in the highest degree positive and in the highest degree concrete^ When the ethical becomes more concrete it passes over into the definition of morals and customs. But so regarded the reality of the ethical consists in the reality of a national individuality, and here the ethical has already appropriated an aesthetical factor. Nevertheless, the ethical is still abstract and cannot be fully realized because it lies outside the individual/ Only when the individual himself is the universal is it possible to realize the ethical. This is the secret of conscience, it is the secret which the individual life shares with itself, that it is at once an individual life and at the same time the universal, if not immediately as such, yet according to its possibility. He who regards life ethically sees the universal, and he who lives ethi- cally expresses the universal in his life, he makes himself the universal man, not by divesting himself of his concretion, for then he becomes nothing, but by clothing himself with it and permeating it with the uni- versal.\For the universal man is not a phantom, but every man as such is the universal man, that is to say, to every man the way is assigned by which he becomes the universal man/' He who lives ethically labors to become the universal man. So for example when a man is aesthetically in love the adventitious plays a prodigious role, and it is a matter of importance to him that no one has loved as he does, with all the nuances. When he who loves ethically marries he realizes the universal. There- fore he does not become a hater of the concrete but has one concrete expression the more, deeper than every aesthetical expression, in the fact that in love he sees a revelation of the universal human. So he who loves ethically has himself as his task. His self in its immediacy is acci- dentally determined, and the task is to work up together the accidental and the universal.^/
So the ethical individual has duty not outside him but in him; at the

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moment of despair it makes its appearance and then works itself out through the aesthetical and in it and with it. One can say of the ethical individual that he is like quiet waters which ruji deep, whereas he who lives aesthetically is only superficially moved. (Hence, when the ethical individual has completed his task, has fought the good fight, he has then reached the point where he has become the one man, that is to say, that there is no other man altogether like him; and jat the same time he has become the universal man. To be the one man is not in itself anything so great, for that everybody has in common with every product of na- ture; but to be that m such a way that he is also the universal man is the true art of living, j
So personality has not the ethical outside it but in it, and out of this depth it breaks forth. Then, as I have said, we must take care that it shall not with an abstract and empty tempestuousness reduce the con- crete to naught but rather that it shall assimilate it. Since, then, the ethical lies deepest in the soul it is not always visible to the eye, and the man who lives ethically may do exactly the same things as the man who lives aesthetically, so that for a time this may create a deception, but finally there comes an instant when it is evident that he who lives ethically has a limit which the other does not recognize. In this assur- ance that his life is ethically planned the individual reposes with secure confidence and therefore does not torment himself and others with captious apprehensions about this and that. The fact that the man who lives ethically leaves a large space for the indifferent I find quite natural, and it is indicative of veneration for the ethical that one will not press it into every insignificant affair. The effort to do this always fails and it is to be found only in those who do not possess courage to believe in the ethical and who lack inward confidence in a deeper sense. There are men whose pusillanimity is recognizable precisely in the fact that they are never ready with the sum total because for them this is not sing le but manifold. But this, too, lies outside the ethical, and there is, of course, no other ground for it but weakness of will, which like all other weakness of mind may be regarded as a sort of insanity. The life of such men is employed in straining at gnats. They have no conception either of the pure and beautiful earnestness of the ethical or of the carefree gladness of the indifferent. But of course for the ethical individual the indifferent is dethroned and every instant he is able to set limits to Thus one believes also in the existence of a providence, and the soul reposes securely in this assurance, and yet it would not occur to one to try to permeate every accidental circumstance with this thought or to

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become convinced of this faith every minute. To will the ethical with- out being disturbed by the indifferent, to believe in providence without being disturbed by the accidental, represents a condition of sound health which every man can acquire and retain if he will. In this case, too, the point is to see the task, to perceive that when a man has a ten- dency to be distracted in this way the task is to put up a resistance, to hold fast the infinite and not go on a wild goose chase.
He who chooses himself ethically has himself as his task, and not as a possibility merely, not as a toy to be played with arbitrarily. He can choose himself ethically only when he chooses himself in continuity, and so he has himself as a task which is manifoldly defined. This mani- foldness he does not try to obliterate or to volatilize; on the contrary, he repents himself tightly into it, because this manifoldness is himself and only by being repentantly absorbed in it can he come to himself, since he does not assume that the world begins with him or that he creates himself. Language itself has stamped this last view with con- tempt, and one always says contemptuously of a man that he is self- made. But when repentantly he chooses himself he is active, not in the direction of isolation but in the direction of continuity, v Let us now for once compare an ethical and an aesthetical individual. The principal difference, and one on which everything hinges, is that the ethical individual is transparent to himself and does not live ms Blaue hmein as does the aesthetical individual. This difference states the whole case. He who lives ethically has seen himself, knows himself, penetrates with nis consciousness his whole concretion, does not allow indefinite thoughts to potter about within him, nor tempting possibili- ties to distract him with their jugglery; he is not like a witch’s letter from which one sense can be got now and. then another, depending upon how one turns it. He knows himself. The expression yvt Wi creavrov™ has been repeated often enough and in it has been seen the goal of all human endeavor. That is quite right, too, but it is equally certain that it cannot be the goal if it is not at the same time the begin- ning. The ethical individual knows himself, but this knowledge is not a mere contemplation (for with that the individual is determined by his necessity), it is a reflection upon himself which itself is an action, and therefore I have deliberately^preferred to use the expression “ choo se oneself” instead of know oneself.) So when the individual knows him- selFhe is not through; on the contrary, this knowledge is imthe highest degree fruitful, and from it proceeds the true individual/lf I desired to be clever I might say at this point that the individual knew himself

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in such a way as Adam “knew” Eve m the Old Testament sense of the word. By the individual’s intercourse with himself, he impregnates himself and brings himself to birth. This self which the individual knows is at once the actual self and the ideal self which the individual has outside himself as the picture in likeness to which he has to form himself and which, on the other hand, he nevertheless has in him since it is the self. Only within him has the individual the goal after which he has to strive, and yet he has this goal outside him, inasmuch as he strives after it.jFor if the individual believes that the universal man is situated outside him, that from without it will come to him, then he is disoriented, then he has an abstract conception and his method is always an abstract annihilation of the original self. Oqly within him can the individual acquire information about himself.^ Hence^ the ethical, life has this duplex character, that the individual has his self outside himself and in himself. jThe typical self, however, is this yet imperfect self, for this is only a prophecy and therefore not the real self. Nevertheless, this typical self accompanies him constantly, but the more he realizes it, the more it vanishes within him, until at last, instead of being visible in front of him, it lies behind him like a pallid possibility. With this picture it is as with man’s shadow: in the morning man casts his shadow before him, at midday it goes almost unobserved beside him, in the evening it falls behind him. When the individual knows himself and has chosen himself he is about to realize himself, but as he has to realize himself freely he must know what it is he would realize. What he would realize is in fact himself, but it is his ideal self which he acquires nowhere but in himself. If one does not hold fast to the fact that the individual has the ideal self in himself, his Dtchten und Trachten remain abstract. He who would copy another man and he who would copy the normal man become both of them, though in different ways, equally affected.
The aesthetic individual views himself in his concretion and then distinguishes inter et He sees something which belongs to
him essentially, something else unessentially. This distinction, how- ever, is exceedingly relative, for so long as a man lives merely aesthet- ically one thing belongs to him as accidentally as another, and it is merely for lack of energy an aesthetic individual maintains this dis- tinction. The ethical individual has learned this in despair, hence he has another distinction, for he, too, distinguishes between the essential and the accidental. Everything posited by his freedom belongs to him essen- tially, however accidental it may seem to be; everything else is for

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him accidental, however essential it may seem to be)jn the case of the ethical individual, however, this distinction is not the fruit of his ar- bitrary determination and does not imply that he has plenary power to make himself what he would. The ethical individual, to be sure, may venture to use the expression that he is his own editor, but at the same time he is fully conscious that he is responsible — responsible to himself personally, inasmuch as what he chooses will have decisive influence upon him, responsible in view of the order of things in which he lives, and responsible in the sight of God. Thus regarded, the distinction, I believe, is correct; for only that belongs to me essentially which I ethically accept as my task. If I refuse to accept it, then what essentially belongs to me is that I have refused it^When a man views himself aesthetically he perhaps distinguishes as follows, saying, “I have a talent for painting, which I regard as accidental; but I have wit and cleverness of mind, which I regard as the essential thing of which I cannot be deprived by becoming another man.” To this I would reply, “This whole distinction is an illusion, for if you do not accept this wit or cleverness as a task, as something for which you are responsible, it does not belong to you essentially, and this principally for the reason that so long as you are merely living aesthetically your life totally is un- essential.” He who lives ethically abolishes to a certain degree the dis- tinction between the accidental and the essential, for he accepts himself, every inch of him, as equally essential. But the distinction returns, for when he has done this he distinguishes again, yet in such a way that for the accidental which he excludes he accepts an essential respon- sibility for excluding it.
’ In case the aestheticmdividual sets a task for his life with “aesthetic seriousness,” it is properly nothing but the task of being more and more absorbed in his own accidentality, of becoming an individual whose irregularity and paradoxicality no one has seen the match of, a grimace of a man.- The reason why one so seldom meets such a, figure in real life is that people so seldom have a conception of what it is to live. On the other hand, since many have a positive predilection for chattering, one meets on the streets, in society and in books with a great deal of chatty nonsense which bears unmistakably the stamp of the rage for originality which being transferred to real life would enrich the world with a multitude of artifacts each one more ludicrous than the other. The task which the ethical individual sets himself is to trans- form himself into the universal man. Only the ethical individual seriously renders an account to himself and is therefore honest with

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himself, only he has the grace and decorum which is more beautiful than any other. But to transform oneself into the universal man is only possible if already Kara Svvajuv** I have this in myself^For this univer- sal can very well consist with and in the particular without consuming it; it is like the fire which burned in the bush without consuming it) If the universal man is situated outside of me, only one method is possible, and that is to divest myself of my whole concretion. One often sees this striving after unbridled abstraction. Among the Hussites there was a sect of men who thought that the most obvious way to become the normal man was to go naked like Adam and Eve in paradise . 80 Often enough one encounters in our age people who in a spiritual sense teach the same thing, that one becomes the normal man by becoming utterly stark naked, as one can become by divesting oneself of one’s whole concretion. But it is not so. In the act of despair the universal man comes forth and now is behind the concretion, breaking out through it. In a language there are many more paradigmatic verbs than the one which in the grammar is set forth as the paradigm. It is accidental that this one is presented, since all the others were equally suited for this use. So it is also with men. Every man can, if he will, become the paradigmatic man, not by wiping out his accidentality but by remaining in it and ennobling it. But he ennobles it by choosing it, •* ‘ f
You now will have perceived that the ethical individual has gone through in the course of his life the stages which earlier we showed to be distinctive stages. In the course of his life he will develop the per- sonal, the civic, the religious virtues, and his life and its progress consists in the fact that he passes from one stage to another. So soon as a man thinks that one of these stages is sufficient and that a person may venture onesidedly to concentrate upon it, that man has not chosen himself ethically but has overlooked the importance either of isolation or of con- tinuity, and above all has not apprehended that the truth consists in the identity of the twoy
He who has ethically chosen and found himself has himself as he is determined in his whole concretion. He has himself, then, as an indi- vidual who has these talents, these passions, these inclinations, these habits, who is under ^t)iese influences, who in this direction is affected thus, in another thus(jHere, then, he has himself as a task, in such a sort that the task is principally to order, cultivate, temper, enkindle, repress, in short, to bring about a proportionality in the soul, a harmony, which is the fruit of the personal virtues. Here the aim of his activity is him- self, but not as arbitrarily determined, for he has himself as a task which

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is set for him, even though it has become his by the fact that he has chosen it. But although he himself is his aim, this aim is nevertheless another, for the self which is the aim is not an abstract self which fits everywhere and hence nowhere, but a concrete self which stands in reciprocal relations with these surroundings, these conditions of life, this natural order. This self which is the aim is not merely a personal self but a social, a civic self. He has, then, himself as a task for an activity wherewith as this definite personality he takes a hand in the affairs of life. Here his task is not to cultivate himself but to exert an influence, and yet at the same time he cultivates himself, for, as I remarked earlier, the ethical individual so lives that he is constantly pissing from one stage to the other. If the individual has not originally understood himself as a concrete personality in contmuity, neither will he acquire this subse- quent continuity!) If he thinks that the trick is to begin like a Robinson Crusoe, he remains a fanciful adventurer to the end of his days. On the other hand, when he perceives that if he does not begin concretely he will never get to the point of beginning, and that if he does not begin he will not end, then he will be at once in contmuity with the past and with the future. From the personal life he translates himself into the civic, and from this into the personal. The personal life as such was an isolation and hence imperfect; in the fact that through the civic life he comes back into his personality the personal life manifests itself in a higher form. Personality manifests itself as the absolute which has its teleology in itself.
When the performance of duty has been represented as the task for a man’s life people have often recalled that duty itself vaccilates, that laws may change. You easily see that the latter expression has in view especially the fluctuations to which the civic virtues are always exposed. Yet this scepticism does not apply to negative morals, for they remain unchanged. There is another scepticism, however, which applies to all duty, namely, the consideration that I am utterly unable to do duty. Duty is the universal, what is required of me is the universal; what I am able to do is the particular. This scepticism, however, has great signifi- cance, inasmuch as it shows that personality is the absolute. But this must be more closely defined. It is to be noted that language itself emphasizes this s£epticism.(l never say of a man that he does duty or duties, but I say that he does his duty, I say, “I am doing my duty, do yours.” This shows that the individual is at once the universal and the particular. Duty is the univeisal which is required of me; so if I am not the universal, I am unable to perform duty. On the other hand, my duty

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is the particular, something for me alone, and yet it is duty and hence the universal. Here personality is displayed in its highest validity. It is not lawless, neither does it make laws for itself, for the definition of duty holds good, but personality reveals itself as the unity of the uni- versal and the particulaipThat such is the case is clear, it can be made comprehensible to a child; for I can do duty and yet not do my duty, and I can do my duty and yet not do duty^ I cannot see why for this cause the world should sink into scepticism, for the difference between good and evil always remains, and so do responsibility and duty; even though it is impossible for another to say what my duty is, it will always be possible for him to say what is his duty, and this would not be the case if the unity of the universal and the particular were not posited. One may seem perhaps to have disposed of all scepticism by getting duty turned into something external, something fixed and definite, of which one can say simply, this is duty. But that is a misunderstanding, for in this instance the doubt lies not in the external but in the internal, in my relation to the universal. As a particular individual I am not the universal, and to require that of me is absurd. So if I am to be able to perform the universal, I must be the universal at the same time that I am the particular; but thus the dialectic of duty is within me. As I have said, this doctrine involves no danger to the ethical, on the contrary it upholds it. If one does not adopt this doctrine, personality becomes abstract, its relation to duty abstract, its immortality abstract^ The dis- tinction between good and evil is not abolished, for I doubt if there ever has been a man who maintained that it is a duty to do evil. That he did evil is another matter, but he tried at the same time to make himself and others believe that it was good. It is unthinkable that he might be able to continue in this vain conceit, since he himself is the universal and so has the enemy not outside himself but within him. If, on the contrary, I assume that duty is something external, the distinction between good and evil is abolished, for if I am not myself the universal I can come only into an abstract relationship with it; but the distinction between good and evil is incommensurable for an abstract relationship.
Precisely when one perceives that personality is the absolute, is its own end and purpose, is the unity of the universal and the particular, pre- cisely then will all scepticism which takes the historical as its point of departure be effectually overcome. Freethinkers have often sought to confuse the concepts by remarking that sometimes one race of people has declared holy and lawful the very thing which in the eyes of other peoples was an abomination and a crime. Here they have allowed them-

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selves to be dazzled by the external. But however much the external may change, the moral content of action may nevertheless remain the same. Thus, for example, there certainly has never been a race of men who taught that children should hate their parents. However, in order to nourish doubt, it has been recalled that, whereas all civilized nations made it a duty for children to take care of their parents, savages have the custom of putting their aged parents to death. It is quite possible that such is the case; but with this one has got no further, for the ques- tion remains whether the savages mean thereby to do anything evil. The ethical always consists in the consciousness of wantmg to do the good, whereas it is another question whether the savages are not chargeable with defective knowledge. The freethinker perceives very clearly that the easiest way to volatilize the ethical is by opening the door to the historical infinite. And yet there is something true in his position, for in the last resort, if the individual is not himself the absolute, empiricism is the only road open to him, and this road has with respect to its issue the same peculiarity as has the fiver Niger with respect to its source, that no one knows where it is.|tf finiteness is my lot, it is arbitrary to come to a stop at any particular point. On this road, therefore, one never gets to the point of beginning, for in order to begin one must have got to the end, but this is an impossibility. If personality is the absolute, then it is itself the Archimedean point from which one can lift the world. That this consciousness cannot mislead the individual to want to cast reality from him you can readily see, for if he would be the absolute m this sense, he is nothing at all, an abstraction. Only as the particular is he the absolute, and this consciousness will save him from all revolu- tionary radicalism.
Here I will bring my theorizing to an end. I feel keenly that I am not suited to this part, nor do I desire to be, but I should be completely satisfied if I might be regarded as a fairly practical fellow. Besides, all theorizing takes so much time. What I can do as an active agent in an instant, or can at once begin to do, requires much ado and difficulty before one can manage to express and describe it. Now it is not my intention to lecture you on the doctrine of duties and to talk in the usual way about duties towards God, towards oneself, and towards one’s neighbour. Not at all as though I scorned this classification or as though what I have to teach were too profound to be associated with Balle’s “Lesson-Book ” 87 or might presuppose greater preliminary knowl- edge than that book presupposes; not at all for such reasons, but because ' I believe that in the matter of ethics it is not a question of the multi-

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fariousness of duty but of its intensity. When with all his energy a person has felt the intensity of duty he is then ethically mature, and in him duty will emerge of itsel£)The chief thing is, not whether one can count on one’s fingers how many duties one has, but that a man has once felt the intensity of duty in such a way that the consciousness of it is for him the assurance of the eternal validity of his being. I, therefore, by no means extol a man for being a man of duty, any more than I would commend him for being a bookworm, and yet it is certain that the man before whom duty has never revealed itself in its whole signifi- cance is quite as poor a sort as is the scholar who thinks like the foolish inhabitants of the village of Mol 88 that learning comes to one mtr nichts dir nichts. Let the casuists be absorbed in discovering the multifarious- ness of duties, the chief thing, the only saving thing, is that in relation to his own life a man is not his uncle but his father.
Let me illustrate what I mean by an example. I choose for this pur- pose the impression I have retained from my earliest childhood . 88 When I was five years of age I was sent to school. It is natural that such an event always makes an impression upon a child, but the question is, what impression. Childish curiosity is engrossed by the various con- fusing conceptions as to what significance this may properly have. That this was the case with me too is quite likely; however, the chief impres- sion I got was an entirely different one. I made my appearance at school, was introduced to the teacher, and then was given as my lesson for the following day the first ten lines of Balle’s “Lesson-Book,” which I was to learn by heart. Every other impression was then obliterated from my soul, only my task stood out vividly before it. As a child I had a very good memory, so I had soon learned by lesson. My sister had heard me recite it several times and affirmed that I knew it. I went to bed, and before I fell asleep I catechized myself once more; I fell asleep with the firm purpose of reading the lesson over the following morning. I awoke at five o’clock, got dressed, got hold of my lesson-book, and read it again. At this moment everything stands as vividly before my eyes as if it had occurred yesterday. To me it was as if heaven and earth might collapse if I did not learn my lesson, and on the other hand as if, even if heaven and earth were to collapse, this would not exempt me from doing what was assigned to me, from learning my lesson. At that age I knew so little about duties, I had not yet, as you see, learned to know them from Balle’s “Lesson-Book,” I had only one duty, that of learning my lesson, and yet I can trace my whole ethical view of life to this impression. I may smile at a little urchin of five years who takes hold

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of a thing so passionately, and yet I assure you I have no higher wish than that at every time of life I may take hold of my work with the same energy, with the same ethical earnestness as then. It is true that in later life one acquires a better conception of what one’s work is, but still the chief thing is the energy. I owe it to my father’s serious-minded- ness that this event made such an impression upon me, and if I owed him nothing else, this would suffice to put me eternally in his debt. What is really important in education is not that the child learns this sand that, but that the mind is matured, that energy is aroused.\You often talk about how glorious a thing it is to have a good head. Who will deny that this is important? And yet I am nearly inclined to believe that one can make oneself that if one will. Give a man energy, passion, and with that he is everything. Take a young girl, let her be silly, high-flown, a perfectly foolish ninny, think of her as deeply and sin- cerely in love, and you will see that the good head comes of itself, you will see how shrewd and cunning she becomes in scenting out whether she is loved in return; let her become fortunate in love, and you will see how enthusiasm blossoms upon her lips; let her become unfortunate, and you will hear the cool reflections of wit and understanding.
I can say that in this respect my childhood has been fortunate because it has enriched me with ethical impressions. Permit me to dwell upon it a moment longer; it recalls to me my father, and that is the most precious recollection I possess, and being by no means a poor and unfruitful memory it gives me occasion to illustrate once again my dictum that the total impression of duty is the principal thing and not by any means the multifariousness of duties. If the latter is made promi- nent, the individual is reduced and ruined. Now in this respect I was fortunate as a child, for I never had many duties but generally only one, but that was a duty in earnest. When I was two years older I was sent to the Latin School. Here began a new life, but here again the principal impression was the ethical, although I enjoyed the greatest freedom. I went amongst the other pupils, heard with amazement their com- plaints of their teachers, beheld the marvelous event of a pupil being taken out of school because he could not get on with his teacher. If from an earlier time I had not been so profoundly influenced, an event such as this might have had an injurious effect upon me. Now such was not the case. I knew it was my duty to go to school, to the school where for good and all I had been sent. Even though everything else were to be changed, this could not be changed. It was not merely fear of my father’s seriousness which instilled into me this notion, but it was the

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lofty impression of what a person’s duty is. Even though my father were dead and I placed under the supervision of another whom I might have induced to take me out of the school, I never would have ventured, or indeed, really wished to do it, it would have been as though my father’s shade had come following me to school; for here again I would have had an infinite impression of what my duty was, so that no lapse of time would have obliterated the recollection that I had violated his will. For the rest I enjoyed my freedom, I knew only one duty, that of attending to my school, and in this respect I was left entirely to my own responsibility.
When I was sent to this school and the prescribed schoolbooks had been bought, my father handed them to me with the words, “William, when the month is up, you are the third in your class.” I was exempted from all parental twaddle. He never asked me about my lessons, never heard me recite them, never looked at my exercise book, never reminded me that now it was time to read, now time to leave off, never came to the aid of the pupil’s conscience, as one sees often enough when noble- minded fathers chuck their children under the chin and say, “You had better be doing your work.” When I wanted to go out he asked me first whether I had time. That I was to decide for myself, not he, and his query never went into details. That nevertheless he was deeply con- cerned about what I was doing I am perfectly certain, but he never let me observe it, in order that my soul might be matured by responsibility. Here again it was the same, I had not many duties — and how many children are spoiled by being overwhelmed by a regular ceremonial of duties! So I got a thoroughly deep impression of the fact that there was something called duty and that it had eternal validity. In my time we studied grammar with a thoroughness which in this age is unknown. Through this instruction I received an impression which in another way had a singular influence upon my soul. Insofar as I dare give myself credit for a capacity to view things philosophically, I owe it to this impression of my childhood. The unconditional respect with which I regarded the rule, the reverence I cherished for it, the contempt with which I looked down upon the miserable life the exception led, the righteous way, so it seemed to me, in which it was tracked down in my exercise book and always stigmatized — what else is this but the distinc- tion which lies at the bottom of every philosophical way of thinking? When under this influence I regarded my father, he appeared to me an incarnation of the rule; what came from any other source was the excep- tion, insofar as it was not in agreement with his command. When I

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regarded that fellow pupil who was taken out of the school, I felt that he must be an exception unworthy of my attention, and that all the more because the fuss they made about him proved sufficiently that he was an exception. The childish rigorism with which I then distinguished between the rule and the exception has now indeed become softened, but I still have that distinction within me, I know how to call it forth, especially when I see you and your like who seem to propound the doctrine that the exception is the most important thing, yea, that the rule only exists in order that the exception may show off to advantage.
The energy with which I become ethically conscious is therefore the thing that counts, or rather I cannot become ethically conscious without energy. I can therefore never become ethically conscious without becom- ing conscious of my eternal nature. This is the true proof of the immor- tality of the soul. It is, of course, not a full-grown proof unless the task is congruous with duty, but what for eternity is my duty is an eternal task. The circumstance that the first ten lines of Balle’s “Lesson-Book” were assigned to me as a task from which nothing else in the world could ransom me was in a certain sense the first proof presented to me of the immortality of my soul. The imperfection of it consisted, not in any lack of energy on my part, but in the casual character of the task.
It is not my intention to lead you into a consideration of the multi- fariousness of duty. If I would express duty negatively, it would be easy; if I would express it positively, it would be very difficult and prolix; indeed, upon reaching a certain point it would be impossible. On the contrary, what my purpose was, what to the best of my ability I have endeavored to do, was to illuminate the absolute importance of duty, the eternal validity for personality of the relationship of duty. For so soon as in despair a person has found himself, has absolutely chosen himself, has repented himself, he has himself as a task under an eternal responsibility, and thus duty is posited in its absoluteness. How- ever, smce this person has not created himself but chosen himself, duty is the expression of his absolute dependence and of his absolute freedom as identical with one another. The particular duty he will teach himself and in vain will seek enlightenment upon it from any other man, and yet he will again in this case be autodidact as well as theodidact, 4 " and vice versa. In any case, duty is for him nothing accidental, nothing ab- stract, partly because for him it is not anything external (for when this is the case it is always abstract), and partly because he himself is con- crete, for he has chosen himself ethically, has chosen himself in all his

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concretion, and relinquished all claim to the abstractness of arbitrary will.
What remains is to show how life looks when it is regarded ethically. You and all aestheticists are very willing to go halves, you concede that the ethical has its importance, you say that it is respectable for a man to live for his duties, that it is worthy of all honor, indeed, you even let fall some ambiguous words to the effect that it is quite fitting that there are men whoiive for their duties, that it is well the majority of people do so — and you meet with men of duty who are good-natured enough to find that there is sense in this talk, in spite of the fact that like all scepticism it is, of course, nonsensical. On the other hand, you for your part are not willing to have anything to do with the ethical. That would deprive life of its significance and above all of its beauty. The ethical, you think, is something totally different from the aesthetical, and when it prevails it destroys the other entirely.
Now if this were so, I should nevertheless have no doubt what to choose. In despair there is an instant when it seems to be as you say, and if a man has not felt this, his despair has been deceitful and he has not ethically chosen himself. However, it is not so, and therefore the next instant despair reveals itself not as a breach but as a metamorphosis. Everything comes back, but comes back transfigured. Therefore, only when one regards life ethically does it acquire beauty, truth, significance, firm consistence; only when a man fives ethically does his life acquire beauty, truth, significance, security ; and only in the ethical life view are the autopathetic doubt and the sympathetic doubt set at rest. For in fact the autopathetic and the sympathetic doubt only come to rest in one and the same thing, because both are essentially the same doubt. For the autopathetic doubt is not an expression of egoism but a claim [ For- dring ] of the self-love which promotes [fordre] ix its own self in the same sense that it promotes the self of everyone else. This observation, I think, is of great moment. Thus, supposing that every imaginable favor has fallen to his lot, an aestheticist who is not an egoist must be in despair over his happiness, because he must say, “What makes me happy is something which cannot be given in the same way to any other man and which no other man can himself acquire.” He must, in fact, be fear- ful lest someone should ask him why he sought his happiness, for he had become happy in order that other men might feel that they could not become happy. If such a man had any sympathy, he would give himself no rest till he had found a higher principle of life. When he had found it he would not be afraid to talk about his happiness, for then, if he were

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to talk about it rightly, he would say something along with this which would absolutely reconcile him with every man, with humanity as a whole. ^
However, let us pause to consider the category which aesthetics claims as its own, namely, beauty. Life loses its beauty, you say, so soon as the ethical prevails. “Instead of the happiness, beauty, and freedom from care which life has when we regard it aesthetically, we get con- scientious activity, praiseworthy industry, indefatigable and unremitting zeal.” In case you were present here with me I would beg you to give me a definition of the beautiful. Since you are not present I will take the liberty of attaching my argument to the definition you are accus- tomed to give: “The beautiful is that which has its teleology in itself.” You take as illustration a young girl, you say, “She is beautiful, joyful, carefree, perfect harmony complete in itself, and it is stupid to ask why she exists, for she has her teleology in herself.” I shall not annoy you by questioning whether the young girl is really profited by having her teleology only in herself, or whether you, being granted the opportunity of expounding to her your view of the divine character of her existence, would not flatter yourself that she might at last make a mistake and believe that she existed for the sake of listening to your insinuations. You regard nature and find it equally beautiful and are ready to anathmatize every finite view of it. Nor shall I torment you here by inquiring whether it is not essentially characteristic of nature to exist for something else. You regard the works of art and of poetry, and you cry out with the poet, Procul, o procul este prof anil * 2 and by the prof ant you under- stand those who would degrade poetry and art by giving them a tele- ology which lies outside of them.
As for poetry and art, I would remind you again that they provide only an imperfect reconciliation with life, and also that when you fix your gaze upon poetry and art you are not beholding reality— and properly, it was of this we were supposed to be speaking. So we come back to reality, and since it is likely that in real life you will find very little that is beautiful if you strictly apply the requirements of art, you give another meaning to the beautiful. The beautiful about which you talk is the individually beautiful. You view every particular man as a tiny factor or moment of the whole, you view him precisely in his characteristic peculiarity, and thus even the accidental, the insignificant, acquires significance, and life has the impress of beauty. So then you regard every particular man as a moment. But in fact the beautiful ac- cording to your definition was that which has its teleology in itself, but

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when a man is merely a moment he has his teleology not in himself but outside himself. So even though the whole be beautiful, the parts in themselves are not. And now for your own life. Has that its teleology in itself? Whether a man is justified in leading such a life of mere con- templation I will not decide — but eh bten let us assume that the signifi- cance of your life is to contemplate others, then after all you would not have your teleology in yourself. Only when every particular man is a moment and at the same time the whole can he be regarded with a view to his beauty; but when he is regarded thus he is regarded ethically, and if he is regarded ethically, he is regarded in terms of his freedom. Let him be qualified as characteristically as you please, if this qualification is a necessity, he is merely a moment, and his life is not beautiful.
When you define the beautiful as that which has its teleology in itself and adduce by way of illustration a young girl or nature or a work of art, I can make nothing out of it but that the whole rant about all these things having their teleology in themselves is an illusion. If there is to be any question of teleology there must be a movement, for as soon as I think of a goal I think of a movement; even when I think of one who is at the goal I always think of a movement, for I reflect that he has reached it by a movement. What you call beautiful manifestly lacks movement; for the beautiful in nature simply is, and when I view a work of art and penetrate its thought with my thought, it is really in me the movement occurs, not in the work of art. It may be you are right in saying that the beautiful has its teleology in itself, but as you construe this definition and employ it, it is no more than a negative expression which signifies that the beautiful has not its teleology in anything else. Therefore, you will not be able to employ a seemingly synonymous ex- pression to the effect that the beautiful about which you talk has inner teleology or immanent teleology. For so soon as you employ this expres- sion you require movement, history, and with this you have passed beyond the spheres of nature and of art and are in the sphere of free- dom, of the ethical.
Now when 1 say that the individual has his teleology in himself this cannot be misunderstood, as though I meant by this that the individual is the central thing, or that the individual in an abstract sense ought to be sufficient unto himself; for if this is understood abstractly, I get no movement after all. The individual has his teleology in himself, has inner teleology, is himself his teleology. His self is thus the goal towards which he strives. This self of his, however, is not an abstraction but is abso- lutely concrete. In the movement towards himself the individual cannot

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relate hims elf negatively towards his environment, for if he were to do so his self is an abstraction and remains such. His self must be opened in due relation to his entire concretion; but to this concretion belong also the factors which are designed for taking an active part in the world. So his movement, then, is from himself through the world to himself .jHere the movement is a real movement, for it is a work of free- dom, blit at the same time it is immanent teleology, and hence it is here only there can be any question of beauty. If this is the case, the individual is seen to be higher than every relationship in which he stands. But from this it by no means follows that he is not in this rela- tionship, nor can anything tyrannical be discerned m this, inasmuch as the same thing is true of every individual. I am a married man, and you know that I have the profoundest respect for this relationship, and I know that I humble myself under it lovmgly; and yet I know that in another sense I am higher than this relationship; but I know also that in exacdy the same sense this is the case with my wife — and therefore, as you know, I would not love the young girl we spoke about, because she did not share this view.
Therefore, only when I regard life ethically do I see it with a view to its beauty, and only when I regard my own life ethically do I see it with a view to its beauty. And if you were to say that this beauty in invisible, I would make answer: in a certain sense it is, in another sense it is not; that is to say, it is visible in the trace it leaves in history, visible in the sense in which it was said, Loquere ut videam re. 4 'jTt is indeed true that I do not see the consummation but the struggle, but after all, I see the consummation every instant I will, if I have the courage for it, and without courage I see absolutely nothing eternal, and accordingly nothing beautiful.
When I regard life ethically I regard it with a view to its beauty; life then to me becomes rich in beauty, not poor in beauty as it really is for you. I do not need to travel all over the land to discover beauties, nor to follow them up in the streets, I do not need to appraise and reject. Well, that is natural, I haven’t as much time for it as you, for when with joy but also with seriousness I see my life with a view to its beauty I always have enough to do. If sometimes I have an hour free, I stand at my win- dow and regard men, and I see every one with a view to his beauty. Though he be ever so insignificant, ever so lowly, I see him with a view to his beauty; for I see him as this particular man who is yet at the same time the universal man, I see him as one who has this concrete task in life, he does not exist for the sake of any other person, even though he

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were a hired servant; he has his teleology in himself, he is victorious, he accomplishes this task, that I see; for the man of courage does not see spooks, but on the other hand he sees victorious heroes; the coward does not see heroes but only spooks. He must conquer, of that I am certain, therefore his strife is beautiful. As a rule I am not much inclined to strive, at least not with anybody but myself, but you may be sure that for this faith in the victory of the beautiful I will fight in deadly earnest, and nothing shall wrest it from me. v Though with prayers one would wrest from me this faith, though one would wrest it from me by force, I should not let it be taken from me for anything in the world, nor for the whole world, since only by losing this faith would I lose the whole world. By means of this faith I see the beauty of life, and the beauty I see has not the trait of sadness and melancholy which is inseparable from all beauty of nature and of art, inseparable even from the eternal youth of the Greek gods. The beauty I see is joyful and victorious and stronger than the whole worlds^ And this beauty I see everywhere, even where your eye sees nothing, j
Stand here by my window for once. A young girl is going by. Do you remember that we once met her in the street ? She was not pretty, you remarked; but when you had regarded her a little more closely you recognized her and went on to say, “Several years ago she was charming and was a great success at the balls, then she had a love affair, and an unhappy one at that. The deuce only knows how she stood it, she took the thing so much to heart that her beauty faded away with grief, now she is no longer beautiful, and there the story ends.” Well, that can be called regarding life with a view to its beauty! To my eyes, however, she has lost nothing, and to me she seems more beautiful than ever. Your way of regarding the beauty of life appears to me therefore to have a great resemblance to the joie de vivte which prevailed in the period when drinking songs were in vogue, when men became merry and gay by singing airs like this : 44
But for the grape’s red juice Who would stay longer here?
Only crime and abuse Are heard of far and near.
Brothers, drink and forget That earth is a vale of tears.
Drink then and do not let The soul be appalled by fears.

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Let us now come a little closer to some of the situations in real life, the situations where the aesthetical and the ethical come into contact, in order to consider to what extent the ethical may deprive us of some beauty, or whether it does not rather impart to everything a higher beauty. So I think of a definite individual who in a certam sense is “like most people are,” in another sense is concrete in himself. Let us be quite prosaic. This man has to live, he has to clothe himself, in short, he has to exist. Perhaps he addressed himself to an aestheticist to find out how he was to manage, nor would he fail to get enlightenment. The aestheti- cist would perhaps say to him, “When a man is single he requires three thousand dollars a year to live comfortably, if he has four thousand dollars, he needs that too. If he would marry, he must have at least six thousand. Money, after all, is and remains the nervus rerum gerendum, the true conditio sine qua non for living; for of course it is beautiful to read about rural contentment, about idyllic frugality, and I am fond of reading such poetic fiction, but of such a mode of life one would soon tire, and those who live thus do not enjoy this life half so much as those who have money and then in repose and comfort read the songs of the poets. Money is and remains the absolute condition for living. If one has no money, he is and remains excluded from the list of patricians, he is and remains a plebeian. Money is the prime condition, but from this it by no means follows that every one who has money knows how to use it. Those who understand this are in turn the optimates among the patricians.”
By this explanation our hero evidently was not profited, all this practical wisdom did not apply to him at all, and he must have felt like a sparrow at a dance of cranes. For suppose, for example, he were to say to the aestheticist, “That’s all well enough, but I have neither three thousand dollars a year nor six thousand, either in capital or in interest, I have absolutely nothing at all, hardly a hat.” Then his coun- selor would likely shrug his shoulders and say, “Well, that’s another matter, then you must be content with going to the workhouse.” If the aesthetist were very good-natured, he would perhaps call back the poor wretch and say to him, “I don’t want to bring you to despair before I have tried my utmost. There are a few remedies for distress which one should not leave untried before bidding farewell to joy and taking the vow and putting on the straitjacket. Marry a rich girl, play on the lot- tery, go to the colonies, spend some years scraping money together, worm yourself into the favor of an old bachelor that he may appoint you his heir. For the moment our ways separate, make money, and you

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will always find me a friend who knows how to forget that there was a time when you had no money.” After all, there is something dreadfully heartless in such a view of life — thus to murder in cold blood all joy in life for him who has no money. And that is what the moneyed man does, for at least it is his opinion that without money there is no joy in life. If I were to put you in comparison with that aestheticist, were to point to you as one who cherishes or utters such thoughts, I should be doing you a very great injustice. For on the one hand, your heart is too good to be the abode of such abominable baseness, and on the other hand, your soul is too sympathetic to utter such thoughts even if you had them. I do not say this as though I meant that he who is without money has need of such compassionate consideration, but because this, after all, is the least one might require of a man who imagined that he was specially favored. Let a man be proud, in God’s name! It would be better if he were not, but let him be proud, only let him not be proud of money, for there is nothing that so degrades a man. 1/'
Now you are accustomed to having money and have sense enough to know what it implies. You insult no one (differing in this respect from the aestheticist we were talking about), you are glad to help when you can, indeed when you lay stress upon the misery of not havmg money it is done out of sympathy. Your mockery, therefore, is directed not against men but against existence where now things are simply so arranged that not all men can have money. “Prometheus and Epime- theus ,” 45 you say, “were undeniably very wise, but all the same it is incomprehensible that when in other respects they endowed men so gloriously it did not occur to them to give them money also.” If you had been present on this occasion and had known what you now know, you would have come forward and said, “Ye good gods, you deserve thanks for all you have done, but (pardon me for speaking to you so frankly) you have no knowledge of the world; for a man to be happy he needs one thing more, namely, money. What good does it do him to be created to rule over the world when he can’t find time for this because of the necessity of making a living. What a way to act! thrust- ing out into the world a rational creature, and then letting him toil and moil! Is that the way to treat a human being On that topic you are inexhaustible. “Most men,” you say, “live to get a living, when they have got that they live to get a good living, when they have got that they die. With genuine emotion, therefore, I read a while ago a notice in the newspaper in which a wife announced the death of her husband. Instead of commenting diffusely upon the pain of losing the best hus-

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band and most loving father, she said very briefly that this death was such an affliction because only a short time before it her husband had obtained a pretty good living.”
“A good deal more is implied in this than the sorrowing widow and the ordinary reader can see in it. This way of looking at things can be fashioned into a proof of the immortality of man. This proof might be formulated as follows: It is every man’s destiny to get a good living. If a man dies before he got it, he has not attained his destiny, and every one is free to surmise whether in another world he will attain his destiny. On the other hand, if he gets a good living, he has attained his destiny, but the destiny of getting a good living cannot mean that he shall die, but on the contrary that he shall live on his good living, ergo man is immortal. This proof might be called the popular proof, or the proof from a living. If this proof were added to the previous proofs, every reasonable doubt concerning immortality must be regarded as over- come. This proof can perfectly well be associated with the previous proofs, indeed, it is precisely in this connection that it appears in its full glory, seeing that as the conclusion it refers back to the others and proves them. The other proofs start out with the consideration that man is a rational being; now inasmuch as some one might doubt this, the proof from a living is adjoined to prove this assumption by the fol- lowing syllogism: to whom God gives a living He gives an understand- ing, to whom God gives a good living He gives a good understanding, ergo. That sorrowing widow had a presentiment of this, she felt the profound tragedy in life’s contradictions.” So mockery and flippancy is what you have to contribute in the face of this situation. Presumably it never occurs to you that your view might be profitable and instructive to anybody. Nor presumably does it ever occur to you that by such a declamation you may do harm. For it is quite possible to think that a man who in himself cherished resentment enough at being forced into the labor of life might become still more impatient, still more fretful, by paying attention to the passionateness not devoid of wit with which you think on his behalf and to your sympathetic mockery. In using that, however, you ought to be more prudent.
So along the path our hero has taken he will seek in vain for enlight- enment. Let us hear now what an ethicist would reply to him. He would say, “It is every man’s duty to work in order to live.” In case he had nothing more to say, you presumably would reply, “There we have again the old fudge about duty and duty, everywhere it is duty, it is not possible to think of anything more tiresome than this prudery

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which cows everybody and clips their wings.” At this point be so kind as to remember that our hero had no money, that the heartless aestheti- cist had none to spare for him, and that you had not so much left over that you could assure him of his future. So if he didn’t want to sit down and reflect what he would have done if he had had money, he must consider some other expedient. In the next place you will see diat the ethicist addressed him with perfect courtesy, he did not treat him as an exception, he did not say to him, “Good Lord! You are simply so unfor- tunate that you must try to learn to put up with it.” On the contrary, he made the aestheticist an exception, for he said, “It is every man’s duty to work in order to live.” Insofar, then, as a man does not need to work he is an exception, but to be an exception is, as we agreed above, not great but little. Therefore, if a man will view the matter ethically he will see that to have money is a humiliation. When he views it thus he will not be enamored of any special favor. He will then humble himself under it, and when he has done that he will again be exalted by the thought that this favor is an expression for the fact that a great claim is made upon him.
If that ethicist from whom our hero sought advice is himself ac- quainted with what it means to work in order to live, his words will have still more weight. It is to be wished that in this respect people had more courage, and the reason why one often hears so loudly uttered this despicable talk about money being the principal thing is to be found partly in the fact that those who must work lack ethical energy to own up to the significance of work, lack conviction of its significance Mar- riage is not harmed by seducers but by cowardly husbands. So it is in this case. The despicable talk we have listened to does no harm, but those people harm the good cause who, being compelled to work in order to live, desire one moment to have their life recognized as meritorious in comparison with that of idlers, the next moment they lament and sigh, and say that after all it is far more beautiful to be independent. What respect will younger people have for life when they hear such talk from older people P Here again you have done yourself much harm by your experimentation, for you have learned to know much which is not good and gladdening. You know very well how to tempt a man and coax from him the admission that he would prefer, after all, to be exempt from work, and so you triumph.
The question whether it might not be possible to imagine a world in which it was not necessary to work in order to live is really an idle ques- tion since it does not deal with the given reality but with a feigned

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situation. This, however, is always an attempt to belittle the, ethical view. For if it were a perfection on the part of existence not to have to work, then that man’s life would be the most perfect who didn’t have to. Then one could say that it was a duty to work only by attaching to the word duty the sense of a dolorous necessity. Duty then would express, not the universal-human but the common, and in this case duty would not be the expression for the perfect. Therefore, I would reply quite aptly that it must be regarded as an imperfection on the part of existence that man did not need to work. The lower the scale of human life, the less evident is the necessity of working; the higher the scale, the more evident it is. The duty of working in order to live expresses the universal-human, and it expresses the universal also in another sense because it expresses free- dom. It is precisely by workmg that man makes himself free, by work- ing he becomes lord over nature, by working he shows that he is higher than nature.
Or might life lose its beauty for the fact that a man must work in order to live? We are back again at the same old point: everything depends upon what one understands by beauty. It is beautiful to see the lilies of the field (though they sew not neither do they spin) so clothed that even Solomon in all his glory was not so magnificent; it is beautiful to see the birds without anxiety finding their food; it is beautiful to see Adam and Eve in Paradise where they could get every thing they pointed at; but it is still more beautiful to see a man earning by his work what he has need of. It is beautiful to see a providence satisfying all and caring for all, but it is still more beautiful to see a man who is, as it were, his own providcnce/Man is great, greater than any other creature, for the fact that he can provide for himself. It is beautiful to see a man possess- ing an affluence which he himself has earned, but it is also beautiful to see a man doing the still greater trick of transforming little into much. It is an expression of man’s perfection that he can work, it is a still higher expression for it that he must)
In case our hero will adoptmis view, he will not feel tempted to wish for a fortune which comes to him while he sleeps, he will not be in love with the prerequisites of life, he will feel the beauty of working in order to live, he will sense in this his human dignity; for it is not greatness in the case of plants that they do not spin, but it is their imperfection that they cannot. He will not desire to strike up a friendship with that opu- lent aestheticist and will not let himself be frightened by men of money. Strangely enough, I have seen men who joyfully felt the significance of workmg, were satisfied with their work, happy in their frugal compe-

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tence, and yet had not courage as it were to admit this. When they talked about what they needed they always made it seem as if they needed much more than they really did, they did not want to seem industrious, although they really were, just as though it were a greater thing to need much than to need little, greater to be an idler than to be industrious. How seldom one encounters a man who says calmly and with cheerful dignity, “I don’t do this or that, I have not the means for it.” It is as though a man had a bad conscience, as though he were afraid of getting the answer the raven got . 40 In this way all true virtue is destroyed or transformed into a phantom. For why should people be frugal who don’t need to be? And those who are obliged to be frugal make a virtue of necessity. Just as though one could not be frugal unless one had at hand the possibility of affluence, just as though need were not just as great an enticement to frugality.
So presumably our hero would resolve to work, and yet he would find himself exempted to a certain extent from sordid cares about daily bread. Such sordid cares I have never known, for though in a way I must work in order to live I have always had a liberal competence and cannot therefore speak from experience, but I have always had an eye'v open to the hardship of this situation...and to its beauty also, its edu- cating and ennobling effect, for I believe that there is no care which educates like this. I have known men whom I would not think of calling cowardly and effeminate, who were not in the least disposed to think that man’s life ought to be without strife, who felt strength and courage and inclination to fight in a cause where others would lose heart, at the same time I have often heard them say, “God preserve me from care for daily bread. There is nothing which so stifles the higher aspirations in a man.” Such utterances have often given me occasion to reflect (and my own life has given me occasion to verify it) that there is nothing so deceitful as the human heart. A man will have courage to venture out into the most dangerous conflicts, but is not willing to engage in a conflict for daily bread, and at the same time he would make out that it is a greater thing to engage in the other conflicts than in this latter one. Well, that’s obviously convenient. One chooses an easier conflict which nevertheless, in the eyes of the multitude seems more dangerous; one persuades oneself that this is the truth; one con- quers and so of course is a hero, and a hero of a very different sort than if he had conquered in that other paltry conflict which is unworthy of a man. Indeed, when besides care for daily bread one has within oneself such a hidden enemy to combat, it is no wonder one wishes to be rid of

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this other conflict. Yet a man ought, at least, to be honest enough with himself to admit that the reason why he shunned this conflict was that it is far harder than the other. But if it is harder, then the victory also is far more beautiful. In case a man is not himself tried in this conflict, he owes every combatant the admission that his conflict is the most danger- ous, he owes him this amend honorable. If one looks at care for daily bread as an affair of honor in a still stricter sense than any other combat, one has already made some progress. Here as in every other case the important thing is to be in the correct position, not to be wasting one’s time on wishes but to comprehend one’s task. If this task is apparently lowly and insignificant, petty and disheartening, then one knows that this only makes the strife more difficult and victory more beautiful. There are men who are honored by the insignia of orders, and there are men who shed honor upon the orders. Let that man apply this to him- self who while he feels strength and inclination to engage in glorious conflicts must be content with the most lowly of all, the conflict for daily bread.
Then, too, the conflict for daily bread has the highly educative char- acteristic that the reward is so small, or rather is nothing at all, the com- batant striving merely to procure the possibility of being able to con- tinue to strive. The greater the reward of battle and the more it is external to a man, so much the more does the combatant dare to rely also upon all the ambiguous passions which dwell in every man. Ambi- tion, vanity, pride — these are powers which possess a prodigious elasticity which is able to drive a man far. He who strives for daily bread sees at once that these passions ftil him. For how could he suppose that such a strife might interest others or arouse their admiration? If he has no other powers, he is disarmed. The reward is so small; for when he has drudged and toiled and moiled he has perhaps earned precisely what is needful — what is needful to keep him alive, in order again to be able to toil and moil. The conflict for daily bread is so ennobling and educative because it does not permit a man to deceive himself with regard to his own situation. If he sees nothing higher in this conflict, it is wretched, and he is right in regarding it as an affliction to
have to strive to be able to eat his bread by the sweat of his
brow. But this strife is so ennobling because it compels him to
see something else in it, compels him, if he will not throw him-
self away entirely, to see in it a combat of honor, and to perceive that the reward is so small in order that the honor may be the greater. So he strives, indeed, to acquire a competence, but what after all he is striving

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for first and foremost is to acquire himself; and we who have not been subjected to this test but yet have preserved a feeling for the truly great will look on, and if he permits it we will honor him as an honorary member of society. He has, then, a double conflict; he may lose in the one conflict and yet at the same time conquer in the other. If I were to imagine the almost unimaginable, that all his efforts to earn a livelihood were to fail, then indeed he has lost, and yet at the same time he may have won the most beautiful victory it is possible to win. It is upon this I will fix my glance, not upon the reward he missed, for that is too trifling a thing. He who has a reward before his eyes forgets the other conflict; if he does not win the reward, he has lost all; if he wins it, it nevertheless always remains dubious how he won it.
Indeed, what conflict could be more educative than that for daily bread ? How much of the spirit of childhood is required in order some- times almost to smile at all the earthly trouble and travail an immortal spirit has to put up with in order to live, how much humility in order to be content with that little which is earned with difficulty, how much faith in order to see a guidance of providence in one’s own life too; for it is easy enough to say that God is greatest in the least manifestations, but to see Him in them requires the strongest faith! What love for man- kind to rejoice with the fortunate and to be able to cheer those who are alike in misfortune! What an intense and penetrating consciousness of oneself to make sure one is doing all one can, what perseverance and what vigilance! For what enemy is more crafty than this solicitude? A man does not get rid of it with a few stirring movements, does not frighten it away by noise and racket. What grace and distinction one must have to turn away from it and yet not shun it! How often the weapons must be changed: now one must work, now wait, now brave it out, now pray! And with what delight and joy and ease and dexterity the weapons must be changed, for otherwise the enemy has conquered!
And with this, time passes, a man is not granted opportunity to see his beautiful plans realized, the wishes of his youth fulfilled. He sees others who succeed in this. They gather the crowd around them and reap its applause, they take delight in its jubilation, while he stands as a solitary artist upon the stage of life, having no public and no one who has time to look at him — of course not, for it takes time, his exhibition is not a half hour of juggling, the tricks he performs are of a finer sort atid require more than a “cultivated public” to understand them. But neither does he covet this applause. “When I was twenty years of age,” he says perhaps, “I too dreamed of combat, I imagined myself in the lists, I

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looked up at the balcony, I saw the circle of maidens, saw them anxious on my behalf, saw them wave to me their applause, and I forgot the toil of the combat; now I have grown older, my combat is now a different one, but my soul is not less proud. I demand another umpire, a con- noisseur, I demand an eye which seeth in secret, which doth not grow weary of seeing, which beholds the strife and perceives the danger; I demand an ear which hears the labor of thought, which divines how my better nature twists itself out of the torture of temptation. To that um- pire I will look up, after His applause I will aspire, even though I am not able to deserve it. And when the cup of suffering is held out to me; I will not fix my glance upon the cup but upon Him who holds it, I will not stare at the bottom of the cup if at once I have not drained it, but will fix my gaze immovably upon Him from whom I receive it. Joyfully I will take the cup in my hand, not as when on a festive occa- sion I drain it to the health of another and am myself gladdened by the delicious taste of the beverage; no, I will taste its bitterness, and as I taste it I will cry out to myself, ‘To my health!’ because I know and am convinced that I am purchasing for myself an eternal health.”
So it is, I believe, one must ethically conceive the combat fought for daily bread. I will not stand up so doggedly for my rights as to challenge you to indicate exactly at what point in your theory of aesthetics you deal with this subject, but I merely leave it to your own consideration whether by this conflict life loses its beauty if one does not will that it should, or whether it does not gain a higher beauty. To deny that such a conflict exists is indeed madness, to forget it because it passes by one’s own house is thoughtlessness, and, in case one lays claim to a reasoned view of life, it is heardessness and cowardice.
The fact that many men do not regard the conflict for daily bread in this way is no valid objection, and it surely is a good and pious desire when for such people I wish that they might be magnanimous enough to regard it thus, be inspired not to see amiss like those men in the apocryphal story in Daniel who “did not look up to heaven but looked upon Susanna.”
The ethical view that it is every man’s duty to work in order to live has accordingly two advantages over the aesthetical view. In the first place, it is consonant with reality and explains something universal in it, whereas the aesthetical view propounds somethmg accidental and explains nothing. In the second place, it construes man with a view to his perfection, sees him in his true beauty. This may be regarded as all that is necessary and more than is sufficient concerning this subject. If

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you wish to have a few empirical observations, I throw them into the bargain — not as though the ethical view stood in need of any such support, but because you perhaps may profit by them.
An old man whom I once knew always used to say that it was well for a man to learn to work for his living, that what applies to children applies to grown-ups: they are to be taken m time. Now it is not my meaning that it would be good for a young man to be at once disheart- ened by the need of making a living. But only let him work in order to live. The financial independence so highly extolled is often a snare: every desire can be satisfied, every inclination followed, every whim gratified, until they all conspire against oneself. He who must work will remain unacquainted with the vain joy of being able to get everything, he will not learn to trust defiantly in his wealth, to remove with money every obstacle, to purchase for himself every liberty; but then neither will his mind be embittered, he will not be tempted to turn his back upon existence with proud disdain, as many a rich youth has done, and to say as Jugurtha said of Rome, “Here is a city which is for sale if it finds a purchaser ,” 47 he will not in a brief space of time have acquired a wisdom whereby he does men an injustice and makes himself un- happy.
So when I often hear people complain that they are compelled to work, compelled to trouble themselves about such things, men whose soul’s flight ought not to be thus checked, then I cannot deny that I sometimes become impatient, that I could wish that Harun al Raschid still went about amongst us dealing out a bastinado to every one who complained unseasonably . 48 Now you are not in the position of needing to work in order to live, and it is by no means my purpose to counsel you to throw away your fortune so that it may become a necessity for you to work; that is of no avail, and all experimentation is foolishness which comes to nothing. In another sense, however, I believe that you are in the position of needing to acquire the conditions requisite for living. In order to live you must acquire mastery over your innate melan- choly. With a view to this situation I apply to you the words of that old acquaintance of mine, that you be taken in time. This melancholy has been your misfortune, but you will see the day when you yourself will admit that it has been your good fortune. So acquire the condition for being able to live. You are not one of those who will make me impatient by complaints, for I believe rather that you would do anything but complain, and you know exceedingly well how to bite back your suffer- ings within yourself. Beware, however, lest you fall into the opposite

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extreme, into a mad defiance which consumes one’s strength in the effort to conceal pain, instead of using it to bear pain and to vanquish it.
Our hero, then, is willing to work, not because it is for him a dura necessitas , 49 but because he regards it as the most beautiful thing and the most perfect. (The notion that he might not be able to regard it thus because, after all, he is compelled to put up with it, is one of those foolish and partly malicious misapprehensions which locate a man’s value outside of him in the accidental.) But precisely because he is willing to work, his occupation can be work and not slave-labor. He requires, then, a higher expression for his occupation, an expression which indicates the relation of his occupation to his own person and to that of other men, an expression which is able to define it for him as pleasure and at the same time to assert its importance. Here a deliberation will again be necessary. With the wise man of the three thousand dollars he counts it beneath his dignity to have any dealings, but our hero is like most people. To be sure, he has been taken in time, but nevertheless, he has acquired a taste for living aesthetically, he is like most people, ungrate- ful. Although it was the ethicist who helped him out of his former embarrassment, it is not to him he first has recourse. Perhaps as a last resort he secretly relies upon the ethicist to help him out of this fix, for our hero is far from being so petty as not to be ready to admit that the ethicist really helped him out of his embarrassment, although he had no money to give him. He has recourse then to a more humane aestheticist. So this man will also know how to give him a dissertation about the importance of working. Without work life at last becomes tiresome. “One’s work, however, ought not to be work in the strictest sense but ought constantly to be a work which could be defined as pleasure. One discovers in oneself some aristocratic talent or another whereby one dis- tinguishes oneself from the mob. This one cultivates — not frivolously, for then one soon becomes tired of it, but with aesthetic seriousness. Life then has for one a new significance because one has one’s work, a work which yet really is one’s pleasure. Being financially independent, one takes good care of this talent in order that, unhampered by the neces- sities of life, it may develop into its full vigor. This talent, however, one does not treat as a plank whereby one is saved in the shipwreck of life; one does not treat it as a toiling nag but as a prancing steed.” Our hero, however, has no such aristocratic talent, he is like most people. So the aestheticist knows nothing better for him to do than “to put up with being classified by the mob’s trivial definition of what it is to be a laboring man. But do not lose courage, this too has its importance, it is

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honest and respectable. Become a diligent and industrious man, a useful member of society. I already take delight in seeing you, for the more multifarious life is, the more interesting it is for the onlooker. Hence it is that I and all aesthetes hate a national costume because it would be so tiresome to look at people if all were dressed alike. So then let every individual pursue his own occupation in life, for with that, life becomes all the more beautiful for me and my kmd who make it their profession to be onlookers.” Our hero, I should hope, becomes a little impatient at this treatment, he is indignant at the insolence of such a classification of men. Moreover, independence played after all a considerable role in the aestheticist’s view of life, and independent is simply what he is not.
Perhaps he cannot yet make up his mind to have recourse to the ethicist. He ventures to make one more attempt. He meets a man who says, “One must work in order to live, that’s the way life is.” Here he seems to have found the man he sought, for this is precisely what he thinks. So he is willing to pay attention to this discourse. “One must work in order to live, that’s the way life is, it is the seamy side of exist- ence. One sleeps seven hours every day, that is time wasted, but it has to be; one works five hours of the day, that is time wasted, it has to be. With five hours’ work one has one’s livelihood, and when one has that, then one begins to live. So one’s work had better be as dull and mean- ingless as possible, so long as one gets one’s livelihood from it. If one has a special talent, one must not commit against it the sin of making it one’s means of livelihood. No, one’s talent must be coddled, that is a thing one possesses for its own sake, one takes greater joy in it than a mother takes in her child, one cultivates and develops it in the twelve hours of the day, sleeps seven hours, is hardly human for five hours, and so life becomes after all pretty tolerable, yea, even rather beautiful; for the five hours’ work is not so dreadful after all, for since one’s thoughts are never on the work, one gathers strength for the avocation which is one’s delight.”
Our hero is again no nearer his goal than before. For in the first place he has no special talent with which to fill up the twelve hours at home, in the second place he has already got a more beautiful notion of what it is to work and he is not willing to give that up. So he will likely resolve to seek help again from the ethicist. The ethicist speaks briefly: “It is every man’s duty to have a calling.” More he cannot say, for the ethical as such is always abstract, and there is no such thing as an abstract calling for all men; he presupposes, on the contrary, that every man has a particular calling. What calling our hero should choose the

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ethicist cannot inform him, for this requires a detailed knowledge of the aesthetical components of his entire personality, and even if the ethicist had this knowledge, he would still refrain from choosing for him, since by doing so he would be renouncing his own view of life. What the ethicist can teach him is that there is a calling for every man, and when our hero has found his the ethicist can admonish him to choose it ethically. For what the aestheticist had to say about the aristocratic tal- ents is a confused and sceptical discourse about the very thing which the ethicist clearly explains. The life views of the aestheticists always imply differences: some men have talents, others have not, and yet what distinguishes them is a more or a less quantitative determinant. Hence it is arbitrary on their part to draw the line at a particular point, and yet the nerve of their life view consists precisely in this arbitrary distinc- tion. Their life view therefore posits a discord in existence which they find themselves unable to resolve, and so they frivolously and heartlessly arm themselves against it. The ethicist, on the other hand, reconciles man with life, for he says, “Every man has a calling.” He does not do away with the differences, but he says, “In all the differences there is the common factor left that each is a calling. The most eminent talent is a calling, and the individual who is in possession of it cannot lose sight of reality, he does not stand outside of the universal-human, for his talent is a calling. The most insignificant individual has a calling, he shall not be cast out, not be reduced to living on a par with the beasts, he does not stand outside of the universal human, he has a calling.”
The ethical thesis that every man has a calling is the expression for the fact that there is a rational order of things in which every man, if he will, fills his place in such a way that he expresses at once the uni- versal-human and the individual. With this way of regarding it has existence become less beautiful ? One has no occasion to rejoice in an aristocracy which is founded upon an accident and accidentally founded upon it; no, one has a realm of gods . 60
When the talent is not construed as a call (and when it is so con- strued every man has a call), then the talent is absolutely egoistic. Every one, therefore, who founds his life upon a talent leads, so far as he can, a robber existence. He has no higher expression for the talent than that it is a talent. So this talent wants to come to the fore in its unique differ- ence. Every talent has, therefore, a tendency to make itself the central factor, every condition must be present to promote it, for only in this wild bursting forth consists the real aesthetic enjoyment of the talent. If there is a simultaneous talent with another direction, the two collide

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in mortal conflict, for they have no concentric direction, no higher expression in common.
So our hero has got what he sought, a work whereby he might live; he has got at the same time a more significant expression for its relation to his personality: it is his calling, and so the accomplishment of it is associated with a satisfaction of his whole personality; he has got also a more significant expression for the relation of his work to other men, for since his work is his calling he is thereby put essentially on a par with all other men, he is then doing by his work the same thing that every other man does, he is performing his calling. He claims recognition of this, more he does not claim, for this is the absolute. “If my calling is an insignificant one,” says he, “I can be faithful to my calling and am essen- tially just as great as the greatest, without being for an instant so foolish as to forget the differences ; that would do me no good, for were I to forget them there would be an abstract calling for all, but an abstract calling is no calling, and I would have lost again just as much as the greatest stands to lose. If my calling is insignificant, I can be unfaithful to my calling, and if I am, I commit just as great a sin as does the great- est. I shall not be so foolish as to want to forget the differences or to think that my unfaithfulness might have consequences just as dreadful for the whole as has the unfaithfulness of the greatest; that does me no good, I myself am the one who would lose most by it.”
1 The ethical consideration that every one has a calling possesses a double advantage over the aesthetic theory of talent. In the first place, it explains \for\lare\ talent not as something occasional in existence but as the universal; in the second place, it exhibits the universal in its true beauty. For talent is beautiful only when it is transfigured [ for - h}aj;et\ as a call, and existence is beautiful only when every one has a call.) Such being the case, I beg you not to disdain a simple empirical observation which so far as concerns the principal theme of this discourse you will have the kindness to regard as a superfluity. When a man has a calling he generally has a norm outside himself which, without makin g him a slave, does nevertheless prescribe in a measure what he must do, apportions for him the time, often gives him occasion to begin. If for once he does not make a success of his business, he hopes to do it better next time, and this next time is not too far distant. On the other hand, the man who has no calling must generally work very much more uno tenor e, in case he proposes a task for himself. There is no place for him to break off except as he does it of his own accord. If he fails m it, then the failure is complete, and he has great difficulty in beginning again

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since he lacks an occasion which prompts him to do so. So he is easily tempted to become a pedant, if he would not become an idler. It is such a common thing to accuse of pedantry people who have definite official duties. Generally such a man cannot become a pedant. He, on the other hand, who has no official duties is tempted to become a pedant in order to put up at least a little resistance to the too great freedom by reason of which he may easily be tempted to go astray. One therefore may very properly be inclined to forgive him for his pedantry, since it is a sign of something good in him. But on the other hand, it may be regarded as his punishment for wanting to emancipate himself from the universal.
Our hero found a more significant expression for the relation of his work to other men in the fact that it was a calling. Thus he has recog- nition, he has obtained his credentials. But now when he is discharging the duties of his calling he finds in that his personal satisfaction, but at the same time he requires an expression for the relation of this activity to other men, he requires to be accomplishing something. Here, perhaps, he will again go astray. The aestheticist will explain to him that this satisfaction of the talent is the highest thing, and that the question whether he is accomplishing anything or not is entirely secondary. He will, perhaps, adopt a practical bigotry which believes in its inept zeal that it is accomplishing everything, or he will assume an aesthetic air of importance which thinks that to accomplish anything m the world is something which falls to the lot of a few elect individuals, that there are certain eminent talents which accomplish something, the men left over are numerus, a superfluity in existence representing the prodigality of the Creator. But none of these explanations is of any use to our hero, for he is like most people.
Let us again have recourse to the ethicist. He says, “What every man accomplishes and can accomplish is to do his job. For in case it were true that certain men accomplish something and others do not, and the reason for this was an accidental difference, then scepticism has again obtained the upper hand.” We must therefore say that looking at it essen- tially every man “accomplishes as much as another.” I am by no means preaching indolence, but on the other hand one must be cautious in usmg the expression “accomplish.” This has always been a theme for your derision, and, as you once expressed it, you have “studied pro- foundly integral and differential and infinitesimal calculus in order to reckon how much is accomplished on the whole by a clerk in the Ad- miralty who in the entire bureau is regarded as a smart worker.” Use

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your talent for mockery only against persons who would make them- selves important, but do not abuse it to confuse men’s minds.
The expression “to accomplish” indicates a relation between my action and another man outside of me. Now it is easy to perceive that this relation is not subject to my control, and that in view of this one can say with as much justification of the most eminent talent that it accom- plished nothing as this can be said of the most insignificant man. There is no distrust of life implied in this, on the contrary, it implies a recog- nition of my importance and a respect for the importance of every other man. The man who possesses the most eminent talent is able to do his job, and the most insignificant man can do that too. Neither of them can do more. Whether they might accomplish something does not lie in their power, but it does lie in their power to hinder themselves from doing it. I therefore give up all the self-importance which often looks so big, I do my job, and I do not waste my time on calculating whether I am accomplishing anything. So what I accomplish follows upon my job as a piece of good luck in which I may well take delight but which I dare not impute absolutely to myself. A beech grows up, forms its crown of leaves, and men delight to sit in its shade. If it were to become impatient, if it were to say, “Here in this place where I stand there hardly ever comes a living bemg. What use is it for me to grow, to shoot out my branches, what do I accomplish by it?” it would with that only delay its growth, and perhaps there came a way-farer who said, “If this tree instead of being stunted had been a leafy tree, I now might have taken rest in its shade.” Imagine that the tree had been able to hear!
So every man can accomplish something, he can accomplish his job. The job may be of very various kinds, but we are always to hold fast to this, that every man has his job, and that all men are reconciled by the expression that each of them does his job. The relation of my job to the other man, or what I shall accomplish (taking this word in its usual sense), is not under my control. Even the man whose job in life is to develop himself, even he accomplishes, if we look at it essentially, just as much as every other man. It might therefore seem as if that aestheti- cist was right when he expressed the opinion that one should not con- sider what one was accomplishing but merely enjoy the satisfaction of unfoldmg one’s talent. However, his mistake was that he stopped with the selfish definition of talent. He accounted himself one of the elect and was unwilling to accomplish in his life the universal, to regard his talent as his job. The person, however, of whom one could say that his job in life consists simply and solely in developing himself belongs of

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course to the class of persons who humanly speaking are the lea^t tal- ented. Take a young girl for instance. She belongs to the class of people of whom one is not tempted to say that they are able to accomplish something. In addition, suppose that she has been unhappy in love, that she has been deprived of the last prospect of accomplishing anything; if nevertheless she does her job, if she develops herself, she accomplishes, if we look at it essentially, just as much as the greatest.
Accomplishing, then, is identical with doing one’s job. Think of a man who is profoundly and sincerely moved; to him it never occurs to question whether he will accomplish something or not, only the idea is intent to reahze itself in him with all its might. Let him be an orator, a priest, or whatever you will. He does not speak to the multitude in order to accomplish something, but the melody within him must ring out, only then does he feel happy. Do you believe that he accomplished less than one who became puffed up with the idea of what he will ac- complish, who keeps himself going with the thought of what he himself will accomplish ? Think of an author; to him it never occurs to question whether he will obtain a reader or whether he will accomplish anything by his book; he is only intent upon apprehending the truth. Do you believe that such a writer accomplishes less than one whose pen is under the supervision and direction of the thought that he will accomplish something' 1
Strangely enough, though neither you nor I nor our hero himself nor that shrewd aestheticist has noticed it, it is nevertheless true, our hero possesses an extraordinary talent. Thus it is that the spiritual quality in a man may lie for a long time concealed till its quiet growth has reached a certain point and then it proclaims itself with all its power. The aestheticist will likely say, “Well, now it’s too late, now he’s botched once for all, poor man!” The ethicist, on the contrary, will say, “It was lucky for him, for now that he has once for all perceived the truth his talent will not become a snare unto his feet, he will perceive that a man needs neither financial independence nor five hours of slave-labor in order to conserve his talent, but that his talent is precisely his calling.”
So our hero works in order to live; this work is at the same time his pleasure; he fulfills the duties of his calling, he accomplishes his job — to say it all in one word, and with a word which mspires you with dread...he has a living. Do not be impatient, let the poet say it, and it sounds prettier: 01
Instead of childhood’s golden promise,
He makes a living scant but honest.

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And then what next? You will smile, you think I have something up my sleeve. You already shudder at my prosaic intention, for you say, “Now it comes to nothing less than getting him married; yes, do be so kind, you had better have his banns published, I shall have no objection to make against your and his godly resolution. It is incredible how rationally consistent everything is in existence: a livmg and a wife. Indeed, even that poet with his chime of bells struck a phrase which indicates not obscurely that with the living comes the wife. Against one thing only I must protest, that you call your client a hero. I have been tractable and compliant, I had no wish to condemn the man, I always had hopes of him, but really you must now excuse me if I go around by another street and no longer am inclmed to hear a word about him. An office-seeker and a wife-seeker — I have all respect for him, but as for being a hero, surely he himself would not lay claim to that.” You think then that in order to be called a hero one must do something extraor- dinary. In that case your prospects are really brilliant. Suppose now that it required much courage to do thg. extraordinary, and of course he who shows such courage is a hero, (in calling a man a hero one must reflect not so much upon what he does as upon how he does it. One man may conquer kingdoms and lands without being a hero, an- other may show himself a hero by ruling his own spirit. One man may show courage by doing the extraordinary, another by doing the ordinary. The question in every case is, how he does it) You will not deny that in the foregoing recital our hero showed a disposition to do the extraordinary, indeed, I cannot yet entirely vouch for him that he will not try it. Presumably it was upon this you based your hope that he would become a real hero. Upon this I based my fear that he would become...a fool. So I have showed the same forbearance towards him that you have, from the beginning I had hopes of him, I have called him “hero,” in spite of the fact that several times he seemed on the point of wanting to make himself unworthy of this title. Therefore if I get him married, I tranquilly get him off my hands and gladly deliver him into the hands of his wife. By reason of the refractory disposition he previ- ously displayed he has qualified himself to be put under a more special supervision. This work his wife will undertake, and so all will go well, for whenever he is tempted to want to be an extraordinary man his wife will at once orient him again, and thus in all quietness he will earn the name of hero, and his life will not be without exploits. Then I have nothing more to do with him, unless he might feel himself drawn to me in the same way that I shall feel myself drawn to him if he continues

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his heroic course. He will then see in me a friend, and our relationship will not be without significance. He will know how to put up with the fact that at that juncture you withdrew from him, and all the more because he might easily become a little suspicious if it should please you to take an interest in him. With a view to this situation I wish him good fortune, and to every married man I wish the same good fortune.
However, we have not yet got so far along as that, not by a long shot. So for a long time you can still hope — as long, that is to say, as I need to fear. For our hero is like most people and consequently has a certain propensity for the extraordinary; he is also a little ungrateful, and hence at this juncture he wants to try again his luck with the aestheticists before turning for help to the ethicist. He knows also how to gloss over his ingratitude, for he says, “The ethicist really did help me out of my con- fusion; the view of my activity which I owe to him still satisfies me entirely, the seriousness of it uplifts me. However, so far as my love is concerned, I surely might wish in this respect to enjoy my freedom, to follow the promptings of my heart. Love has no liking for this serious- ness, it demands the lightness and grace of aesthetics.” \/
You see, I still may have trouble enough with him. It seems almost as though he had not entirely understood the foregoing experiences. He still continues to believe that the ethical lies outside the aesthetical, and this in spite of the fact that he himself has to admit that by the ethical view of it life acquired beauty. Well, we shall see. You puff a little, and then I can get out of this situation all the misunderstandings I want.
Although you have never replied to my previous letter either verbally or in writing, you presumably remember its content, and will remember particularly how I there sought to show that, by means of the ethical, marriage is the aesthetic expression of love. So presumably you will forgive me for my self-confidence in believing that the thought I diere developed, seeing that I made it fairly comprehensible to you, I shall easily be able, if need be, to explain to our hero. He had recourse to the aestheticists and left them no wiser as to what he should do, but rather as to what he should not do. For a while he was witness to the craftiness of a seducer, he listened to his indecent talk but has learned to despise his art, has learned to see through him, to see that he is a liar, a liar when he feigns love, when he pretends to feelings m which perhaps there once was truth when by them he belonged to another, to see that he deceives doubly, both her whom he would make believe that he cherishes such feelings, and her to whom they rightfully belong, that he is a liar when he makes himself believe that there is something

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beautiful in his lust. He has learned to despise the clever mockery which would make love a childish prank at which one could only smile. He has seen your favorite play, T he First Love, by Scribe. He does not claim to have culture enough to appraise the play aesthetically, but he finds it unjust on the part of the poet to let Charles sink so low in the course of eight years. He is ready to admit that such things may happen in real life, but he does not think that this is what one should learn from a poet. He finds that there is a contradiction in the play for the fact that it represents Emmeline as at once a high-flown fool and a really lovable girl — as Rinville at the first glance is at once convinced that she is, in spite of his prejudice against her. He finds that m view of this it is again an injustice to let Charles in the course of eight years become a depraved man. It seems to him that the play ought not to be a comedy but a tragedy. He finds that it is unjust of the poet to let Emmeline yield so frivolously to her misapprehension, forgive Rinville frivolously for deceiving her, and thus to mock frivolously her own feelings, build frivolously her whole future upon her own frivolity, upon Rinville’s frivolity, and upon the frivolity of Charles. He finds that the original Emmeline is indeed sentimental and high-flown, but the reformed Emmeline, the shrewd type, is a being far inferior to the former notwith- standing all her imperfections.
He finds it inexcusable on the part of the poet to represent love as a prank it takes a man eight years to live into and half an hour to get out of, head over heels, without the slightest impression being left by this change. He was glad to observe that it was not exactly the men he most respects who laugh especially at such plays. For an mstant the mockery made his blood run cold, but again he is sensible of the flood of feelings which arises in his breast, he is convinced that this pulsation is the life-principle of the soul, and that he who would suppress it is dead and doesn’t need to have himself buried. For a little while he let himself be lulled by the mistrust of life which would teach him that there is nothing one can venture to build upon and so conceive a plan for one’s whole life. His indolence and cowardice found this talk thor- oughly acceptable, it was a comfortable costume to assume, and in men’s eyes not unbecoming. However, he has examined this talk sharply, he has seen the hypocrite, the pleasure-lover who came in humble dress, the robber in sheep’s clothing, and he has learned to despise this talk. He has perceived that it is an insult and consequently is unfair to want to love a person for the obscure and not for the conscious elements in her nature, to want to love in such a way that one could think of the

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possibility that this love might cease and that one might then dare to say, “I can’t help it. Feeling is not under a man’s control.” He has per- ceived that it is an insult and consequently is unfair to want to love with one side of the soul but not with the whole soul, to treat one’s love as fractional quantity and yet take the whole love of another, to want to be to a certain degree a riddle and a secret. He has perceived that it would be unfair for him to have a hundred arms so that he might embrace many, he has only one bosom and wishes only for one whom he may embrace. He has perceived that it is an insult to want to attach oneself to another person in the way one attaches oneself to a finite and casual thing, conditionally, so that if later difficulties were to arise one could change one’s attachment again. He does not believe that for a man who loves it is possible to change, unless it be for the better. And were this to come to pass, he believes in die power of the relationship to make it all right again. He recognizes that what love requires is like the Temple tribute, a holy tax which is paid in its own peculiar coin, and that one does not accept all the riches of the world as quittance for the most insignificant claim if the impress of the coinage is counterfeit.
Our hero, you see, is on the right path, he has lost faith in the hard- ened common sense of the aestheticists and in their obscure feelings which are supposed to be too delicate to be expressed as duty. He has accepted the ethicist’s declaration that it is the duty of every man to marry; he has understood this correctly, to the effect that he does not sin who fails to marry, except insofar as he himself is to blame for it, since in that case he offends against the universal-human which is set before him too as a task which must be realized, but that he who marries realizes the universal. Further dian this the ethicist cannot bring him, for as we have said the ethical is always the abstract; it can only tell him what the universal is. So in this mstance it cannot possibly tell him whom he ought to marry. For that would require a precise acquaintance with all his aesthetic qualifications; but this the ethicist does not possess, and even if he did possess it, he would nevertheless beware of demolishing his own theories by undertaking to make the choice for him. So when he himself has chosen, the ethical will con- secrate the choice and ennoble his love; and to a certain degree it will also be helpful in choosing, since it will save him from a superstitious faith m the accidental, for a merely aesthetic choice is really an indefinite choice; and unconsciously the ethical helps every man, but since this assistance is unconscious it has the semblance of being a disparagement

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of life, reflecting its wretchedness, instead of which it is an enhancement of life, reflecting its divine character.
“A man with such excellent principles,” you say, “one surely may trust to walk alone and may venture to expect great things of him.” I am of the same opinion and hope that his principles are so firm that they will not be shaken by your derision. However, there is still a sharp corner we have to turn before we are safe in port. For our hero has heard a man for whose judgment he has great respect express the opinion that in tying oneself by a marriage to a person for one’s whole life one must be cautious in making the choice; it must be an extraordinary girl who, precisely by reason of her extraordinary qualities, would provide secu- rity for his whole future. Might you not now feel inclined to hope a little while longer for our hero. At all events I fear for him.
Let us take up this question in a thorough way. You, in fact, believe that in the solitary stillness of the forest there dwells a nymph, a being, a maiden. Very well then, this nymph, being, maiden, leaves her soli- tude, makes her appearance in Copenhagen, or like Kaspar Hauser 12 in Nurnberg— the place makes no difference, suffice it to say, she makes her appearance. Believe me, there will be a wooing! I leave it to you to develop this theme in detail. You can write a romance entitled, “The Nymph, the Being, the Maiden in the Solitude of the forest,” ad modum the celebrated romance found in all lending libraries, “The Urn in the Solitary Dale .”' 3 She has made her appearance, and our hero has become the lucky man, she has bestowed her love upon him. Might we agree to this? I have no objection — I, in fact, am married. You, on the other hand, would perhaps feel offended that such a common everyday per- son was preferred before you. But since you are interested in my client, and since this is the only way left for him to become a hero in your eyes, do give your consent. Let us now see if his love and his marriage became beautiful. The gist of his love and of his marriage consisted in the fact that she was the one only girl of her kind in the whole world. So the point lay in her difference. For such good fortune no equal could be found in the whole world, and precisely in this his good fortune con- sisted. He is by way of not being willing to marry her at all. For would it not be a degradation of such a love to give expression to it in so common and vulgar a form as marriage ? Would it not be presumptu- ous to require that two such lovers should enter the great company of wedded people, so that in a certain sense there would be nothing more to say about them than about every wedded couple, that they were married? This you will perhaps find quite right, and the only objection

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you would have to make would be that it is wrong for such a clown as my hero to run off with such a maiden. If on the other hand, he had been an extraordinary man, like you for example, or just as extraor- dinary a man as she was a girl, then it would be all right, and their love relationship the most perfect that could be imagmed.
Our hero has got himself into a critical position. About the girl there is only one opinion, she is an extraordinary girl. I myself, married man that I am, say with Donna Clara, “In this case rumor has not said too much, she is a marvelous maiden, the beautiful Preciosa.” 04 It is so tempting to lose sight of the ordinary and to float in the airy medium of the fairy tale. And yet he has himself perceived the beauty in mar- riage. What is it that marriage does ? Does it deprive him of anything, does it take away from her any beauty, does it abolish one single differ- ence ? By no means. But it shows to him all these things as accidents so long as marriage is external to him, and only when he gives to the difference the universal expression is he in secure possession of it. The ethical teaches him that this relationship is the absolute. For the relation- ship is the ordinary and universal. It deprives him of the vain joy of being the extraordinary in order to give him the true joy of being the universal. It brings him into harmony with existence as a whole, teach- ing him to rejoice in this; for as the exception, as the extraordinary, he is in conflict, and since what constitutes the extraordinary is in this instance his good fortune, he must be conscious of his existence as a vexation to the ordinary or universal, provided there was truth in his good fortune, and after all, it might be in truth a misfortune to be fortunate in such a way that one’s good fortune, viewed essentially, was different from that of others. In this way he wins the accidental beauty and loses the true beauty. This he will perceive, and he will again return to the maxim of the ethicist that it is the duty of every man to marry, and he will see that he has not only truth but beauty too on his side. Suppose, then, he gets that marvelous maiden. He will not be enamored of the differences He will rejoice right heartily in her beauty, in her charm, in the wealth of intelligence and the warmth of feeling she possesses, he will count himself fortunate, but essentially he will say, “I am not different from any other married man, for the relationship is the absolute.” Suppose he gets a less gifted girl. He will be joyful in his good fortune, for he will say, “Even though she stands far beneath others, essentially she makes me just as happy, for the relationship is the absolute.” He will not fail to appreciate the importance of the differences, for just as he perceived that there was no abstract calling but that every man has his, so he will

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perceive that there is no abstract marriage. Ethics tells him merely that he shall marry. Ethics explains [forhlare] to him the universal in the difference, and he transfigures [forhlare] the difference into the uni- versal.
So the ethical view of marriage has several advantages over every aesthetic interpretation of love. It elucidates the universal, not the acci- dental. It does not show how a couple of very singular people with extraordinary traits might become happy, but how every married couple may become so. It regards the relationship as the absolute, and so does not apprehend the differences as guarantees but comprehends them as tasks. It regards the relationship as the absolute and hence beholds love with a view to its beauty, that is, its freedom; it understands his- torical beauty.
So our hero lives by his work, his work is at the same time his calling, hence he works with pleasure. The fact that it is his calling brings him into association with other men, and in performmg his job he accom- plishes what he could wish to accomplish in the world. He is married, contented with his home, and time passes swiftly for him, he cannot comprehend how time might be a burden to a man or be an enemy of his happiness; on the contrary, time appears to him a true blessing. He admits that in this respect he owes a great deal to his wife. It is true (I forgot to mention it) there was a misunderstanding about the nymph from the forest, he did not become the fortunate man, he had to content himself with a girl who was like most girls, in the same sense that he as a man is like most people. However, he is very joyous for all that; indeed, he once confided to me that he thought it pretty lucky he didn’t get the marvelous maiden, the task would perhaps have been too great for him; when before one begins everything is so perfect it is so easy to do harm. Now, on the contrary, he is full of courage and confi- dence and hope, he is perfectly enthusiastic, he says fervently, “The relationship after all is the absolute.” More firmly than of anything else he is convinced that the relationship will have power to develop this ordinary girl into everything great and beautiful; his wife in all humility is of the same opinion. Yea, my young friend, the way of the world is strange; I did not in the least believe that there existed in the world a marvelous maiden such as you talk about, and now I am ashamed almost of my incredulity, for this ordinary girl with her great faith is a marvelous maiden, and her faith is more precious than gold or green forests. In one respect I remain in my old unbelief that such a marvelous maiden is to be found in the solitude of the forest.

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My hero (or would you deny him the right to this appellation? A courage which dares to believe in transforming an ordinary girl into a marvelous maiden, does this not seem to you the true heroic courage?) — my hero thanks his wife particularly for the fact that time has ac- quired for him such a beautiful significance, and this he ascribes in a certain degree to marriage — and in that he and I, we two married men, are in perfect agreement. In case he had got that nymph from the for- est and had not married, he then would have been apprehensive that their love would flare up in particular moments of singular beauty, which would leave behind them vapid intervals. They would then perhaps have wished to see one another only when the sight might be very significant; if several times they were disappointed in this expecta- tion, he is then apprehensive that the whole relationship had gradually resolved itself into nothing. On the other hand, the humble marriage which made it a duty to see one another daily, for richer for poorer, had spread over the whole relationship an equality and evenness which made it so delicious to him. The prosaic marriage had in its lowly incog- nito concealed a poet which not only glorified life on particular occa- sions but was always at hand and with his music thrilled even the poorer hours.
In this respect I share completely my hero’s opinion of marriage, and here it clearly shows its superiority, not only over the single life but over every merely erotic union. The latter consideration my new friend has this instant set forth, only the former, therefore, I will stress with a few words. One may be as intelligent as you please, one may be industri- ous, one may be enthusiastic for an idea, there come moments, never- theless, when time becomes a bit long. You so often deride the other sex. I have often admonished you to desist. Regard, if you will, a young girl as an incomplete being; I should like to say to you, however, “My good wise man, go to the ant and become wise, learn from a girl how to make time pass, for in this she has an innate virtuosity.” Perhaps she has no conception such as a man has of severe and persistent labor, but she is never idle, is always occupied, time is never long for her. I can speak of this from experience. It befalls me at times (more rarely now because I try to resist it, believing as I do that it is a husband’s duty to be pretty much of an even age with his wife)— at times it befalls me that I sit and subside into myself. I have attended to my work, I have no desire for any diversion, something melancholy in my temperament acquires ascendency over me; I become very many years older than I really am, I become almost a stranger to my domestic life, I can see that it is

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beautiful, but I look at it with unaccustomed eyes, it seems to me as if I were an old man, my wife a younger sister happily married, in whose house I now sit. At such hours time naturally becomes long for me. Now if my wife were a man, it would perhaps be the same with her, and we would perhaps both of us come to a standstill; but she is a woman and stands on good terms with time. Is it a perfection on the part of a woman, this secret rapport with time? Is it an imperfection? Is it because she is a more earthly being than man? Or because she has more eternity within her? It is for you to make answer. You are a philosophic mind.
When I am sitting thus lost and abandoned and then look at my wife walking about the room lightly and beautifully, always occupied, always with something to attend to, my eye involuntarily follows her move- ments, I participate in all that she undertakes, and it ends with my being again reconciled with time, finding that again time acquires significance for me, that the instant again moves swiftly. What is it she has in hand ? Well, with all the will in the world I cannot say, not if it were to cost me my life, it remains a riddle to me. What it is to work far into the night, to be so tired that I am almost unable to arise from my chair, what it is to think, what it is to be so completely empty of thoughts that it is not possible to get the least thing through my head, that I know; what it is to be lazy I know also, but this way of being occupied as my wife is remains a riddle to me. She is never tired and yet never inactive, it is as though her occupation were a game, a dance, as though to play were her occupation. What is it she fills up the time with ? For you can well understand that it naturally is not with acquired dexterities, not with these tomfooleries in which bachelors generally excel. And speak- ing of bachelors, I see with my mind’s eye that your youth is coming to an end; you ought to be prepared to fill in the idle moments, you should learn to handle the flute or try to invent an ingenious instrument for scraping your pipe. However, I don’t like to think of such things, I soon tire of thinking of them, I return to my wife, I never grow tired of looking at her. What she has in hand I cannot explain, but she does it all with a charm, with a grace, with an indescribable ease, straight away, without ceremony, as a bird sings its aria, and I believe also that it is with a bird’s labor her occupation can best be compared, and yet her arts seem to me true witchcraft. In this respect she is my absolute refuge. So when I sit in my study, when I become tired, when time becomes long for me, I steal into the parlor, I sit down in a corner, I say not a word for fear of disturbing her in her job, for though it looks

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like a game it is accomplished with a dignity, a decorum which inspires respect, and she is very far from being, as you say of Mrs. Hansen, a busybody who buzzes about and by her buzzing spreads abroad in the parlor the matrimonial music. V"
Yes, my good wise man, it is incredible what innate virtuosity a woman possesses; she explains in the most interesting and beautiful way the problem which has cost many a philosopher his reason, the problem of time. A problem upon which in vain one seeks enlighten- ment from many philosophers with all their prolixity she explains ohne weitere at any time of the day. As she explains this problem, so she explains many others in a way which arouses the profoundest ad- miration. Although I am not a husband of many years’ standing I believe I could write a whole book about this That I will not do, but I will recount to you a story which to me has been very suggestive. Somewhere in Holland there lived a learned man, he was an orientalist and was married. One day he did not come to the midday meal, al- though he was called. His wife waits longingly, looking at the food, and the longer this lasts the less she can explain his failure to appear. Finally she resolves to go over to his room and exhort him to come. There he sits alone in his work-room, there is nobody with him. He is absorbed in his oriental studies. I can picture it to myself. She has bent over him, laid her arm about his shoulders, peered down at the book, thereupon looked at him and said, “Dear friend, why do you not come over to eat?” The learned man perhaps has hardly had time to take account of what was said, but looking at his wife he presumably replied, “Well, my girl, there can be no question of dinner, here is a vocalization I have never seen before, I have often seen the passage quoted, but never like this, and yet my edition is an excellent Dutch edition. Look at this dot here 1 It is enough to drive one mad.” I can imagine that his wife looked at him, half-smiling, half-deprecating that such a little dot should dis- turb the domestic order, and the report recounts that she replied, “Is that anything to take so much to heart ? It is not worth wasting one’s breath on it.” No sooner said than done. She blows, and behold the vocalization disappears, for this remarkable dot was a grain of snuff. Joyfully the scholar hastens to the dinner table, joyful at the fact that the vocalization had disappeared, still more joyful in his wife.
Do I need to draw out the moral from this story ? If that scholar had not been married, he perhaps would have gone crazy, perhaps he would have taken several orientalists with him, for I doubt not that he would have raised a terrible alarm in the literary organs. You see why I say

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that one ought to live on good terms with the other sex, for (be it said between us) a young girl explains everything and doesn’t give a fig for the whole consistory, and if a man is on good terms with her he delights in her information, but if not, she makes sport of him. But this story teaches also in what way one is to live on good terms with her. If that scholar had not been married, if he had been an aestheticist who had in his power all the requisites, perhaps then he would have become the lucky man to whom that marvelous maiden wished to belong. He would not have married, their sentiments were too superior for that. He would have built her a palace and would have spared no refinement to make her life rich in enjoyment, he would have visited her in her castle, for so she wished it to be; with erotic coquetry he would have made his way to her on foot while his valets followed him in a carriage, bringing rich and costly gifts. So, then, in the course of his oriental studies he stumbled upon that remarkable vocalization. He would have stared at it without being able to explain it. The moment, however, was come when he should make his visit to the ladylove. He would have cast this care aside, for how could he becomingly make a visit to a ladylove with thoughts of anything else but of her charms and of his own love? He would have assumed an air of the utmost amiability, he would have been more fascinating than ever, and would have pleased her beyond all measure because in his voice there was a distant resonance of many passions, because out of despondency he had to contend for cheerfulness. But when at dawn he left her, when he had thrown her the last kiss and then sat in his carriage, his brow was darkened. He arrived home, the shutters were closed in his study, the lamps lit, he would not be un- dressed but sat and stared at the dot he could not explain. He had indeed a girl whom he loved, yea, perhaps adored, but he visited her only when his soul was rich and strong, but he had no helpmeet who came in and called him at midday, no wife who could blow the dot away.
In general woman has an innate talent, a primitive gift and an abso- lute virtuosity for explaining finiteness. When man was created he stood there as the master and lord of all nature; nature’s pomp and splendor, the entire wealth of finiteness awaited only his beck and call, but he did not comprehend what he was to do with it all. He looked at it, but it was as though at the glance of the spirit everything vanished, he felt as though if he were to move he would with one step be beyond it all. Thus he stood, an imposing figure, thoughtfully absorbed in himself, and yet comic, for one must indeed smile at this rich man who did not know how to use his wealth — but also tragic, for

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he could not use it. Then was woman created. She was in no embarrass- ment, she knew at once how one had to handle this affair; without fuss, without preparation, she was ready at once to begin. This was the first comfort bestowed upon man. She drew near to him, humble as a child, joyful as a child, pensive as a child. She wanted only to be a comfort to him, to make up for his lack (a lack which she did not comprehend, having no suspicion that she was supplying it), to abbreviate for him the intervals. And, lo, her humble comfort became life’s richest joy, her innocent pastimes life’s most beautiful adornment, her childish play life’s deepest meaning.
A woman comprehends finiteness, she understands it from the bottom up, therefore she is beauteous (essentially regarded, every woman is beauteous), therefore she is charming (and that no man is), therefore she is happy (happy as no man is or should be), therefore she is in harmony with existence (as no man is or should be). Therefore one may say that her life is happier than that of man; for finiteness can perhaps make a human being happy, infinitude as such can never do so. She is more perfect than man, for surely one who can explain some- thing is more perfect than one who is in pursuit of an explanation. Woman explains finiteness, man is in chase of infinitude. So it should be, and each has one’s own pain; for woman bears children with pam, but man conceives ideas with pain, and woman does not have to know the anguish of doubt or the torment of despair, she is not obliged to stand outside the idea, but she has it at second hand. But because woman

thus explains finiteness she is man’s deepest life, but a life whidj. should always be concealed and hidden as the root of life always is.. For this reason I hate all talk about the emancipation of woman. God forbid that

ever it may come to pass. I cannot tell you with what pain this thought

is able to pierce my heart, nor what passionate exasperation, what hate

I feel toward every one who gives vent to such talk. It is my comfort that those who proclaim such wisdom are not as wise as serpents but are for the most part blockheads whose nonsense can do no harm. Yea,

in case the serpent were able to make her believe this, able to tempt her with the apparently delectable fruit, in case this contagion were to spread, in case it were to penetrate also to her whom I love, my wife, my

joy, my life’s very root, then indeed would my courage be broken, then the passion of freedom in my soul would be quenched, then I know well what I would do, I would sit down in the marketplace and weep, weep like that artist whose work had been destroyed and who did not even remember what he himself had painted.

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But this will not come to pass; it must not and cannot. Let evil spirits attempt it, or stupid men who have no faintest notion of what it is to be a man, either of the greatness or the lowliness of it, no notion of the perfection of woman in her imperfection. Might there be one single woman simple and vain and pitiable enough to believe that in man’s category she might be more perfect than man, and not to perceive that her loss would be irreparable ? No base seducer could think out a more dangerous doctrine for woman, for once he has made her believe this she is entirely in his power, at the mercy of his will, she can be nothing for man except a prey to his whims, whereas as woman she can be everything for him. But the poor wretches know not what they do, they are not able to be men, and instead of learning to be that they would ruin woman and would be united with her on terms of remaining what they were, half-men, woman being promoted to the same paltry con- dition. I remember reading once a rather clever satire upon the emanci- pation of woman. The author dwelt especially upon the form of dress, which in this case he thought ought to be alike for men and women. Imagine such an abomination! It seemed to me that the author had not conceived his task profoundly enough, that the contrasts he dwelt upon were not essentially relevant to the idea. For an instant I will venture to think the unseemliness of this, knowing that in doing so the seemliness and beauty will be manifest in all their truth. What is more beautiful than a woman’s plentiful hair, than her abundant tresses ? And yet the Scripture says " 5 that this is a token of her imperfection and adduces several reasons for this. And is it not so? Look at her when she bows her head toward the earth, when the luxuriant braids almost touch the ground, and it looks as though they were tendrils of a flowering plant by which she was firmly attached to the earth. Does she not stand there as a more imperfect being than man who looks up to heaven 00 and barely touches the earth ? And yet this hair is her beauty, yea, it is her power too, for it is indeed by this, as the poet says, she catches man, by this she takes man prisoner and binds him to the earth. I should like to say to such blockheads as preach emancipation, “Behold, there she stands in all her imperfection, a lowlier being than man; if you have the courage, clip the rich tresses, sheer asunder these heavy chains — and let her run like a crazy woman, like a criminal, a horror to men.”
Let man give up the claim to be the lord and master of nature, let him yield this place to woman, she is its mistress, it understands her, and she understands it, every hint of hers it follows. For this reason she is everything to man, for she bestows upon him finiteness, without her

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he is an unstable spirit, an unhappy creature who cannot find rest, has no abiding place. I have often had joy in viewing woman in this light; to me she is a symbol of the congregation, and the spirit is in great embarrassment when it has not a congregation to dwell in, and when it dwells in the congregation it is the spirit of the congregation. Hence it is, as I have already remarked, that the Scripture does not say that a maiden shall leave father and mother and shall cleave unto her husband (as might be expected, since the woman is in fact the weaker) ; no, it says, “A man shall leave his father and mother and shall cleave unto his wife,” for insofar as she gives him finiteness she is stronger than he. Therefore nothing can provide so beautiful an image of the congrega- tion as does woman. If people would view the matter thus, I really believe that many prospects for the beautification of divine worship would be opened up. What bad taste it is in our churches that the congregation, when it does not represent itself, is represented by the parish clerk or the bellringer! It ought always to be represented by a woman.
In our church services the congregation has always failed to make upon me a truly salutary impression. And yet there was one year of my life when I came pretty close to my idealized conception. It was in one of our churches here in the city. The church itself attracted me greatly, the clergyman whom I heard every Sunday was a right reverend per- sonality, a unique figure, who knew how to bring out old and new from the experiences of an eventful life; he was perfectly in place in the pulpit. As a priest he satisfied completely my soul’s ideal demand, he satisfied it as a figure, satisfied it as an orator. I was glad every Sunday to think that I was to go to hear him. But what increased my joy and made perfect for me the impression of divine worship in this church was another figure, an elderly woman, who likewise attended every Sunday. She used to come a little before the service began, and I likewise. Her personality was for me an image of the congregation, and thinkin g of her I forgot the disturbing impression of the parish clerk at the church door. She was a woman of a certain age, apparently about sixty years old, but was still beautiful, her features noble, her look full of a certain humble dignity, her countenance expressive of deep, pure, feminine character. She looked as if she had experienced much, not precisely stormy events, but as a mother who had borne life’s burdens and yet had preserved and attained the ability to rejoice over the world. So when I saw her coming far down the aisle, when the sexton had met her at the church door and now as a servant was deferentially escorting her

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to her seat, then I knew she would also pass the pew where I sat. So when she went by I always rose and bowed to her. For me there was so much implied in this bow, it was as though I would beg her to in- clude me in her supplications. She entered her pew, giving a kindly greeting to the sexton, she remained an instant on her feet, she bowed her head, held a handkerchief an instant before her eyes as she prayed — it would take a pithy preacher to make so strong and salutary an im- pression as did the solemnity of that venerable woman.
It sometimes came into my mind that perhaps I, too, was included in her prayer, for to woman it belongs essentially to pray for others. Think of her in whatever position of life you will, at whatever age, think of her in prayer, and as a rule you will find her praying for others, for her parents, for her loved one, for her husband, for her children, always for others. To man it belongs essentially to pray for himself. He has his definite task, his definite place. The character of his resignation is therefore different; he strives even in prayer. He relmquishes the ful- fillment of his wish, and what he prays for is strength to renounce it. Even when he wishes something this thought is constantly present. Womans prayer is far more substantial, the character of her resignation is different. She prays for the fulfillment of her wish, she is resigned to the thought that she can do nothing about it, but for this reason she is also far more apt to pray for others than is man, for if he would pray for another, he essentially would pray that there might be granted him strength to bear and joyfully to triumph over the pain due to the fact that his wish was not fulfilled; but such a prayer of intercession is imperfect if regarded as intercession, though as a prayer for oneself it is true and right. In this respect man and woman march as it were in two ranks. First comes woman with her intercession, moving the Divinity, as it were, with her tears; then comes man with his prayer, bringing to a stop the first rank when it would fearfully betake itself to flight; he has a different tactic which always results in victory. This is due again to the fact that man is in pursuit of infinitude. If woman loses the fight, she must learn from man to pray, and yet intercession belongs to her so essentially that even in this case her intercession for man will be different from his own prayer. In a certain sense, therefore, woman is more believing than man, for woman believes that with God all things are possible; man believes that for God there is something impossible. Woman becomes more and more intense in her humble craving; man gives up more and more, until he finds the immovable point from which he cannot be expelled. This is due to the fact that it belongs essentially

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to man to have doubted, and all his wisdom will bear an impress of this.
The joy I derived from the beauty of divine worship in that church was, however, of short duration. In the course of the year that priest was transferred, the venerable matron, my pious mother I might almost call her, I saw no more. I often thought of her however. Later when I was married she often hovered before my mind. If the Church paid attention to such matters, our worship would surely gain in beauty and solemnity. Imagine yourself at a baptism where such a venerable woman stood beside the priest and said the Amen, instead of having the bell ringer bleat it out as he now does. Imagine yourself at a wedding where she assisted — would not this be beautiful ? For who can give one so lofty an impression of the beauty of a prayer of intercession as such a woman ?
But here I sit and preach, forgetting what I properly have to talk about, forgetting that it is to you I have to speak. This is due to the fact that my new friend has put you quite out of my mind. With him, you see, I would gladly talk about such things, for in the first place he is no mocker, and in the second place he is a married man, and only one who has an eye for the beauty of marriage will also be able to see the truth in my remarks.
So I return to our hero. This title he certainly deserves, but for all that I will not continue to use it henceforth, for I prefer another designation which is dearer to me, and with a sincere heart will call him my friend, as with joy I call myself his friend. You see then that life has provided him with “the article of luxury called a friend." You thought perhaps that I would pass over in silence the subject of friendship and its ethical validity, or rather that it would be impossible for me to introduce this subject, seeing that it has no ethical significance at all but falls entirely under aesthetical categories. You arc perhaps surprised that wanting to mention this subject I mention it in this place; for friendship is in fact the first dream of youth, it is precisely in early youth the soul is so soft and romantic that it seeks friendship. It would have been more in place, you think, to speak about friendship before I let my friend enter into the holy estate of matrimony. I might reply that as far as this goes it happened, strangely enough, to my friend that before he was married he had not felt himself drawn so strongly to any person that he could venture to characterize the relation as friendship. I might add that I am glad of this because I wanted to deal with friendship last, believing as I do that the ethical factor in it has not the same degree of validity as it has in marriage, and that in this fact precisely is to be seen its imperfec- tion. This reply might appear inadequate in view of the fact that this

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situation on the part of my friend might be thought abnormal, and for this reason I am disposed to treat this subject a little more carefully.
You are an observer, you will therefore concede the justice of my observation that marked individual difference in character is indicated by considering whether the season of friendship falls in the period of very early youth or emerges only at a later age. Volatile natures have no difficulty in adjusting themselves to themselves, their self is from the very beginning current coin; so then trade begins at once. It is not so easy for the deeper natures to find themselves, and until they have found their self they cannot wish that any one should offer them a friendship they cannot requite. Such natures are commonly absorbed in themselves, and they are observers — but an observer is no friend. So the situation might be explained if such were the case with my friend. However, he has been married. Now the question is whether there is something abnormal in the fact that friendship only appeared after this — for in the foregoing discussion we agreed that it was proper for friendship to come about in later years, but we did not speak of its relation to marriage. Let us here make use again of our common ob- servation. We must now take into consideration a man’s relation to the other sex. To those who at a very early age seek the relation of friend- ship it not rarely happens that when love begins to assert itself friend- ship fades completely. They discover that friendship was an imperfect form, break off the earlier relationship and concentrate their whole soul exclusively upon love. Others have the opposite experience. Those who too early tasted the sweetness of love, relishing its joys in the intoxication of youth, acquired perhaps an erroneous impression of the other sex. They became perhaps unjust towards the other sex. By their frivolity they purchased perhaps costly experiences, perhaps believed in feelings within themselves which proved not to be durable, or they believed in feelings on the part of others which vanished like a dream. So they gave up love; it was both too little and too much for them, for they had en- countered the dialectical difficulty in love without being able to solve it. They then chose friendship. Both of these formations may be regarded as abnormal. My friend is in neither of these situations. He had not made a youthful trial of friendship before he learned to know love, but neither had he harmed himself by enjoying too early the unripe fruit of love. In his love he found the deepest and most complete satisfaction, but precisely because he was thus absolutely set at rest, there now was opened up to him the possibility of a different relationship which in another way might acquire for him a profound and beautiful significance, for

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whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abun- dantly. A propos of this he often remembers that there are trees which bear flowers after the fruit, so that both flowers and fruit are contem- porary. With such a tree he compares his life.
But precisely because it was by and with his marriage he learned to see the beauty in having a friend or friends, he has not been for an instant perplexed as to how he ought to regard friendship, or in doubt that it loses its significance if one does not regard it ethically. The many experiences of his life had pretty much destroyed his faith in the aestheti- cists, but marriage had entirely eradicated every trace of this from his soul. So he felt no inclination to let himself be infatuated by aesthetical jugglery but acquiesced in the view of the ethicists.
In case my friend had not been of such a mind I might have found pleasure in referring him to you, for what you have to say on this topic is confused to such a degree that presumably he would have become completely perplexed at listening to you. You treat friendship as you do everything else. Your soul lacks ethical concentration to such a degree that one can get from you opposite explanations about the same thing, and you are in the highest degree a proof of the thesis that sentimentality and heartlessness are one and the same. Your view of friendship can best be likened to a witch’s letter, and he who is willing to adopt this view must become crazy, as to a certain degree the one who propounds it must be assumed to be. If when you are incited to it one hears you propounding the divinity of love for young men, the beauty of encoun- tering a kindred soul, one may be almost tempted to fear that your sentimentality will cost you your young life. At other times you talk in such a way that one would almost think you were an old practitioner who had become sufficiently acquainted with the emptiness and inanity of the world. “A friend,” you say, “is an enigmatical thing; like fog he can be seen only at a distance, for only when one has become unfor- tunate does one remark that one has had a friend.” It is easy to see that at the bottom of such a judgment upon friendship there lies a different requirement from that which you previously made. For you were talk- ing about intellectual friendship, about the beauty of a spiritual erotic with a common enthusiasm for ideas; now you talk about a practical friendship on a business basis, about mutual assistance in the difficulties of earthly life. There is something true in both requirements, but if one cannot find for them a point of unity, it is doubtless best to conclude with your final result, a result which you deduce from each of your theses and from both in their reciprocal contradiction.

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The absolute condition for friendship is agreement in a moral view. If one has that, one will not be tempted to found one’s friendship upon obscure feelings or upon inexplicable sympathies. Consequently, one will not experience these ludicrous reversals of one day having a friend and the next day having none. One will not fail to appreciate the impor- tance of the inexplicable sympathies, for one is not in a stricter sense a friend of everybody who shares the same moral view, but it is not alone upon the enigmatic factor of sympathy one has to count. A true sym- pathy always requires consciousness of its motives and is thereby saved from being a vain enthusiasm.
The moral view in which friends are united must be a positive view. Thus my friend and I have a positive view in common. Therefore, when we look at one another we do not laugh like those augurs of the Roman story, on the contrary, we become serious. It was quite natural for the augurs to laugh, for their view of life was a negative one. You under- stand that very well, for it is one of your romantic wishes “to find a kindred soul with whom one could laugh at the whole thing.” And you say that “the dreadful thing about life, the thing that almost terri- fies one, is that hardly anybody notices how miserable it is, and of these few there is only a rare exception who knows how to retain his good humor and laugh at it all.” If this longing of yours for a kindred soul is not satisfied, you know how to make the best of it, “for it is in con- formity with the idea that there can only be one who laughs; if there were more of that kind, it would be proof in fact that the world was not entirely miserable.” Now your thought is in full swing and knows no limit. So you express the opinion that “even laughter is only an imperfect expression of the derision the world deserves. If it is to be perfect, one ought properly to be serious. It would be the most perfect mockery of the world if one who propounded the deepest truth was not an enthusi- astic believer but a doubter. And this would not be unthinkable, for no one can propound positive truth so admirably as a doubter, the only drawback is that he doesn’t believe it. If he were a hypocrite, the mock- ery would rebound upon him, if he were a doubter, wishing perhaps to believe what he propounded, the mockery would be entirely objective, existence would be mocking itself through him; he propounded a doc- trine which could explain everything, the whole race could repose in it securely, but this doctrine could not explain the founder of it. If a man were so shrewd as to be able to conceal the fact that he was mad, he would be able to make the whole world mad.” Having such a notion of life, it is difficult to find a friend with a common moral view. Or have

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you perhaps found such a friend in the mystical society of tvpvapa- veKpatpevoi, you sometimes talk about?" Are you perhaps an associa- tion of friends who mutually regard one another as so shrewd that you know how to conceal your madness ?
There lived in Greece a wise man ; he enjoys the singular honor of being reckoned among the seven wise men if it is assumed that this number was fourteen. If my memory is not very much at fault, his name was Myson. An ancient author relates that he was a misanthrope This author tells his story very briefly: “It is related of Myson that he was a misanthrope and that he laughed when he was alone. When some one asked why he did so, he replied, ‘Just because I am alone.’ ” You see that you have a predecessor; you will aspire in vain to be admit- ted into the number of the seven wise men, even though this were defined as fourteen, for Myson stands in your way. This, however, is of minor importance; but you yourself will perceive that he who laughs when he is alone cannot possibly have a friend, and that for two reasons: first, because he doesn’t get a chance to laugh so long as the friend is present; secondly, because the friend must be afraid that he is only waiting for him to go in order that he may have a chance to laugh at him. Therefore, behold, the devil must be your friend I I might almost be tempted to beg you to take this literally, for it is said also of the devil that he laughs when he is alone. It appears to me that there is something very disconsolate in such an isolation, and I cannot help thinking how dreadful it is when a man awakes to another life on the Day of Judgment and again stands there quite alone.
So then friendship requires a positive view of life. But a positive life view cannot be thought unless it has in it an ethical factor. To be sure, in our age one often enough encounters people who have a system in which there is no place for the ethical . 08 Let them have ten times a system, a life view they have not. In our age such a phenomenon can be explained readily; for as our age is preposterous in so many ways, so it is also in the fact that one is initiated into the greater mysteries before being initiated into the lesser ones. The ethical factor in the life view is thus the starting-point for friendship, and only when one regards friendship in this way does it acquire significance and beauty. If one stops with the sympathetic, the mysterious, then friendship will find its most perfect expression in the relation which exists between the social birds, the so-called love birds, whose solidarity is so heart-felt that the death of one is also the death of the other. Although in nature such a relation is beautiful, it is unseemly in the world of spirit/Agreement in

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a moral view is the constituent factor in friendship. If this is present, the friendship endures even though the friend dies, for the transfigured friend lives on in the other; if this ceases to be, friendship is over even though the friend goes on living);
If one regards friendship thus, •'one regards it ethically and therefore with a view to its beauty. It thus acquires both significance and beauty. Do I have to cite an authority on my side against you? Very well, then! How did Aristotle interpret friendship? Did he not make this the starting-point for his whole ethical view of life? For with friendship, he says, the concepts of justice are so broadened that they coalesce with it. He bases the concept of justice upon the idea of friendship . 60 His category is thus in a certain sense more perfect than the modern view which bases justice upon duty, the abstract categorical — he bases it upon the social sense. One easily sees from this that for Aristotle the idea of the state becomes the highest idea — but this in turn is the imperfection in his category.
However, I shall not venture to enter into such investigations as the 1 elation between the Aristotelian and the Kantian interpretation of the ethical. I cited Aristotle only to remind you that he too perceived that friendship contributes to help one ethically in gaining reality.
He who regards friendship ethically sees it as a duty. I might therefore say that it is every man’s duty to have a friend. However, I prefer to use another expression which exhibits the ethical element in friendship and in everything else which was dealt with in the foregoing discussion, and at the same time emphasizes sharply the difference between the ethical and the aestheticaHI say that it is every man’s duty to become revealed. The Scripture teaches that every man must die, and then comes the Judgment when everything shall be revealed. Ethics says that it is the significance of life and of reality that every man become revealed. So if he is not, the revelation will appear as a punishment. The aestheticist, on the contrary, will not attribute significance to reality, he remains constantly concealed, because, however frequently and however much he gives himself up to the world, he never does it totally, there always remains something that he keeps back; if he were to do it totally, he would be doing it ethically. But this tiling of playing hide and seek always avenges itself, and of course it does so by the fact that one becomes enigmatical to oneself. Hence it is that all mystics, when they do not recognize the claim of reality upon every man that he become repealed, stumble upon difficulties and terrors which no one else knows of J It is as though they discovered an entirely different world, as though

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their nature was reduplicated in itself. He who will not contend with realities gets phantoms to fight with.
Herewith I am through for the present. To propound a doctrine of morals was never my intention. What I wanted to do was to show how the ethical, in the regions which border on the aesthetical, is so far from deprivmg life of its beauty that it bestows beauty upon it. It saves from every vain enthusiasm which would enfeeble the soul and bestows upon it health and strength. It teaches one not to overvalue the adventi- tious or to deify fortune (and even this the aestheticist is not able to do), for good fortune merely as such is an endless relativity; it teaches one to be joyful in misfortune.
Regard what I have written as of no importance, regard it as notes appended to Balle’s “Lesson-Book”— that is of no consequence; what I have said nevertheless has an authority which I hope you will respect. Or might it seem to you perhaps that I have wrongfully wished to usurp authority, that I have improperly confounded my official station with this litigation, behaving as a judge, not as a party to it? I cheerfully relinquish every pretension, I am not even a party in this dispute with you; for while I willingly admit that aesthetics might well give you power of attorney to appear m its behalf, I am far from ascribing to myself enough importance to appear with power of attorney for ethics. I am nothing more than a witness, and it was only m this sense I ex- pressed the opinion that this letter has a certain authority, for he who speaks of what he has experienced always speaks with authority. I am only a witness, and here you have my declaration in optima forma.
I perform my duties as judge assessor, I am glad to have such a calling, I believe it is in keeping with my faculties and with my whole person- ality, I know that it makes demands upon my powers. I seek to fit myself for it more and more, and in doing so I feel that I am developing myself more and more. I love my wife and am happy in my home; I hear my wife’s lullaby, and it appears to me more beautiful than any other song — without believing that she is a singer. I hear the cry of the little one, and to my ear it is not inharmonious; I see his elder brother growing up and being promoted in school, I contemplate his future joyfully and confidently — not impatiently, for I have plenty of time to wait, and this waiting is in itself a joy to me. My work has importance for me, and I believe that to a certain degree it has also for others, even though I cannot define and exactly measure its importance. I feel joy in the fact that the personal life of others has importance for me, and I desire and hope that mine also may have importance for those with

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whom in my whole view of life I am in sympathy. I love my fatherland, and I cannot well imagine that I could thrive in any other land. I love my mother-tongue which liberates my thought, I find that what I have to say in the world I can capitally express in this tongue. Thus my life has significance for me, so much so that I feel joyful and content with it. With all that, I live at the same time a higher life, and when some- times it occurs that I inhale and infuse this higher life in the respiration of my earthly and domestic life, I count myself blessed, and art and grace coalesce before me. Thus I love existence because it is beautiful and hope for an existence still more beautiful.
Here you have my declaration as a witness. If I could be dubious whether it was proper to make this deposition, it would be out of con- sideration for you, for I am almost afraid that it may hurt you to hear that life in its simplicity may be so beautiful. Accept, nevertheless, my testimony ; let it cause you a little pain, but may it also have a joyful effect upon you; it has one quality which your life unfortunately lacks — trustworthiness. You can build upon it securely.
Lately I have often talked with my wife about you. She is really very much attached to you. I hardly need to say this, however, for you have many gifts for pleasing when you want to, but you have still more eyes for observing whether you succeed. Her feeling for you has my entire approval. I do not readily become jealous, and in my case this would be inexcusable— not because I am too proud (as you think a man ought to be, proud enough, as you say, “to be able to be quit at once with thanks”), but because my wife is too lovable for that. I am not afraid. I believe that in this respect I dare say that even Scribe would despair over our prosaic marriage, for I believe that even for him it would be impossible to make it poetic. That he has extraordinary powers and talents I do not deny; that according to my notion he abuses them I do not deny either. Does he not do everything to make young women believe that the assured love of marriage is not enough to make life poetic, that marriage would be intolerable if one could not count upon little love affairs alongside of it ? 80 Does he not represent that a woman even though she defiles herself and her marriage by a culpable love still continues to be lovable ? Does he not hint obscurely that, since generally it is by an accident such a relationship is discovered, a person in real life may hope that when she has added her own slyness to what she has learned from his plays she will succeed in remaining concealed all her life? Does he not seek in every way to alarm husbands, does he not take the most respected women against whom no one would dare to

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harbor the least suspicion and represent that they are defiled by a secret guilt? Does he not show over and over again how vain the best means of defending marriage really are, how vain it is for a man to repose infinite confidence in his wife and trust her above all things ? And in spite of this Scribe is pleased to say that every husband is only a sluggish and drowsy marmot, an imperfect being who is himself to blame for his wife going astray. I wonder if Scribe is so modest as to assume that nobody learns anything from his plays, for otherwise he must perceive that every married man must learn at once to discover that his position is anything but secure and peaceful, indeed that no police spy can lead such a restless and sleepless life as he is compelled to lead — unless he will be reassured by Scribe’s consolation and himself seek a diversion like that of his wife, concluding that marriage exists for the sake of divesting the union with others of every tiresome appearance of inno- cence and making it quite interesting.
However, I leave Scribe alone, I am not capable of contending with him, but all the same I sometimes think with a certam pride that I, a humble and insignificant man, give the lie to the great writer Scribe by my marriage. Perhaps this pride is only beggar’s pride, perhaps I am so fortunate because I am an ordinary man, an outsider to poetry.
So my wife is attached to you, and in this respect I am in sympathy with her feelings, all the more because I believe that her liking for you is due in part to the fact that she sees your weaknesses. She sees very clearly that what you lack is a certain degree of womanliness. You are too proud to be able to devote yourself to any one. This pride does not tempt her in the least, for she regards the ability to devote oneself as the sign of true greatness. You perhaps will not believe it, but I assure you that I actually have to plead your cause against her. She affirms that in your pride you appraise all men and reject them. I try to explain that perhaps it is not quite as she thinks, that you reject men in an infinite sense, that the restlessness with which your soul aspires after the infinite makes you unfair to men. T hat she will not understand, and I can well comprehend it, for when one is so easily contented as she is (and how easily contented she is you can see from this fact among others, that she feels herself indescribably fortunate in being united to me) it is difficult ‘to avoid condemning you. So my marriage too has its conflict, and in a way you are responsible for it. We shall get through that all right, and I have only to wish that to a married couple you may never become an occasion of a different sort of strife. You might, however, contribute a little to settle this strife between my wife and me. Do not think that I

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want to insinuate myself into your secrets, but I have just one question I would put to you, which I believe you can answer without treading on your toes. Answer me honesdy and without circumlocution: do you really laugh when you are alone? You know what I mean. I do not ask whether it sometimes or even frequently occurs to you to laugh when you are alone, but whether you take satisfaction in this lonely laughter. For if not, then I have won and I shall surely be able to convince my wife.'./
Now whether you really do spend your time when you are alone by laughing I do not know, but at all events that appears to me a way of wanting to be a little more than queer; for it may be that your life has developed in a way which prompts you to feel the need of solitude, but not, so far as I can judge, in order to laugh. Even the most cursory observation shows that your life is planned on an uncommon scale. You do not seem by any means to find satisfaction m following the highways but rather in going your own gait. One can easily forgive a young man for a certain romanticism; it is another matter when it gets the upper hand to such a degree that it would pass itself off as the normal and the real. One owes it to a man who has thus gone astray to cry out to him, ‘‘Respice finem," and to explam that the word finem does not mean death (for even that is not the hardest problem for a man), but that it means life, that there comes an instant when it is a question of really beginning to live, and that it is a perilous thing to have so dis- persed oneself that it becomes a matter of the greatest difficulty to collect oneself, yea, that this has to be done with such speed and haste that one cannot get everything together and consequently, instead of being an extraordinary man, one ends by being a defective specimen of humanity.
In the Middle Ages one went about it another way: one abruptly* broke off life’s regular development and went into a monastery. The faultiness of this step did not, of course, consist in the fact of entering the monastery but in the erroneous conceptions associated with it. For my part, I can very well reconcile myself to the fact that a man forms this resolution, indeed, I am able to regard it as very pretty; but on the other hand I require of him that he be clear about what this means. In the Middle Ages they thought that in choosing the cloister a man chose the extraordinary and himself became an extraordinary man; from the elevation of the monastery one looked down proudly, almost compas- sionately, upon the ordinary men. So it was no wonder that people entered the monasteries in droves when at so cheap a price one could become an extraordinary man! But the gods do not sell the extraor-

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dinary at a bargain price. If the men who retired from active life had been honest and sincere with themselves and with others, above all if they had loved the thing of being a man, if they had felt with enthusi- asm all the beauty implied in this, if their heart had not been unac- quainted with a genuine and profound feeling for the humanities, they too would perhaps have retired to the solitude of the cloister, but they would not have prided themselves foolishly upon being extraordinary men, except in the sense that they were less perfect than others; they would not have looked down condescendingly upon the ordinary men but would have contemplated them sympathetically, feeling a melan- choly joy in the fact that these men had succeeded in performing the beautiful and the great things of which they were not capable.
In our age the monastic life has fallen considerably in price, so one rarely sees a man who breaks with the whole of existence, with the whole universal-human. On the other hand, if one has a fairly close acquaint- ance with men, one will sometimes encounter in a particular individual an erroneous doctrine which vividly recalls the monastic theory. For the sake of regularity I vyill here pronounce at once my view of what an extraordinary man is.'The truly extraordinary man is the truly ordinary man. The more of the universal-human an individual is able to realize in his life, the more extraordinary he is. The less of the universal he is able to take up into his life, the more imperfect hejs. He is then an extraordinary man to be sure, but not in a good sense!)
If, then, a man who is desirous of realizing the task; which is assigned to every man, the task of expressing the universal-human in his individ- ual life, were to stumble upon difficulties, if it seems that there is some- thing of the universal which he is not able to take up into his life 81 — what then does he do? In case his head is haunted by the monastic theories, or by an aesthetic view which is quite analogous to them, he is then joyful, from the first instant he feels haughtily that he is an exception, an extraordinary man, he is proud of it — just as childishly as if a nightingale which had acquired a red feather in its wing were to lejoice in the fact that no other nightingale had the like of it. If, on the other hand, his soul is ennobled by love for the universal, if he loves the life of men in this world — what then does he do ?
He deliberates whether and in how far this is true. A man may be to blame for this imperfection, or he may have it without blame, but it may be true that he is unable to realize the universal. If men in general were more conscious of themselves, many more perhaps would come to this conclusion. He will know also that indolence and cowardice may

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make a man believe such a thing, and that he can reduce the pain to an insignificance by transforming the universal into the particular and conserving an abstract possibility in relation to the univesral. For in fact the universal exists nowhere as such, and it depends upon me, upon my energy of consciousness, whether in the particular I will see the universal or merely the particular, v/
Perhaps such a deliberation will not seem to him sufficient, he will venture to make an experiment. He will easily perceive that in case the experiment leads him to the same result, the truth will be impressed upon him all the more emphatically, and, if he would coddle himself, it would be best perhaps for him to desist, since he will have to wince more than ever. He will know that no particular is the universal. So if he would not delude himself, he will transform the particular into the universal. He will see in the particular much more than is contained in it as such: for him it is the universal. He will assist the particular by giving it the importance of the universal. If he notices that the experiment is not succeeding, he will have arranged everything in such a way that it is not the particular which wounds him but the universal. He will be on his guard not to let any confusion take place, lest he be wounded by the particular, for its wound will be too light for him and he will love himself too earnestly to count it of the greatest consequence to him that he get a light wound; he will love the universal too sincerely to wish to substitute the particular for it with the aim of escaping unscathed. He will be on his guard not to smile at the impotent reaction of the particular, will take care not to view the situation light-mindedly, even if the particular as such tempts him to do so; he will not allow himself to be disturbed by the strange misunderstanding that the particular has in him a greater friend than it has in itself. When he has done this he will calmly advance to meet the pain — although his mind is shaken, he does not waver.
Now if it happens that the universal which he is unable to realize is precisely that for which he was desirous, then if he is a magnanimous man he will in a sense rejoice at this. He will then say, “I have fought under the most unfavorable conditions. I have fought against the par- ticular, I have set my desire upon the side of the enemy, to make the thing complete I have transformed the particular into the universal. It is true that all this will make the defeat harder for me, but it will also strengthen my consciousness, it will give it energy and clarity.”
So at this point he has emancipated himself from the universal. He will not for an instant be in any obscurity about what such a step sig-

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nifies, for it was really he himself who made the defeat complete and gave it significance; for he knew where he was vulnerable and how, and he inflicted upon himself the wound which the particular, as such, was not capable of inflicting. So he will be convinced that there is something of the universal which he is not able to realize. With this conviction, however, he is not through with the thing, for it will engender a pro- found sorrow in his soul. He will rejoice over the others to whom it was granted to accomplish this thing, he will perhaps perceive better than they how beautiful it is, but he himself will sorrow, not in a cowardly and despondent spirit, but deeply and frankly, for he will say, “I love the universal, nevertheless. If it was the happy lot of the others to bear witness to the universal by the fact that they realized it, well then, I bear witness to it by my sorrow.” And this sorrow is beautiful, is itself an expression of the universal human, a movement of its heart withm him, and it will bring about his reconciliation with it.
With this conviction which he won he is not through with the matter, for he will feel that he has laid upon himself a great responsibility. “At this point,” he says, “I have put myself outside the universal, I have deprived myself of the guidance, the security and tranquility which the universal gives, I stand alone, without sympathy, I am an exception. But he will not become cowardly and disconsolate, he will go his lonely way with confidence, he has indeed produced the proof of the rightness of what he did, he has his pain. He will not be in any obscurity with regard to this step, he possesses a deposition which he can produce any moment; no alarm can confuse it for him, no absence of mind; though he were to wake up in the middle of the night, he will instantly be able to render an account of everything. He will feel that the upbringing he is sub- jected to is hard, for the universal is a severe master when one has it outside of him, it constantly holds over him the sword of justice and says, “Why wilt thou be outside ?” And even though a man says, “It is not my fault,” it ascribes the blame to him nevertheless, and requires itself of him. So he will sometimes return to the same point, producing the proof again and again, and will then cheerfully go further. He reposes in the conviction he has fought for, and he will say, “What I rely upon, nevertheless, in the last resort is this, that there exists a righteous rationality, and I put my trust in its compassion, believing that it is compassionate enough to be just; tor it would not be so dreadful it I were to suffer punishment which I had deserved because I had done wrong, but it would be dreadful if I should be able to do wrong in such a way that no one punished it; and it would not be so dreadful if in the

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infatuation of my heart I were to awaken with anguish and horror, but this is the dreadful thing, that I might so infatuate my heart that no one could awaken it.”
However, this whole conflict is a purgatorial fire of which I can at least form a conception. People therefore should not be desirous of be- coming extraordinary men, for that means something different from the capricious satisfaction of one’s wilful lust.
He, on the other hand, who with pain was convinced that he was an extraordinary man is by his sorrow over it reconciled again with the universal; he will perhaps some day experience the joy that what caused him pain and made him lowly in his own eyes proves to be an occasion for his being lifted up again and becoming in a nobler sense an extraor- dinary man. What he lost in compass he gained perhaps in intensive inwardness. For not every man whose life is a mediocre expression of the universal is for this reason an extraordinary man, for this would be to idolize triviality: before he can truthfully be called such, one must ask also with what intensive strength he does this. Now that other man will be in possession of that strength at the points where he is able to realize the universal. His sorrow will thus vanish again, it will be resolved into harmony; for he will perceive that he had reached the confines of his individuality. He knows indeed that every man develops himself with freedom, but he knows too that a man does not create himself out of nothing, that he has his self in its concretion as his task, he will again be reconciled with existence, perceiving that in a certain sense every man is an exception, and that it is equally true that every man is the universal-human and at the same time an exception.
Here you have my notion of what it is to be an extraordinary man. I have too much love for existence and for what it is to be a man to be willing to believe that the path by which one becomes an extraordinary man is easy or without temptations. But even though a man be thus in a nobler sense an extraordinary man, he will nevertheless constantly ad- mit that it would be still more perfect to take into himself the universal as a whole, f
So receive my greeting, accept my friendship; for though I dare not in the strictest sense characterize our relation as friendship, yet I hope that my young friend will one day become so much older that I may truthfully use this word. Be assured of my sympathy. Receive a greeting from her whom I love, whose thoughts are hidden in my thoughts, receive a greeting which is inseparable from mine, but receive also a

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special greeting from her, a greeting friendly and sincere as hers al- ways is.
When some days ago you were at our house you perhaps had no idea that again I had so big a letter ready. I know that you do not like to have people talk to you about your inner history, therefore I have chosen to write, and I will never talk to you about it. That you receive such a letter remains a secret, and I should be very sorry if it might have the effect of altering your relationship to me and my family. I know that you have enough virtuosity to hinder this, if you will, and therefore I beg you to do so for your sake and for mine. I have never wished to intrude upon your personal affairs, and I can well love you at a distance even though we often see one another. Your nature is too closely reserved to permit me to believe that it would be profitable to talk to you, but on the other hand I hope that my letter may not be without significance. So when you set to work upon yourself within the closed machinery of your personality, I put in my pleas and am convinced that they will have a part in the motion.
Since our epistolary relationship is thus to remain a secret, I observe all the formalities: I say farewell, as though we were far remote from one another, although I hope to see you at my house just as often as before.

ULTIMATUM

P erhaps with the letters I wrote you a while ago you have had the same experience as I, that much has been forgotten. If that be so, I would that in your case it might also be the same as in mine, that at any season, in spite of changing moods, you may be able to render an account to yourself of the thought and the movements. The expression, the form of presentation in which the thoughts are clothed, resembles the flowers which from one year to another are the same and yet not the same; but the attitude, the movement, the position are un- changed. If I were to write to you now, I might perhaps express myself differently. Perhaps in my letters I might even succeed here and there in being eloquent, although this is a grace to which I certainly make no claim and which my profession in life does not require of me. If I were to write now, I might perhaps succeed better; I do not know, for expres- sion is a gift. “And every age, like every season, is with its special flowers bedecked .” 1 The thought, on the other hand, is and remains, and I hope that m the course of time the movements may become easier and more natural, unaltered even when they are dumb because the flowers of expression have faded.
However, it is not to write a new letter I now grasp my pen, but because you have been vividly recalled to me by a letter I have received from an older friend who is a pastor in Jutland. So far as I know, you are unacquainted with him. My friendship with him began in my student days, and although there was a difference of five or six years between us, our relationship was rather intimate. He was a little man with a squarely built figure, merry, light-hearted and uncommonly jovial. Although in the depths his soul was serious, his outward life seemed gaily inconsequent. Learning enthralled him, but he was only a “pass” man, and in his final theological examination he managed to get no more than haud illaudabilis. About five years ago he was thrust into a little parish on the Jutland heath. Outwardly he had a stentorian voice, and intellectually he had an originality which always distin- guished him in the small circle with which I was acquainted. No won- der, then, that at the beginning he did not find himself thoroughly content, and that his post seemed to him unimportant. Now, however, he has regained his contentment, and it has had a very cheering effect upon me to read the letter I lately received from him. “The Jutland heath,” he says, “is after all a good exercise ground for me and an incomparable study room for a parson. There I go on Saturdays to prepare my sermon, and everything widens out before me. I forget every actual auditor and gain an ideal one, gain complete self-forgetful-

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ness, so that when I mount the pulpit it is as though I were still standing upon the heath where my eye discovers not a single soul, where my voice lifts itself with all its strength to outdo the violence of the storm.”
I am not writing, however, in order to tell you this, but to send you a sermon of his which he inclosed with the letter. I did not wish to show it to you in person for fear of inciting your criticism, but I send the manuscript in order that it may make its impression upon you in a quiet hom. My friend has not yet delivered this sermon but expects to do so next year and is confident he will make every peasant understand it. You should not despise it on this account, for the beauty of the universal consists precisely in the fact that all can understand it. In this sermon he has apprehended what I said to you and also what I was desirous of saying. He has expressed it more felicitously than I find myself capable of doing. Take it then, read it, I have nothing to add, except that I have read it and thought of myself — read it then and think of yourself.

THE EDIFICATION IMPLIED IN THE THOUGHT THAT AS AGAINST GOD WE ARE ALWAYS IN THE WRONG
PRAYER
O ur Father in heaven, teach us to pray aright, that our hearts I may disclose themselves to Thee in prayer and supplication, and may conceal no hidden thought which we know is not well- pleasing to Thee, nor any secret fear that Thou wilt deny us anything which is truly to our advantage; so that the laboring thoughts, the rest- less mind, the fearful heart may there find rest where alone it is to be found, as we rejoice always in giving thanks to Thee, and gladly confess that as against Thee we are always in the wrong.
The Holy Gospel is written in the nineteenth chapter of St. Lu\e, beginning with the forty-first verse.
“And when he drew nigh, he saw the city and wept over it, saying, If thou hadst known in this thy day, even thou, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes. For the days shall come upon thee, when thine enemies shall cast up a bank about thee, and compass thee round, and keep thee in on every side, and shall dash thee to the ground, and thy children within thee; and they shall not leave in thee one stone upon another; because thou knewest not the time of thy visitation.
“And he entered into the temple, and began to cast out them that sold, saying unto them. And my house shall be a house of prayer: but ye have made it a den of robbers.
“And he was teaching daily in the temple. But the chief priests and the scribes and the principal men of the city sought to destroy him: and they could not find what they might do; for the people all hung upon him, listening.”
What the Spirit through visions and dreams had revealed to the prophets, what they in a premonitory voice had proclaimed to one generation after another, the rejection of the elect people, the dreadful destruction of proud Jerusalem — that was drawing nearer and nearer. Christ goes up to Jerusalem. He is not a prophet who proclaims future events, His speech does not awaken anxiety and alarm, for what still is hidden He sees directly before His eyes. He does not prophesy, since the time for that is past— He weeps over Jerusalem. And yet the city was still standing in its glory, and the temple still held its head high, higher

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than any structure in the world, and Christ Himself says, “If thou hadst known in this thy day the things which are for thy good!” But to this he adds, “Now they are hid from thine eyes.” In God’s eternal counsel its destruction is determined, and salvation is hid from the eyes of its inhabitants. Was the generation then living more wicked than the fore- going generations to which it owed its life? Was the whole nation cor- rupt, was there none righteous in Jerusalem, not a single one who could check God’s wrath? Among all those from whom salvation was hid was there no pious man ? And if there was one, then was no gate opened for him in the time of anguish and distress when the enemy besieged the city round about and pressed it upon every side? Did no angel descend and save him when all the gates were still shut, was no miracle wrought for his sake? No, its destruction was determined; in vam the besieged city looked in anguish for a way out, the army of the enemy pressed it in its mighty embrace, and no one escaped, and heaven re- mained shut and sent forth no angel except the angel of death which brandished its sword over the city! For the sin of the people this gen- eration must suffer, for the sin of this generation every individual in it must suffer. Shall then the righteous suffer with the unrighteous ? Is this the jealousy of God, that He visits the sins of the fathers upon the chil- dren unto the third and fourth generation— in such a way that He does not punish the fathers but the children? What answer should we make? Should we say, “There have elapsed now nearly two thousand years since those days; such a horror the world never saw before and never again will see; we thank God that we live in peace and security, that the scream of anguish from those days reaches us only very faintly ; we will hope and believe that our days and those of our children may pass in quietness, unaffected by the storms of existence? We do not feel strong enough to reflect upon such things, but we are ready to thank God that we are not subjected to such trials.”
Can anything be imagined more cowardly and more disconsolate than such talk? Is then the inexplicable explained by saying that it has occurred only once in the world ? Or is not this the inexplicable, that it did occur? And has not this fact, the fact that it did occur, the power to make everything inexplicable, even to the most explicable events? If once it occurred in the world that man’s lot was essentially different from what it ordinarily is, what assurance is there that this wall not recur, what assurance that this is not the true thing, and what ordinarily occurs is the untrue ? Or is the true proved to be such by the fact that it most often occurs ? And does not that really often occur which those

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ages witnessed ? Is it not what we all of us in so many ways have experi- enced, that what occurs on a great scale is experienced also in a minor degree? “Think ye,” said Christ, “that those Galileans whose blood Pilate commanded to be shed were sinners above all the Galileans be- cause they suffered these things ? Or the eighteen on whom the tower in Saloam fell and killed them, think ye that they were offenders above all the men that dwelt in Jerusalem ?” So then those Galileans were not sinners above other men, those eighteen were not offenders above all the men that dwelt in Jerusalem — and yet the innocent shared the same lot as the guilty. It was a providential dispensation, perhaps you will say, not a punishment. But the destruction of Jerusalem was a punishment, and it fell with equal seventy upon the innocent and the guilty. Hence you will not alarm yourselves by pondering such things^or that a man may have adversity and suffering, that these things as well as the rain may fall upon the just and upon the unjust, that you can comprehend, but that it should be a punishment' — and yet the Scripture so represents it, Is then the lot of the nghteous like that of the unrighteous, has godly fear no promise for the life which now is, is then every uplifting thought which once made you so rich in courage and confidence only an illusion, a juggler’s trick in which the child believes, the youth still hopes, but in which one who is a little older finds no blessing but only mockery and offense?
This thought shocks you, but yet it cannot and shall not acquire power to beguile you, it shall not be able to dull your soul. Righteousness you will love, righteousness you will practice early and late, though it have no reward, you still will practice it, you feel that it advances a claim which must in the end be satisfied; you will not smk back languidly and conclude that righteousness has promises but that you had forfeited them by not doing righteousness. You will not strive with men, but with God you will strive, and will not let Him go until He has blessed you. Yet the Scripture saith, “Thou shalt not cavil with God.” Is it not this you are doing ? Is this then again a disconsolate speech, is the Holy Scripture only given to man to humiliate him, to annihilate him? By no manner of means ! When it is said, “Thou shalt not cavil with God,” 2 the meaning of thisjs that you shall not wish to prove yourself in the right before Him. There is only one way of supporting the claim that you are in the right before God — by learning that you are in the wrong) Yea, this is what you yourselves ought to wish. So when you are for- bidden to cavil against God, this is an indication of your lofty station and by no means affirms that you are a lowly being which has no im-

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portance for Him. The sparrow falls to the ground — in a way it is in the right before God. The lily fades— in a way it is in the right before GodiOnly man is in the wrong, for to him alone is reserved that which to all other creatures was denied...to be in the wrong before God.'
Ought I to speak differently, ought I to remind you of a wisdom which knows how to explain everything easily enough without doing injustice either to God or man ? “Man is a frail creature,” it says, “and it would be unreasonable of God to require of him the impossible. One does what one can, and if a person is once in a while a little remiss, God will never forget that we are weak and imperfect men.” Ought I to admire most the lofty conception of the Deity which this shrewd saying betrays, or the deep insight mto the human heart, the searching con- sciousness which scrutinizes itself and then comes to the comfortable conclusion that one does what one can ? Would it be so easy a thing for you, my hearers, to determine how much it is one can ? Were you never in such danger that almost in despair you exerted your strength to the utmost and yet ardently wished you could do more ? And perhaps an- other man was watching you with a dubious and beseeching look, won- dering if you might not do more. Or were you never alarmed about yourself, so much alarmed that it seemed to you as if there were no sin so black, no selfishness so odious, that it might not sneak into you and as a foreign power gain mastery over you ? Did you never sense this dread ? For if you never sensed it, then do not open your mouth to reply, for you are unable to answer the question here put to you. But if you have sensed this dread, then, my hearers, I ask you, did you find repose in that saying: One does what one can ? Or were you never in dread for others, have you not seen those men totter mg to whom you were wont to look up with trust and confidence, and did you not hear a low voice whispering to you, “If even these men cannot accomplish the great, what then is life but vain toil and trouble, and what is faith but a snare which drags us out into the infinity in which we are unable to live ? Far better, then, to forget, to relinquish every such pretension” ? Did you not hear this voice? If you did not hear it, then do not open your mouth to reply, for you are unable to answer the question here put to you. But if you have heard it, my hearers, I ask ,you, Was this your consolation that you said, One does what one can ? (W as not this precisely the reason for your disquietude, that you did not know withm yourself how much it is a man can do, that at one moment it seemed to you so infinitely much, at another so very little ? Was it not for this reason your anxiety was so painful, that your soul could not penetrate your consciousness,

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that the more earnestly you desired to act, the more heartily you wished to, so much the more dreadful became the duplicity in which you found yourself involved, wondering whether you may not have done what you could, or whether you had done what you could, but no one came to your aid?)
^Therefore, no earnest doubt, no really deep concern, is put to rest by the saying that one does what one can} If a man is sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong, to a certain degree in the right, to a cer- tain degree in the wrong, who, then, is to decide this except man; but in deciding it may he not be to a certain degree in the right, to a certain degree in the wrong ? Or is he when he judges his action a different man from the man who acted ? Must doubt then prevail, constantly discover- ing new difficulties, and must concern walk alongside of the alarmed soul and imprint upon it the experiences it has had ? Or might we prefer to be constantly in the right, in the sense that the irrational creatures are ? We have, then, only the choice of being nothing before God, or the etprnal torture of beginning over again every instant, but without being able to begin. For if we are to be able to determine definitely whether at the present instant we are in the right, this question must be definitely determined with a view to the preceding instant, and then further and further back.
Doubt is again stirred up, concern is again aroused; so let us strive to set them at rest by meditating upon
THE EDIFICATION IMPLIED IN THE THOUGHT THAT AS AGAINST GOD WE ARE ALWAYS IN THE WRONG.
Being in the wrong — can any feeling be thought of more painful than this ? And do we not see that men would rather suffer anything than admit that they are in the wrong? We do not approve of such stiff-necked pride either in ourselves or in others, we think it would be wiser and better to admit it when we really are in the wrong, and ac- cordingly we say that the pain attendant upon this admission is like a bitter medicine which will prove to be healing; but we do not attempt to conceal the fact that it is painful to be in the wrong and painful to admit it. So we endure the pain because we know that it is for our good, we trust that some day we shall succeed in opposing a stronger resist- ance; perhaps we may carry it so far that we very seldom are really in the wrong. This way of thinking is so natural, so obvious to everybody. There is something edifying in being in the wrong, for when we admit it, there is some prospect that it will occur more and more rarely! And

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yet it was not by this consideration we proposed to set doubt at rest, it was rather by meditating upon the fact that we are always in the wrong. But if the former way of looking at it was edifying for the hope it held out that in time we might no longer be in the wrong, how can the oppo- site consideration also be edifying which teaches us that with respect to the future as well as the past we are always in the wrongs*
Your life brings you into manifold relationships with other people, some of whom love right and justice, while others do not seem willing to practice them. They do you a wrong. Your soul is not callous to the suffering they inflict upon you, but you search and examine yourself and are convinced that you are in the right. You repose quietly and staunchly in this conviction. However much they injure me, you say, they shall not be able to deprive me of the peace of knowing that I am in the right and suffer wrong. There is a satisfaction, a joy, in this reflection which surely every one of us has tasted, and when you continue to suffer wrong, you are edified by the thought that you are in the right. This considera- tion is so natural, so comprehensible, so often put to the test, and yet it is not by this we would quiet doubt and allay concern, but by reflecting upon the edification implied in the thought that we are always in the wrong. Can, then, this opposite consideration have the same effect?
Your life brings you into manifold relationships with other people, to some of whom you are drawn by a more heart-felt love than you feel for others. Now if such a man who was the object of your love were to do you a wrong, it would pain you deeply, would it not ? You would carefully rehearse everything that had occurred — but then would you say, I know of myself that I am in the right, this thought shall tranquil- ize me ? Oh, if you loved him, this thought would not tranquilize you, you would explore anew every possibility. You would not be able to come to any other conclusion but that he was in the wrong, and yet this certainty would disquiet you, you would wish that you might be in the wrong, you would try whether you could not find something which might speak in his defense, and if you did not find it, you would first find comfort in the thought that you were in the wrong. Or if the responsibility were laid upon you of caring for the welfare of such a person, you would do everything in your power, and if in spite of that the other showed no appreciation and only caused you sorrow, would you cast up the account and say, I know that I have done right by him? Oh, no! If you loved him, this thought would only distress you, you would grasp at every probability, and if you found none, you would tear up the reckoning in order to be able to forget it, and you would

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endeavor to edify yourself with the thought that you were in the wrong.
Jio it is painful to be in the wrong, and the more painful the more frequently it occurs; it is edifying to be in the wrong, and the more edifying the more frequently it occurs IjThat is clearly a contradiction. How can it be explained except by the fact that in the one case you are compelled to recognize that which in the other case you wish to recog- nize ? But was not the recognition the same in both cases, and does the consideration that one wishes or does not wish exert any influence upon it? How is this to be explained, except by the consideration that in the one case you loved and in the other you did not, in other words, that in the one case you found yourself in an infinite relationship to a person, in another case in a finite relationship ? So, then, it is edifying always to be in the wrong, for only the infinite edifies, not the finite.
If, then, there was a man whom you loved, and in favor of him you succeeded in deceiving your thought and yourself, you would still be in a perpetual contradiction, because you knew that you were in the right but wished that you were in the wrong and wished to believe it. On the other hand, if it was God you loved, could there be any question of such a contradiction, could you then have knowledge of anything else but what you wished to believe ? Might He who is in heaven not be greater than you who dwell on the earth ? Might His riches not be more abun- dant that your scant measure ? His wisdom no deeper than your shrewd- ness ? His holiness no greater than your righteousness ? Must you not recognize this necessarily ? But if you must recognize it, then there is no contradiction between your knowledge and your wish. And yet if you necessarily must recognize it, then there is no edification in the thought that you are always in the wrong, for we have said that the reason why at one time it could prove so painful to be in the wrong, and at another time edifying, was because in the one case you were compelled to recog- nize that which in the other case you wished to recognize. So in your relationship to God you would, it is true, be freed from the contradic- tion, but you would have lost the edification — and yet what we wished to ponder was precisely this: the edification in the fact that as against God we are always in the wrong.
Might it really be thus ? Why was it you wished to be in the wrong with respect to a person? Because you loved. Why did you find this edifying? Because you loved. The more you loved, the less time you had to deliberate whether you were in the right or not; your love had only one wish, that you might constantly be in the wrong. So also in your relation to God. You loved God, and hence your soul could find repose

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and joy only in the thought that you must always be in the wrong. It was not by the toil of thought you attained this recognition, neither was it forced upon you, for in love one finds oneself in freedom. So if thought convinced you that such was the case, that it could not be other- wise than that you must always be in the wrong, or that God must always be in the right, then this recognition followed as a logical con- sequence — but in fact you did not attain the certainty that you were in the wrong as a deduction from the knowledge that God was always in the right; but from love’s dearest and only wish, that you might always be in the wrong, you reached the apprehension that God was always in the right. But this wish is the affair of love, hence, of freedom, and you were not in any way compelled to recognize that you were always in the wrong. So it was not by reflection you became certain that you were always in the wrong, but the certainty was due to the fact that you were edified by this thought.
So it is an edifying thought that against God we are always in the wrong. If this were not the case, if this conviction did not have its source in your whole being, that is, did not spring from the love within you, then your reflection also would have taken a different turn; you would have recognized that God is always in the right, this you are compelled to recognize, and as a consequence of this you are compelled to recog- nize that you are always in the wrong. This conclusion would, in fact, be rather difficult, for you may well be compelled to recognize that God is always in the right, but to make application of this to yourself, to take up this perception into your whole being, is a thing you really cannot be compelled to do. So you recognize that God is always in the right, and, as a consequence of this, that you are always in the wrong; but this recognition does not edify you. There is no edification in recognizing that God is always in the right, and so, too, there is none in any thought which follows from this by necessity/ When you recognize that God is always in the right you stand aloof from God, and so, too, when you recognize as a consequence of this that you are always in the wrong. On the other hand, if in virtue of no foregoing recognition you claim and are convinced that you are always in the wrong, then you are hidden in God. This is your divine worship, your religious devotion, your godly fear?',
You loved a person, you wished that with respect to him you might always be in the wrong; but, alas, he was unfaithful to you, and how- ever reluctantly you admitted it, however much it pained you, you nevertheless would have to recognize that you were in the right in your

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behavior towards him, and in the wrong for loving him so dearly. And yet your soul insisted upon loving him thus, only in this could you find peace and rest and happiness. Then your soul turned away from the finite to the infinite; there it found its object, there your love became a happy love. God I will love, you said; He bestows upon the lover all things, He fulfills my dearest, my only wish, that against Him I must be always in the wrong. Never shall any alarming doubt tear me away from Him, never shall I be terrified by the thought that I could ever find myself in the right against Him, against God I am always in the wrong.
Or is this not true, was not this your only wish, your dearest wish, and were you not seized by a terrible dread when for an instant the thought could enter into your mind that you might be in the right, that God’s governance was not wisdom, but that your plans were; that God’s thoughts were not righteousness, but that your pursuits were; that God’s heart was not love, but that your sentiments were? And was it not your bliss that you never could love as you were loved? So, then, this thought that against God you are always in the wrong is not a truth you are compelled to recognize, not a comfort which assuages your pain, not a compensation for the loss of something better, but it is a joy in which you triumph over yourself and over the world, it is your dehght, your anthem of praise, your divine worship, a demonstration that your love is a happy one, as only that love can be wherewith one lcjves God:
V So, then, the thought that against God we are always in the wrong is an edifying thought. It is edifying that we are in the wrong, edifying that we always are. It proves its edifying power in a double way: partly by the fact that it checks doubt and allays the solicitude of doubt; pardy by the fact that it animates to action.
Surely, my hearers, you will still bear in mind the wisdom which I described above. It appeared to be so trustworthy and reliable, it ex- plained everything so easily, it was willing to conduct every man safely through life, unaffected by the storms of doubt. “One does what one can,” it called out to the man who stood perplexed. And indeed it is undeniable that when one has done what one can, one is the better for it. It had nothing more to say, it vanished like a dream, or it remained as a monotonous repetition m the ear of the doubter. Then when he would put it to use, it appeared that he could not use it, it entangled him in a mesh of difficulties. He could not find time to deliberate how much he could do, for at the same time he had to be doing what he could. Or if he found time to deliberate, the test resulted in a more or

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J^ss, an approximation, but never anything exhaustive of his possibilities. JHow might a man be able to depict his relationship to God by a more or a less, or by an approximate definition? He then convinced himself that this wisdom was a treacherous friend, who, under the pretext of helping him, involved him in doubt, drew him alarmingly into a per- petual circle of confusion. What before had been obscure to him, but had not troubled him, became now, not any clearer, but alarming to his mind and troubling. Only by an infinite relationship to God could the doubt be calmed, only by an infinitely free relationship to God could his trouble be transformed into joy. He is in an infinite relationship to God when he recognizes that God is always in the right, in an infinitely free relationship to God when he recognizes that he himself is always in the wrong. In this way, therefore, doubt is checked, for the movement of doubt consists precisely in the fact that at one instant he might be in the right, at another in the wrong, to a certain degree in the right, to a certain degree in the wrong, and this was supposed to characterize his relationship to God. But such a relationship to God is no relationship, and it was the nutriment of doubt.' In his relationship to another man it was quite possible that he migKifbe partly in the wrong, partly in the right, to a certain degree in the wrong, to a certain degree in the right, because he, like every other man, is a finite being, and his relation to other men is a finite relation which consists in a more or a less. There- fore, so long as doubt would make the infinite relationship finite, and so long as wisdom would fill up the infinite relationship with finiteness, just so long would he remain in doubt. So whenever doubt would alarm him by the particular instance, would teach him that he suffers too much, that he is tried beyond his powers, he thereupon forgets the finite in the infinite thought that he is always in the wrong. Whenever the affliction of doubt would make him sad, he thereupon raises himself above the finite into the infinite; for the thought that he is always in the wrong is the wing whereby he soars above finitude, it is the longing wherewith he seeks God, it is the love wherein he finds God/ (Against God we are always in the wrong. But does not this thought produce anaesthesia? Edifying as it may be, is it not dangerous to a person, does it not lull him into a slumber in which he dreams of a relationship to God which yet is not a real relationship, does it not con- sume the power of a man’s will and the strength of his resolution ? Not by any means! Or the man who wished to be always in the wrong with respect to another, was he dull and inactive, did he not do everything in his power to be in the right ? And yet he wished only to be in the

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wrong. And how could the thought that as against God we are always in the wrong be anything but an animatin g tho ught ? For what else does it express but that God^s love is greater than our love? Does not this thought make a man glad to act? For when he is in doubt he has no power to act. Does it not make him fervent in spirit? For when he reckons finitely the fire of the Spirit is quenched.JSo when your only wish is denied to you, my hearer, you are joyful nevertheless; you do not say, “God is always in the right,” for in that there is no joy; you say, “Against God I am always in the wrong.” Though it were you, you yourself , 8 that had to deny yourself your dearest wish, you are joyful nevertheless, my hearer; you do not say, “God is always in the right,” for in that there is no jubilation; you say, “Against God I am always in the wrong.” Though that which was your wish were what others, and you yourself m a certain sense, might call your duty, though you must not only forego your wish but in a way be unfaithful to your duty, though you were to lose not only your joy but even your honor, you are joyful nevertheless; “Against God,” you say, “I am always in the wrong.” Though you were to knock but it was not opened unto you, though you were to seek but you did not find, though you were to labor but acquired nothing, though you were to plant and water but saw no blessing, though heaven were to remain closed and the witness failed to appear, you are joyful in your work nevertheless; though the punish- ment which the iniquity of the fathers had called down were to fall upon you, you are joyful nevertheless, for agamst God we are always in the wrong.
‘v. Against God we are always in the wrong. This thought then checks doubt and calms its distress, it encourages and inspires to action. ^ ' -
Your thought has now followed the course of this exposition, perhaps hurrying swiftly ahead when it was along familiar paths it led you, slowly and perhaps reluctantly when the way was strange to you. But nevertheless you must admit that the case is as it was set forth, and your thought had no objection to raise against it. Before we separate, one question more, my hearer: did you wish, could you wish, that the case might be different? Could you wish that you might be in the right? Could you wish that that beautiful law which for thousands of years has supported the race and every generation in the race, that beautiful law, more glorious than the law which supports the stars in their courses upon the vault of heaven, could you wish that this law might burst, with more dreadful effect than if that law of nature were to lose its force and everything were to be resolved into horrid chaos? Could you wish

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this ? I have no word of wrath with which to terrify you; your wish must not proceed from dread of the presumptuous thought of willing to be in the right against God; I ask only, could you wish that it might be otherwise? Perhaps my voice does not possess enough strength and heartiness to penetrate into your inmost thought — O, but ask yourself, ask with the solemn uncertainty with which you would address your- self to a man who was able, you knew, by a single word to decide your happiness in life, ask yourself still more seriously, for verily it is a question of salvation. Do not check your soul’s flight, do not grieve the better promptings within you, do not dull your spirit with half wishes and half thoughts, ask yourself, and continue to ask until you find the answer; for one may have known a thing many times and acknowl- edged it, one may have willed a thing many times and attempted it, and yet it is only by the deep inward movements, only by the indescrib- able emotions of the heart, that for the first time you are convinced tha t what you have known belongs to you, that no power can take it from you; for only the truth which edifies is truth for you . 4 '

NOTES AND INDEX

NOTES

TO “THE AESTHETIC VALIDITY OF MARRIAGE”
x. “Like the Page in Figaro,” as S.K. said in the first draft.
2. Alluding to the many amours of Zeus.
3. -For altar and hearth, i.e., house and hqjjie.
4. Peter Schlemihls wundersame Geschtchte, by A. von Chamisco, cap. x. Wer\e IV, p. 276.
5. In part 6 of Vol L — too long drawn out and desperately tedious.
6. “To Eliza” — “Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.”
7. Papirer III, p. 129, shows that the reference is to Gabrielle de Belle-isle by A. Dumas.
8. Upon whom the gods bestowed beauty, wealth and the power of enjoyment. Horace’s Letteis I, 4, 6.
9. Cf. Repetition, pp. 11 ff.
10. According to some reports the truce between Saladin and Richard Coeur de Lion was to last for three years, three months, three days, and three hours.
11. V bl\smarchen der Deutschen, Gotha, 1887-89, III, p. 219.
12. “Figaro’s Wedding” by Mozart was translated into Danish by R. T. Bruun. Act 1, scene 7.
13 As a cloud upon Semele, as ram upon Danae.
14. A poem entitled “The First Licking,” by Chr. Wilster, Copenhagen, 1827.
15. “The First Kiss of Love.”
16. In Scandinavian mythology the goddess Frigga required everything m nature to promise not to harm Balder — but she forgot the mistletoe, which became his destrucuon.
17. One of Aesop’s Fables tells of a braggart who boasted of a prodigious leap he had made at Rhodes. One of the bystanders challenged him: here is Rhodes, now leap. Salta also means to dance.
18. S\olemesteren t Alferne, scene 4. J. L. Heiberg’s Poetu\e S\rijter, II, p. 57.
19. Really it is Trocls m Holberg’s Barselstuen, act i, scene 1, who says, “I would pledge myself to make half a hundred such children a year — that’s no great miracle ”
20. The words of the song were: “Tell me, Annette, why we have missed you so long in our meadow where you used to come among us with pipe and dancing? Why do you shun the joys of youth and seek out lonely places? Tell me why.” It figured in a lyric comedy by Theaulou, translated into Danish m 1821.
21. In Ecclesiasticus 36:24-26.
22. Hagar. Genesis 21:9/
23. Nehemiah 4-23.
24. An allusion to the remark about Nehemiah on p. 68.
25. Quoted from Heme, Lynsches Intermezzo.
26. A few years later S.K. began but left unfinished a book with this title (One must doubt everything) in opposition to the followers of Descartes who made this them slogan. He frequently refers to this doctrine, but he lauds Descartes in the Preface to Fear and Trembling.

298 NOTES
27. Divide and conquer — an old Roman motto adopted by Louis XI of France.
28. This was S.K.’s own case.
29. 1 Timothy 4-4.
30. Oehlenschlager, S\attegravercn. “But if you utter one word, it vanishes again.” Cf. the Journal, II, 780.
31. Caligula wished that the heads of all the Romans were on one neck so that with one stroke he could cut them off.
32. The Emperor Domitian. Suetonius, Domitianus 3.
33. The minister of Catherine II of Russia, who in order to make her believe that the money entrusted to him had been wisely spent improvised what appeared to be flourishing villages within sight of the road on which she traveled with him to inspect the province.
34. It was precisely his own case.
35. Horace, Ars poetica 323
36. Nouveaux Essats II, cap. 26.
37. Leviticus 24:9.
38. Ueber das Verhaltntss der bildenen Kunsten zu der Natur (1807). Sammt- Itche Wer\e, i860.
39. Cf. Paptrer, I, p. 234.
40. Fr. Schlegel’s “Lucinda.”
41. Oehlenschlager ’s Valravnen.
42. “When ten times repeated they please ” Horace’s Ars poetica 365.
43. Nordens Guder, “Freiers Sang ved Kilden.”
44. Self-tormentor. It is the title of a Greek comedy translated by Terence
45. “I have spoken and freed my mind." Roman orators sometimes concluded their speeches with these words.
46. Erzalungen und Marchen, Breslau, 1846, pp. 323#.
TO “EQUILIBRIUM BETWEEN THE AESTHETICAL AND THE ETHICAL IN THE COMPOSITION OF PERSONALITY”
1. Parmenides, cap. 19, defines the “now” as the border between the “before” and the “after.”
2. Mythologie dei Feen and Elfen, Weimar, 1828. Translated from an English work — by what author I do not know. Cf. Journal, II, 65.
3. “Light breathing” — distinguished by grammarians from a more definite aspiration of a Greek vowel.
4. Refernng to the persistence with which Cato insisted that “Carthage must be destroyed.”
5. This was Hegel’s claim. What follows here is an attack, not upon philosophy in general, but upon the Hegelian system, which was then the prevailing philos- ophy.
6. I have to confess that I do not know what is meant by this Spanish “s”.
7. The Journal, II, 484 shows that he was thinking of the reprobation of acedia.
8. No man knew melancholy from his own experience better than S.K. He applied himself zealously to the anatomy of this disease of the spirit. This is the

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theme of two of his most notable works: The Concept of Dread, and The Sickness unto Death.
9. This term was derived from Plato’s Phaedrus 22 and 37.
10. Rolands Knappen, in Voiles marc hen der Deutschen, Gotha, 1787, pp. 164#.
11. “Fleeing from poverty, over the sea, across rocky wastes, through fire.” Horace’s Letters, I, 1, 46.
12. A creative effort.
13. As Alcibiades says to Socrates in Plato’s Symposium, 33.
14. S.K. constantly refers to Hegel’s Philosophy as “the System,” condemning it because so long as it is unfinished it cannot properly claim to be a system. What follows is S.K.’s first open criticism of this philosophy.
15. Again and again S.K. quotes Matthew 16:26 in this form, the form which he found in the Danish Bible — instead of “lose" or “forfeit” one’s soul. Where I can I have used the phrase familiar in English, but here I cannot.
16. “Philosophy” here means Hegelianism, which pretended to abolish the principle of contradiction.
17. It seems that at an earlier period S.K. frequently had this phrase in his mouth; for Hans Christian Andersen (mindful of the days when they ate at the same boarding house) put them into the mouth of the parrot which in one of his tales figures satirically as S.K.
18. The Danish Editors suggest that S.K. has in mind Ludvig Thostrop, in the play Ostergade og Vestergade ( Kgl . Theaters Repetoir No. 12), Copenhagen, 1828.
19. Equable temperament.
20. Like the burning bush, Exodus 3:2.
21. A reference to part 6 of Vol. I, “The Unhappiest Man.”
22. From Frankenau, Samlede Digte, p. 283, Copenhagen, 1815.
23. Quoted (somewhat mexacdy) from Kruse’s rendering.
24. Especially in “The Inconsolable.”
25. Like Kronos.
26. This describes the Cynics.
27. Inner sanctuary.
28. It was a curious trait in S K. that he somehow associated with himself the name Ludvig. This is no exception, for he was several times on the point of com- mitting suicide, and the letter ascribed here to Ludvig is just such as he might have written to his brother Peter.
29. The Socratic ignorance.
30. The Church hard pressed.
31. Cf. note 17 to the first letter: Hie Rhodus, he saltus.
32. Presumably in “Aurelia.”
33. Know thyself. This was the motto inscribed above the portal of the temple at Delphi upon which Socrates laid so much stress. It is highly important to note that S K.’s term, “to choose oneself,” is his rendering of the Socratic maxim.
34. Literally, “between and between,” i.e., the distinction between one thing and another. This power to distinguish is the critical faculty. Hence Inter et inter was chosen by S.K. as the pseudonym for a litde book which was a cndcal appre- ciation of a famous actress.
35. “In terms of possibility” — a terminus techmcus in Aristode’s philosophy.

NOTES

300
3 6. The Adamites. Cf. the Journal II, 280-282.
37. A primer of morals for the young, written by Bishop Balle and universally used m primary schools. S.K. frequently refers to it.
38. The simple inhabitants of the small island of Mol were a proverbial object of ridicule to the sophisticated ciuzens of Copenhagen.
39. Although the following account is put into the mouth of Judge William, there can be no doubt that it recounts S.K ’s own story.
40. Taught by God.
41. Evidently a play on words which uses the Danish fordre with the double meaning of the German jordern.
42. Virgil’s Aenetd VI, 258: “Hence! keep far away, ye uninitiated!”
43. St. Augustine’s prayer: “Speak, that I may behold Thee.”
44. Jordens Lethe, a drinking-song by Baggesen. Veer\e, II, p. 218. Copenhagen, 1845.
45. According to the Greek myth Prometheus was the creator and benefactor of men. Etymologically interpreted, his name means forward-wise; that of his brother Epimetheus means backward-wise.
46. In the fable of the raven and the service-berry.
47. Sallust, Jugurtha 35.
48. As in the Arabian Nights.
49. Hard necessity. Horace’s Odes III, 24, 6.
50. The expression occurs in part 2 of Vol. I, where the erotic youth ascribes to Mozart the first place m “the realm of gods.”
51. Baggesen’s poem “Appropriation.” Danske Vter\er, p. 21. Copenhagen, 1845.
52. An enigmatical figure who cropped up in Nurnberg on May 26, 1828, and aroused a great sensation by the mystery surrounding his origin and his fate.
53. By L. F. Freiherren von Bilderbek, translated into Danish by Dean Horre- bow in 1804.
54. “Preciosa," a lyrical drama by Wolff, with music by E. M. von Weber, translated into Danish in 1822.
5<j. 1 Corinthians 11 5$.
56 At that time it was commonly thought that the Greek word for man, avdpwTros, meant etymologically one who looks up.
57. Part 3 of Vol. I is an essay on tragedy delivered before this society fantas- tically named “All-dead-together.”
58. This was S.K.’s constant complaint against the Hegelian System.
59. Ni\omachian Ethics VIII, 9 and ri.
60. For example, in “Two Years after the Wedding,” “The Riqueburg Family,” “Aurelia,” and “Either be Loved or Die.”
61. This was S.K.’s case- he was unable to accomplish the universal by marry- ing. The pathos of the following passage is evident when we recognize that “the particular” was Regina Olsen. In Fear and Trembling this situation is regarded as the “teleological suspension of the ethical.”

NOTES
TO “ULTIMATUM”

301

1. Oehlenschlager’s Ludlams Hule. Samlede Veer\e XVII, p. 176.
2. Job 40:2.
3. Really this is the experience of S.K. himself.
4. This note on which Either JOr ends is heard again and again in S.K.’s works. In the Postscript it is heard in the assertion that “Subjectivity is the truth.”

INDEX

This book is written with such strict regard for topical coherence that the subjects listed in the index generally run through two or more or many pages; and because the exceptions to this rule are rare it is not necessary to note this fact by the customary signs, seq. or f. In many cases, of course, it is only a significant use of a word which is noted here.

Accidental, the, 217 Accomplishing something, 67, 246 Actor, 139
✓Aesthetic, 5-129, 132-182 •'Aesthetic choice, 150 Aesthetic difference, 191 vAesthetic existence, 193 ✓Aesthetic seriousness, 189, 218, 242 Aesthetical dethroned, 190 ✓Aestheticist, 232, 269 Alcibiades, xi Altar, 41 Aristotle, 269 Art, 228 Authority, 270 Autobiographical, xvi
Ballc's Lesson Book, 222
Beautification of divine worship, 262
Beauty, 228
Berlm, xu
Boesen, Emil, xu
Bride, the, 43
Calling, 243
Children a blessing, 61
Children the “why" of marriage, 57
•Choice, 133
,Choose despair, 177
jeboosmg oneself, xu, 150, 1 77, 194, 210 Choosing the ethical, 150 Civic self, 220
Concentricity, the higher, 25, 40, 48 Congregation, 83, 262 Conquest, 108 Continuity, 208, 219 Convenience, marriage of, 23 Counsel to despair, 175 Count and countess, 153 Courage, 230, 249 Custom, 105 Cynics, 161, 201
Daily bread, 237 Dancing floor, 212 Definition of marriage, 28 f Despair, 162, 192, 227

Development, 203 Differences, 176, 244 Difficulties in marriage, 100 Don Juan, 21 Doubt, 25, 177 ✓Duty, 121, 212, 220, 269
Either/or, xiv, 133, 184 Etther/Or, xi Elective Affinities, 100 vEmancipation of woman, 260 Engagement time, 28 Enigmatic to oneself, 269 uEnjoy life, 152 Erotic, 24 Essential, the, 217 Eternal, 20 ✓Ethical, the, 183-278 Ethical factor in marriage, 124 vEthicist, an, 234 Exception, the, 22G, 235 .✓Extraordinary man, 273
“faith, 168, 239 Family clannishness, 71 ✓Family life, 71 Father, my, 224 Fatherland, 271 f imteness, 259 ✓Fimteness, choice of, 186 First, the, 32 First love, 16 First Love, by Scribe, 16 Fortune, 270 Frankness, 92
i^cesdoj^, 39, 180, 187, 195, 210, 217, 236 friendship, 264 Future, the, 146
Gambling, 193 ' l fcod incomprehensible, 14 Dood and evil, 187, 190, 221 ^Sood man, 191 Grammar, 225
Heiberg, J. L , xiv Helpmeet, 36

INDEX

303

Hero, 249
Higher madness, 134, 168
History, 40, 82, 94, 99, no, 118, 147, 209
Husband, the word, 50

Indifferent, the, 215 Isafac, 37
Isolation, 207, 219 Jesuit, 195
Job, a man's, 174, 246 Jurist, 139 Jutland parson, 281
Knight, 15, 39, 100 Know thyself, xn, 216
'‘Laughing alone, 273 Laughter, 267 -Life-view, 152, 172 .-Living the aesthetical, 115 Logic, 147 -Love, 6, 182 Love birds, 268 -Love referred to God, 48 ■Love under Christianity, 25 Ludwig Blackfeldt, 205
Carnage, xu, 5-i2g, 249 '■Carriage defined, 28 Marriage for a home, 64 •fCfarriage, its difficulnes, 100 Marriage, its "why,” 52 •"ifarriage, my own, 52, 103 "Marriage of convenience, 23 "'Jteriage service, 41, 74 parried man, 145 ■Marrying to have children, 57 •Marvelous maiden, 168, 253, 259 Mediation, 144
Melancholy, xu, 20, 156, 172, 241
Middle Ages, 22, 273
Moment, 193
Monasticism, 273
Money, 232
Monotony, 107, 120
^Mood, 193
Morals, 214, 270
Mother tongue, 271
Mozart, 36
Music, 114
Myson, 268
Mystery in marriage, 67, 97 Mystics, 202, 269
Natural affinity, 17 Nature, 147

Necessity, 39, 195 Nero, 156, 171 Novelists, 15 Nymph, 168, 253, 259
Observer, 7, 43 •Ordinary man, 274 Orientalist, 258 •Original sin, 160
Page in Figaro, 36 Parson, 139
Particular, the, 76, 275
Paul, St, 60
Philosophy, 143
Pleasure, 155, 193, 242
Poet, 176
Poetry, 105, 228
Poor woman and child, 62
Possession, 108
Prayer, 204, 263
Predestination, 195
Principle of contradiction, 144
■Profession, 175
Progeny, 61
Race, perpetuation of, 60 Reality, 269 Reflective love, 25 Regina Olsen, xu
■Religious factor in marriage, 31, 83 .Religiously developed, 40 Repentance, 148, 188, 199, 207, 21 6 Resignation, 31, 185, 263 •Respect as a reason for marriage, 23 Revealing oneself, 92, 98, 170, 269 Roland, a squire of, 169 Romantic love, 17, 24, 116
'Sadness, 195 Saladin, 22 •School, at, 223 "School of character, 54 -Science, 145
Scribe, the playwright, 16, 198, 213, 271 Second marriage, 51 Self, the, 180, 185, 220 Self-determination, 188 Sermon, xvi "Sin, 77, 160, 20i Sinner, woman that was a, 46 -Social self, 220 Socrates, xi, xiv Sorrow, 195 Soul, 185 Speculation, 177 Sxgget, the, xiu Instate, the idea of, 269

INDEX

304
Sympathy, 267 Sympostum, Plato's, xv ■System, the, 268
/Talent, J54, 243 Teleology in itself, 228 Temporal, the, 20 Theater, 103 Three small rooms, 88 Time, 1 17, 255
Transparent, 136, t6o, 208, 216
"Universal, the, 76, 214, 275 Universal human, 274

Wedding ceremony, 41, 74 Whole world, 185 Why" of marriage, 52, 74 $&hfe, my, 8, 68, 271 Witness, a, 270 ■^Voman, 174, 256 /Woman, her emancipation, 260 "^oman, poor, 8 Woman in church, 262 Woman’s prayer, 263 JJFtfrk, 235, 242 \JJ»rld, the whole, 185
Young friend, my, 5, 73 young girl, 7, 154

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'Either/Or' (full text of the English translations of Swenson (volume 1) and Lowrie (volume 2)

From The Art and Popular Culture Encyclopedia

VOLUME ONE TRANSLATED BY DAVID F. SWENSON and LILLIAN M. SWENSON [1]

VOLUME TWO by TRANSLATED BY WALTER LOWRIE[2]

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