A glass jar was divided into two halves by a perfectly transparent
glass partition. On the one side of the partition he placed a pike,
on the other a number of small fishes such as form the prey of the
pike. The pike did not notice the partition, and hurled itself on its
prey, with, of course, the result only of a bruised nose. The same
happened many times, and always the same result. At last, seeing all
its efforts ended so painfully, the pike abandoned the hunt, so that
in a few days, when the partition had been removed it continued to
swim about among the small fry without daring to attack them.... Does
not the same happen with us? Perhaps the limits between "this world"
and "the other world" are also essentially of an experimental origin,
neither rooted in the nature of things, as was thought before Kant, or
in the nature of our reason, as was thought after Kant. Perhaps indeed
a partition does exist, and make vain all attempts to cross over.. But
perhaps there comes a moment when the partition is removed. In our
minds, however, the conviction is firmly rooted that it is impossible
to pass certain limits, and painful to try: a conviction founded on
experience. But in this case we should recall the old scepticism of
Hume, which idealist philosophy has regarded as mere subtle mind-play,
valueless after Kant's critique. The most lasting and varied experience
cannot lead to any binding and universal conclusion. Nay, all our
_a priori_, which are so useful for a certain time, become sooner
or later extremely harmful. A philosopher should not be afraid of
scepticism, but should go on bruising his jaw. Perhaps the failure
of metaphysics lies in the caution and timidity of metaphysicians,
who seem ostensibly so brave. They have sought for rest--which they
describe as the highest boon. Whereas they should have valued more than
anything restlessness, aimlessness, even purposelessness. How can you
tell when the partition will be removed? Perhaps at the very moment
when man ceased his painful pursuit, settled all his questions and
rested on his laurels, inert, he could with one strong push have swept
through the pernicious fence which separated him from the unknowable.
There is no need for man to move according to a carefully-considered
plan. This is a purely aesthetic demand which need not bind us. Let
man senselessly and deliriously knock his head against the wall--if
the wall go down at last, will he value his triumph any the less?
Unfortunately for us the illusion has been established in us that plan
and purpose are the best guarantee of success. What a delusion it is!
The opposite is true. The best of all that genius has revealed to us
has been revealed as the result of fantastic, erratic, apparently
ridiculous and useless, but relentlessly stubborn seeking. Columbus,
tired of sitting on the same spot, sailed west to look for India. And
genius, in spite of vulgar conception, is a condition of chaos and
unutterable restlessness. Not for nothing has genius been counted kin
to madness. Genius flings itself hither and thither because it has not
the _Sitzfleisch_ necessary for industrious success in mediocrity.
We may be sure that earth has seen much more genius than history
has recorded; since genius is acknowledged only when it has been
serviceable. When the tossing-about has led to no useful issue--which
is the case in the majority of instances--it arouses only a feeling
of disgust and abomination in all witnesses. "He can't rest and he
can't let others rest." If Lermontov and Dostoevsky had lived in times
when there was no demand for books, nobody would have noticed them.
Lermontov's early death would have passed unregretted. Perhaps some
settled and virtuous citizen would have remarked, weary of the young
man's eternal and dangerous freaks: "For a dog a dog's death." The same
of Gogol, Tolstoy, Poushkin. Now they are praised because they left
interesting books.... And so we need pay no attention to the cry about
the futility and worthlessness of scepticism, even scepticism pure and
unadulterated, scepticism which has no ulterior motive of clearing
the way for a new creed. To knock one's head against the wall out of
hatred for the wall: to beat against established and obstructive ideas,
because one detests them: is it not an attractive proposition? And
then, to see ahead uncertainly and limitless possibilities, instead of
up-to-date "ideals," is not this too fascinating? The highest good is
rest! I shall not argue: _de gustibus aut nihil aut bene_.... By the
way, isn't it a superb principle? And this superb principle has been
arrived at perfectly by chance, unfortunately not by me, but by one of
the comical characters in Tchekhov's _Seagull_. He mixed up two Latin
proverbs, and the result was a splendid maxim which, in order to become
an _a priori_, awaits only universal acceptance.
4
Metaphysicians praise the transcendental, and carefully avoid it.
Nietzsche hated metaphysics, he praised the earth--_bleib nur der
Erde treu, O meine Bruder_--and always lived in the realm of the
transcendental. Of course the metaphysicians behave better: this is
indisputable. He who would be a teacher must proclaim the metaphysical
point of view, and he may become a hero without ever smelling powder.
In these anxious days, when positivism seems to fall short, one cannot
do better than turn to metaphysics. Then the young man need not any
more envy Alexander the Macedonian. With the assistance of a few
books not only earthly states are conquered, but the whole mysterious
universe. Metaphysics is the great art of swerving round dangerous
experience. So metaphysicians should be called the positivists _par
excellence_. They do not despise all experience, as they assert, but
_only the dangerous experiences_. They adapt the safest of all methods
of selfdefence, what the English call protective mimicry. Let us repeat
to all students--professors know it already: he who would be a sincere
metaphysician must avoid risky experience. Schiller once asked: How can
tragedy give delight? The answer--to put it in our own words--was: If
we are to obtain delight from tragedy, it must be seen only upon the
stage.--In order to love the transcendental it also should be known
only from the stage, or from books of the philosophers. This is called
idealism, the nicest word ever invented by philosophising men.
5
_Poetae nascuntur_.--Wonderful is man. Knowing nothing about it, he
asserts the existence of an objective impossibility. Even a little
while ago, before the invention of the telephone and telegraph, men
would have declared it impossible for Europe to converse with America.
Now it is possible. We cannot produce poets, therefore we say they are
born. Certainly we cannot make a child a poet by forcing him to study
literary models, from the most ancient to the most modern. Neither will
anybody hear us in America no matter how loud we shout here. To make a
poet of a man, he must not be developed along ordinary lines. Perhaps
books should be kept from him. Perhaps it is necessary to perform some
apparently dangerous operation on him: fracture his skull or throw
him out of a fourth-storey window. I will refrain from recommending
these methods as a substitute for paedagogy. But that is not the
point. Look at the great men, and the poets. Except John Stuart Mill
and a couple of other positivist thinkers, who had learned fathers
and virtuous mothers, none of the great men can boast of, or better,
complain of, a proper upbringing. In their lives nearly always the
decisive part was played by accident, accident which reason would dub
meaninglessness, if reason ever dared raise its voice against obvious
success. Something like a broken skull or a fall from the fourth
floor--not metaphorically, but often absolutely literally--has proved
the commencement, usually concealed but occasionally avowed, of the
activity of genius. But we repeat automatically: _poetae nascuntur_,
and are deeply convinced that this extraordinary truth is so lofty it
needs no verification.
6
"Until Apollo calls him to the sacrifice, ignobly the poet is plunged
in the cares of this shoddy world; silent is his lyre, cold sleeps his
soul, of all the petty children of earth most petty it seems is he."
Pisaryev, the critic, was exasperated by these verses. Presumably, if
they had not belonged to Poushkin, all the critics along with Pisaryev
would have condemned them and their author to oblivion. Suspicious
verse! Before Apollo calls to him--the poet is the most insignificant
of mortals! In his free hours, the ordinary man finds some more or less
distinguished distraction fox himself: he hunts, attends exhibitions
of pictures, or the theatre, and finally rests in the bosom of his
family. But the poet is incapable of normal existence. Immediately he
has finished with Apollo, forgetting all about altars and sacrifices,
he proceeds to occupy himself with unworthy objects. Or he abandons
himself to the _dolce far niente_, the customary pastime of all
favourites of the Muses. Let us here remark that not only all poets,
but all writers and artists in general are inclined to lead bad lives.
Think what Tolstoy tells us, in _Confession_ and elsewhere, of the best
representatives of literature in the fifties. On the whole it is just
as Poushkin says in his verses. Whilst he is engaged in composition,
an author is a creature of some consequence: apart from this, he is
nothing. Why are Apollo and the Muses so remiss? Why do they draw to
themselves wayward or vicious votaries, instead of rewarding virtue?
We dare not suspect the gods, even the dethroned, of bad intentions.
Apollo loved virtuous persons--and yet virtuous persons are evidently
mediocre and unfit for the sacred offices. If any man is overcome with
a great desire to serve the god of song, let him get rid of his virtues
at once. Curious that this truth is so completely unknown to men. They
think that through virtue they can truly deserve the favour and choice
of Apollo. And since industry is the first virtue, they peg away,
morning, noon, and night. Of course, the more they work the less they
do. Which really puzzles and annoys them. They even fling aside the
sacred arts, and all the labours of a devotee; they give themselves up
to idleness and other bad habits. And sometimes it so happens, that
just as a man decides that it is all no good, the Muses suddenly visit
him. So it was with Dostoevsky and others; Schiller alone managed
to get round Apollo. But perhaps it was only his biographers he got
round. Germans are so trustful, so easy to deceive. The biographers
saw nothing unusual in Schiller's habit of keeping his feet in cold
water whilst he worked. No doubt they felt that if the divine poet had
lived in the Sahara, where water is precious as gold, and the inspired
cannot take a footbath every day, then the speeches of the Marquis of
Pola would have lacked half their nobleness, at least. And apparently
Schiller was not so wonderfully chaste, if he needed such artificial
resources in the composition of his fine speeches. In a word, we must
believe Poushkin. A poet is, on the one hand, among the elect; on the
other hand, he is one of the most insignificant of mortals. Hence we
can draw a very consoling conclusion: the most insignificant of men
are not altogether so worthless as we imagine. They may not be fit to
occupy government positions or professorial chairs, but they are often
extremely at home on Parnassus and such high places. Apollo rewards
vice, and virtue, as everybody knows, is so satisfied with herself she
needs no reward. Then why do the pessimists lament? Leibnitz was quite
right: we live in the best possible of worlds. I would even suggest
that we leave out the modification "possible."
7
It is _Das Ewig Weibliche_, with Russian writers. Poushkin and
Lermontov loved women and were not afraid of them; Poushkin, who
trusted his own nature, was often in love, and always sang his love of
the moment. When infatuated with a bacchante, he glorified bacchantes.
When he married, he warbled of a modest, nun-like beauty, his wife.
A synthesising mind would probably not know what to do with all
Poushkin's sorts of love. Nor is Lermontov any better. He abused women,
but, as Byelinsky observed after meeting him, he loved women more than
anything in the world. And again, not women of one mould only: any and
all attractive females: the wild Bella, the lovely Mary, Thamar; one
and all, no matter of what race or condition. Every time Lermontov is
in love, he assures us his love is so deep and ardent and even moral,
that we cannot judge him without conpunction. Vladimir Soloviov alone
was not afraid to condemn him. He brought Poushkin as well as Lermontov
to account for their moral irregularities, and he even went so far as
to say that it was not he himself who judged them, but Fate, in whose
service he acted as public denouncer. Lermontov and Poushkin, both
dying young, had deserved death for their frivolities. But there was
nobody else besides Vladimir Soloviov to darken the memories of the two
poets. It is true Tolstoy cannot forgive Poushkin's dissolute life, but
he does not apply to Fate for a verdict. According to Tolstoy morality
can cope even with a Titan like Poushkin. In Tolstoy's view morality
grows stronger the harder the job it has to tackle. It pardons the
weak offenders without waste of words, but it never forgives pride and
self-confidence. If Tolstoy's edicts had been executed, all memorials
to Poushkin would have disappeared; chiefly because of the poet's
addiction to the eternal female. In such a case Tolstoy is implacable.
He admits the the kind of love whose object is the establishing of
a family, but no more. Don Juan is a hateful transgressor. Think of
Levin, and his attitude to prostitutes. He is exasperated, indignant,
even forgets the need for compassion, and calls them "beasts." In the
eternal female Tolstoy sees temptation, seduction, sin, _great danger_.
Therefore it is necessary to keep quite away from the danger. But
surely danger is the dragon which guards every treasure on earth. And
again, no matter what his precautions, a man will meet his fate sooner
or later, and come into conflict with the dragon. Surely this is an
axiom. Poushkin and Lermontov loved danger, and therefore sought women.
They paid a heavy price, but while they lived they lived freely and
lightly. If they had cared to peep in the book of destinies, they might
have averted or avoided their sad end. But they preferred to trust
their star--lucky or unlucky. Tolstoy was the first among us--we cannot
speak of Gogol--who began to fear life. He was the first to start open
moralising. In so far as public opinion and personal dignity demand
it, he did go to meet his dangers: but not a step further. So he
avoided women, art, and philosophy. Love _per se_, that is, love which
does not lead to a family, like wisdom _per se_, which is wisdom that
has no utilitarian motive, and like art for art's sake, seemed to him
the worst of temptations, leading to the destruction of the soul. When
he plunged too deep in thinking, he was seized with panic. "It seemed
to me I was going mad, so I went away to the Bashkirs for koumiss."
Such confessions are common in his works. And surely there is no other
way with temptations, than to cut short, at once, before it is too
late. Tolstoy preserved himself on account of his inborn instinct for
departing betimes from a dangerous situation. Save for this cautious
prompting he would probably have ended like Lermontov or Poushkin.
True, he might have gone deeper into nature, and revealed us rare
secrets, instead of preaching at us abstinence, humility, simplicity
and so on. But such luck fell to the fate of Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky
had very muddled relations with morality. He was too racked by disease
and circumstance to get much profit out of the rules of morality. The
hygiene of the soul, like that of the body, is beneficial only to
healthy men. To the sick it is simply harmful. The more Dostoevsky
engaged himself with high morality, the more inextricably entangled
he became. He wanted to respect the personality in a woman, and only
the personality, and so he came to the point where he could not look
on any woman, however ugly, with indifference. The elder Karamazov and
his affair with Elizabeth Smerdyascha (Stinking Lizzie)--in what other
imagination could such a union have been contemplated? Dostoevsky, of
course, reprimands Karamazov, and thanks to the standards of modern
criticism, such a reprimand is accounted sufficient to exonerate our
author. But there are other standards. If a writer sets out to tell you
that no drab could be so loathsome that her ugliness would make you
forget she was woman; and if for illustration of this novel idea we
are told the history of Fiodov Karamazov with the deformed, repulsive
idiot, Stinking Lizzie; then, in face of such "imaginative art" it is
surely out of place to preserve the usual confidence in that writer.
We do not speak of the interest and _appreciation_ of Dostoevsky's
tastes and ideas. Not for one moment will I assert that those who
with Poushkin and Lermontov can see the Eternal Female only in young
and charming women, have any advantage over Dostoevsky. Of course,
we are not forbidden to live according to our tastes, and we may,
like Tolstoy, call certain women "beasts." But who has given us the
right to assert that we are higher or better than Dostoevsky? Judging
"objectively," all the points go to show that Dostoevsky is better--at
any rate he saw further, deeper. He could find an original interest,
he could discover _das ewig Weibliche_ where we should see nothing of
attraction at all, where Goethe would avert his face. Stinking Lizzie
is not a beast, as Levin would say, but a woman who is able, if even
for a moment, to arouse a feeling of love in a man. And we thought she
was worse than nothing, since she roused in us only disgust. Dostoevsky
made a discovery, we with our refined feelings missed it. His
distorted, abnormal sense showed a greater sensitiveness, in which our
high morality was deficient.... And the road to the great truth this
time, as ever, is through deformity. Idealists will not agree. They are
quite justly afraid that one may not reach the truth, but may get stuck
in the mud. Idealists are careful men, and not nearly so stupid as
their ideals would lead us to suppose.
8
New ideas, even our own, do not quickly conquer our sympathies. We must
first get accustomed to them.
9
_A point of view_.--Every writer, thinker--even every educated person
thinks it necessary to have a permanent point of view. He climbs up
some elevation and never climbs down again all his days. Whatever
he sees from this point of view, he believes to be reality, truth,
justice, good--and what he does not see he excludes from existence.
Man is not much to blame for this. Surely there is no very great joy
in moving from point of view to point of view, shifting one's camp
from peak to peak. We have no wings, and "a winged thought" is only
a nice metaphor--unless, of course, it refers to logical thinking.
There to be sure great volatility is usual, a lightness which comes
from perfect naïveté, if not ignorance. He who really wishes to know
something, and not merely to have a philosophy, does not rely on logic
and is not allured by reason. He must clamber from summit to summit,
and, if necessary, hibernate in the dales. For a wide horizon leads
to illusions, and in order to familiarise oneself with any object,
it is essential to go close up to it, touch it, feel it, examine it
from top to bottom and on every side. One must be ready, should this
be impossible otherwise, to sacrifice the customary position of the
body: to wriggle, to lie flat, to stand on one's head, in a word, to
assume the most unnatural of attitudes. Can there be any question of a
permanent point of view? The more mobility and elasticity a man has,
the less he values the ordinary equilibrium of his body; the oftener
he changes his outlook, the more he will take in. If, on the other
hand, he imagines that from this or the other pinnacle he has the most
comfortable survey of the world and life, leave him alone; he will
never know anything. Nay, he does not want to know, he cares more about
his personal convenience than about the quality of his work. No doubt
he will attain to fame and success, and thus brilliantly justify his
"point of view."
10
_Fame_.--"A thread from everyone, and the naked will have a shirt."
There is no beggar but has his thread of cotton, and he will not
grudge it to a naked man--no, nor even to a fully dressed one; but
will bestow it on the first comer. The poor, who want to forget their
poverty, are very ready with their threads. Moreover, they prefer to
give them to the rich, rather than to a fellow-tramp. To load the rich
with benefits, must not one be very rich indeed? That is why fame is
so easily got. An ambitious person asks admiration and respect from
the crowd, and is rarely denied. The mob feel that their throats are
their own, and their arms are strong. Why not vociferate and clap,
seeing that you can turn the head not only of a beggar like yourself,
but of a future hero, God knows how almighty a person. The humiliated
citizen who has hitherto been hauled off to the police station if he
shouted, suddenly feels that his throat has acquired a new value. Never
before has anyone given a rap for his worthless opinion, and now seven
cities are ready to quarrel for it, as for the right to claim Homer.
The citizen is delighted, he shouts at the top of his voice, and is
ready to throw all his possessions after his shouts. So the hero is
satisfied. The greater the shout, the deeper his belief in himself
and his mission. What will a hero not believe! For he forgets so soon
the elements of which his fame and riches are made. Heroes usually
are convinced that they set out on their noble career, not to beg
shouts from beggars, but to heap blessings on mankind. If they could
only call to mind with what beating hearts they awaited their first
applause, their first alms, how timidly they curried favour with ragged
beggars, perhaps they would speak less assuredly of their own merits.
But our memory is fully acquainted with Herbert Spencer and his law of
adaptability, and thus many a worthy man goes gaily on in full belief
in his own stupendous virtue.
11
_In defence of righteousness_.--Inexperienced and ingenuous people see
in righteousness merely a burden which lofty people have assumed out
of respect for law or for some other high and inexplicable reason. But
a righteous man has not only duties but rights. True, sometimes, when
the law is against him, he has to compromise. Yet how rarely does the
law desert him! No cruelty matters in him, so long as he does not
infringe the statutes. Nay, he will ascribe his cruelty as a merit to
himself, since he acts out of no personal considerations, but in the
name of sacred justice. No matter what he may do, once he is sanctioned
he sees in his actions only merit, merit, merit. Modesty forbids him to
say too much--but if he were to let go, what a luxurious panegyric he
might deliver to himself! Remembering his works, he praises himself at
all times; not aloud, but inwardly. The nature of virtue demands it:
man must rejoice in his morality and ever keep it in mind. And after
that, people declare that it is hard to be righteous. Whatever the
other virtues may be, certainly righteousness has its selfish side. As
a rule it is decidedly worth while to make considerable sacrifices in
order later on to enjoy in calm confidence all that surety and those
rights bestowed on a man by morality and public approval. Look at a
German who has paid his contribution to a society for the assistance of
the indigent. Not one stray farthing will he give, not to a poor wretch
who is starving before his eyes. And in this he feels right. This is
righteousness out and out: pay your tax and enjoy the privileges of a
high-principled man. So righteousness is much in vogue with cultured,
commercial nations. Russians have not quite got there. They are
afraid of the exactions of righteousness, not guessing the enormous
advantages derived. A Russian has a permanent relationship with his
conscience, which costs him far more than the most moral German, or
even Englishman, has to pay for his righteousness.
12