ON THE FUTURE OF OUR
EDUCATIONAL INSTITUTIONS
HOMER AND CLASSICAL PHILOLOGY
By
FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
TRANSLATED, WITH INTRODUCTION, BY
J.M. KENNEDY
The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche
The First Complete and Authorised English Translation
Edited by Dr Oscar Levy
Volume Three
T.N. FOULIS
13 & 15 FREDERICK STREET
EDINBURGH: AND LONDON
1909
CONTENTS
TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION
THE FUTURE OF OUR EDUCATIONAL INSTITUTIONS
FIRST LECTURE
SECOND LECTURE
THIRD LECTURE
FOURTH LECTURE
FIFTH LECTURE
HOMER AND CLASSICAL PHILOLOGY
TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
"On the Future of our Educational Institutions" comprehends a series
of five lectures delivered by Nietzsche when Professor of Classical
Philology at Băle University. As they were prepared when he was only
twenty-seven years of age, we can scarcely expect to find in them that
broad, "good European" point of view which we meet with in his later
works. These lectures, however, are not only highly interesting in
themselves; but indispensable for those who wish to trace the gradual
development of Nietzsche's thought.
Nietzsche's aim, as is now pretty well known, was the elevation of the
type man. At this period of his life he believed that this end could
be best attained by the protection and careful development of men of
genius, Hence his antagonism in the following lectures towards the
purely time-serving German schools and colleges of his age, in which
culture was not only neglected but not even known--the one aim of the
teachers being to instruct the pupils in the art of "getting on," of
playing a successful part in the struggle for existence, of becoming
useful citizens. Of course, Nietzsche was too little of a wild reformer
to be adverse to a schooling of this nature. He freely admits that
a bread-winning education is necessary for the majority, and that
officials are necessary to the State; but he adds that everything
learnt as a preparation for taking part in the commercial or political
battle of life has nothing to do with culture. True culture is only for
a few select minds, which it is necessary to bring together under the
protecting roof of an institution that shall prepare them for culture,
and for culture only. Such an institution, he goes on to say, does not
yet exist; but we must have it if the delicate flower of the German
mind is no longer to be choked by the noxious weeds which have gathered
round it. As instances of minds thus "choked," Nietzsche mentions
Lessing, Winckelmann, and Schiller.
The standard of culture to be aimed at by the man of genius Nietzsche
had in mind was to be found in the model literary and artistic
works which have come down to us from ancient Greece. To understand
these works, of course, the classical authors had to be studied in
the original, and the methods of teaching then in vogue paid too
much attention to inconsequential points (<i>e.g.</i> variant readings)
instead of dealing with the subject in a broad-minded philosophical
spirit. Nietzsche endeavoured to counteract this tendency in the
"Homer and Classical Philology," his inaugural address at Băle
University, by outlining a much vaster conception of philology than
his fellow-teachers had ever dreamt of, laying stress upon the
<i>artistic</i> results which would accrue if the science were applied on a
wider scale--results which would be of a much higher order than those
obtained by the narrow pedantry then prevailing.
It is a very superficial comment on these lectures to say that
Nietzsche was merely referring to the German schools and colleges
of his time. It would be even shallower to suggest that his remarks
do not apply to the schools and teachers of present-day England and
America; for we likewise do not possess the cultural institution, the
<i>real</i> educational establishment, that Nietzsche longed for. Broadly
speaking, the English public schools, the older English universities,
and the American high schools, train their scholars to be useful to
the State: the modern universities and the remaining schools give that
instructionin bread-winning which Nietzsche admits to be necessary
for the majority; but in no case is an attempt made to pick out a few
higher minds and train them for culture. Our crude methods of teaching
the classical languages are too well known to be commented upon; and
an insight into classical antiquity, with the good taste, the firm
principles, and the lofty aims obtained therefrom, is exactly what
our various educational institutions do not aim at giving. Yet, as
Nietzsche truly says, no progress in any other direction, no matter
how brilliant, can deliver our students from the curse of an education
which adapts itself more and more to the needs of the age, and thus
loses all its power of guiding the age. Let the student who, as the
victim of this system, suffers more from it than his teachers care to
admit, read the paragraph on pp. 132 and 133 containing the sentences--
He feels that he can neither lead nor help himself.... His
condition is undignified, even dreadful: he keeps between
the two extremes of work at high pressure and a state of
melancholy enervation.... He seeks consolation in hasty and
incessant action so as to hide himself from himself, etc.,
and then let him confess that Nietzsche's insight into his psychology
is profound and decisive. The whole paragraph might have been written
by Nietzsche after a visit to present-day England.
As bearing upon the same subject, the reader will find it interesting
to compare the lectures here translated with Matthew Arnold's prose
writings passim, particularly the <i>Essays in Criticism, Mixed Essays,</i>
and <i>Culture and Anarchy</i>.
J. M. KENNEDY.
LONDON, May 1909.
PREFACE.
The reader from whom I expect something must possess three qualities:
he must be calm and must read without haste; he must not be ever
interposing his own personality and his own special "culture"; and he
must not expect as the ultimate results of his study of these pages
that he will be presented with a set of new formulæ. I do not propose
to furnish formulæ or new plans of study for _Gymnasia_ or other
schools; and I am much more inclined to admire the extraordinary power
of those who are able to cover the whole distance between the depths
of empiricism and the heights of special culture-problems, and who
again descend to the level of the driest rules and the most neatly
expressed formulæ. I shall be content if only I can ascend a tolerably
lofty mountain, from the summit of which, after having recovered my
breath, I may obtain a general survey of the ground; for I shall never
be able, in this book, to satisfy the votaries of tabulated rules.
Indeed, I see a time coming when serious men, working together in the
service of a completely rejuvenated and purified culture, may again
become the directors of a system of everyday instruction, calculated
to promote that culture; and they will probably be compelled once more
to draw up sets of rules: but how remote this time now seems! And what
may not happen meanwhile! It is just possible that between now and
then all _Gymnasia_--yea, and perhaps all universities, may be
destroyed, or have become so utterly transformed that their very
regulations may, in the eyes of future generations, seem to be but the
relics of the cave-dwellers' age.
This book is intended for calm readers,--for men who have not yet been
drawn into the mad headlong rush of our hurry-skurrying age, and who
do not experience any idolatrous delight in throwing themselves
beneath its chariot-wheels. It is for men, therefore, who are not
accustomed to estimate the value of everything according to the amount
of time it either saves or wastes. In short, it is for the few. These,
we believe, "still have time." Without any qualms of conscience they
may improve the most fruitful and vigorous hours of their day in
meditating on the future of our education; they may even believe when
the evening has come that they have used their day in the most
dignified and useful way, namely, in the _meditatio generis futuri_.
No one among them has yet forgotten to think while reading a book; he
still understands the secret of reading between the lines, and is
indeed so generous in what he himself brings to his study, that he
continues to reflect upon what he has read, perhaps long after he has
laid the book aside. And he does this, not because he wishes to write
a criticism about it or even another book; but simply because
reflection is a pleasant pastime to him. Frivolous spendthrift! Thou
art a reader after my own heart; for thou wilt be patient enough to
accompany an author any distance, even though he himself cannot yet
see the goal at which he is aiming,--even though he himself feels only
that he must at all events honestly believe in a goal, in order that a
future and possibly very remote generation may come face to face with
that towards which we are now blindly and instinctively groping.
Should any reader demur and suggest that all that is required is
prompt and bold reform; should he imagine that a new "organisation"
introduced by the State, were all that is necessary, then we fear he
would have misunderstood not only the author but the very nature of
the problem under consideration.
The third and most important stipulation is, that he should in no case
be constantly bringing himself and his own "culture" forward, after
the style of most modern men, as the correct standard and measure of
all things. We would have him so highly educated that he could even
think meanly of his education or despise it altogether. Only thus
would he be able to trust entirely to the author's guidance; for it is
only by virtue of ignorance and his consciousness of ignorance, that
the latter can dare to make himself heard. Finally, the author would
wish his reader to be fully alive to the specific character of our
present barbarism and of that which distinguishes us, as the
barbarians of the nineteenth century, from other barbarians.
Now, with this book in his hand, the writer seeks all those who may
happen to be wandering, hither and thither, impelled by feelings
similar to his own. Allow yourselves to be discovered--ye lonely ones
in whose existence I believe! Ye unselfish ones, suffering in
yourselves from the corruption of the German spirit! Ye contemplative
ones who cannot, with hasty glances, turn your eyes swiftly from one
surface to another! Ye lofty thinkers, of whom Aristotle said that ye
wander through life vacillating and inactive so long as no great
honour or glorious Cause calleth you to deeds! It is you I summon!
Refrain this once from seeking refuge in your lairs of solitude and
dark misgivings. Bethink you that this book was framed to be your
herald. When ye shall go forth to battle in your full panoply, who
among you will not rejoice in looking back upon the herald who rallied
you?
INTRODUCTION.
The title I gave to these lectures ought, like all titles, to have
been as definite, as plain, and as significant as possible; now,
however, I observe that owing to a certain excess of precision, in its
present form it is too short and consequently misleading. My first
duty therefore will be to explain the title, together with the object
of these lectures, to you, and to apologise for being obliged to do
this. When I promised to speak to you concerning the future of our
educational institutions, I was not thinking especially of the
evolution of our particular institutions in Bâle. However frequently
my general observations may seem to bear particular application to our
own conditions here, I personally have no desire to draw these
inferences, and do not wish to be held responsible if they should be
drawn, for the simple reason that I consider myself still far too much
an inexperienced stranger among you, and much too superficially
acquainted with your methods, to pretend to pass judgment upon any
such special order of scholastic establishments, or to predict the
probable course their development will follow. On the other hand, I
know full well under what distinguished auspices I have to deliver
these lectures--namely, in a city which is striving to educate and
enlighten its inhabitants on a scale so magnificently out of
proportion to its size, that it must put all larger cities to shame.
This being so, I presume I am justified in assuming that in a quarter
where so much is _done_ for the things of which I wish to speak,
people must also _think_ a good deal about them. My desire--yea, my
very first condition, therefore, would be to become united in spirit
with those who have not only thought very deeply upon educational
problems, but have also the will to promote what they think to be
right by all the means in their power. And, in view of the
difficulties of my task and the limited time at my disposal, to such
listeners, alone, in my audience, shall I be able to make myself
understood--and even then, it will be on condition that they shall
guess what I can do no more than suggest, that they shall supply what
I am compelled to omit; in brief, that they shall need but to be
reminded and not to be taught. Thus, while I disclaim all desire of
being taken for an uninvited adviser on questions relating to the
schools and the University of Bâle, I repudiate even more emphatically
still the rôle of a prophet standing on the horizon of civilisation
and pretending to predict the future of education and of scholastic
organisation. I can no more project my vision through such vast
periods of time than I can rely upon its accuracy when it is brought
too close to an object under examination. With my title: _Our_
Educational Institutions, I wish to refer neither to the
establishments in Bâle nor to the incalculably vast number of other
scholastic institutions which exist throughout the nations of the
world to-day; but I wish to refer to _German institutions_ of the kind
which we rejoice in here. It is their future that will now engage our
attention, _i.e._ the future of German elementary, secondary, and
public schools (Gymnasien) and universities. While pursuing our
discussion, however, we shall for once avoid all comparisons and
valuations, and guard more especially against that flattering illusion
that our conditions should be regarded as the standard for all others
and as surpassing them. Let it suffice that they are our institutions,
that they have not become a part of ourselves by mere accident, and
were not laid upon us like a garment; but that they are living
monuments of important steps in the progress of civilisation, in some
respects even the furniture of a bygone age, and as such link us with
the past of our people, and are such a sacred and venerable legacy
that I can only undertake to speak of the future of our educational
institutions in the sense of their being a most probable approximation
to the ideal spirit which gave them birth. I am, moreover, convinced
that the numerous alterations which have been introduced into these
institutions within recent years, with the view of bringing them
up-to-date, are for the most part but distortions and aberrations of
the originally sublime tendencies given to them at their foundation.
And what we dare to hope from the future, in this behalf, partakes so
much of the nature of a rejuvenation, a reviviscence, and a refining
of the spirit of Germany that, as a result of this very process, our
educational institutions may also be indirectly remoulded and born
again, so as to appear at once old and new, whereas now they only
profess to be "modern" or "up-to-date."
Now it is only in the spirit of the hope above mentioned that I wish
to speak of the future of our educational institutions: and this is
the second point in regard to which I must tender an apology from the
outset. The "prophet" pose is such a presumptuous one that it seems
almost ridiculous to deny that I have the intention of adopting it.
No one should attempt to describe the future of our education, and
the means and methods of instruction relating thereto, in a prophetic
spirit, unless he can prove that the picture he draws already exists
in germ to-day, and that all that is required is the extension and
development of this embryo if the necessary modifications are to be
produced in schools and other educational institutions. All I ask,
is, like a Roman haruspex, to be allowed to steal glimpses of the
future out of the very entrails of existing conditions, which, in
this case, means no more than to hand the laurels of victory to any
one of the many forces tending to make itself felt in our present
educational system, despite the fact that the force in question may
be neither a favourite, an esteemed, nor a very extensive one. I
confidently assert that it will be victorious, however, because it
has the strongest and mightiest of all allies in nature herself; and
in this respect it were well did we not forget that scores of the
very first principles of our modern educational methods are
thoroughly artificial, and that the most fatal weaknesses of the
present day are to be ascribed to this artificiality. He who feels in
complete harmony with the present state of affairs and who acquiesces
in it _as something_ "_selbstverständliches_,"[1] excites our envy
neither in regard to his faith nor in regard to that egregious word
"_selbstverständlich_," so frequently heard in fashionable circles.
He, however, who holds the opposite view and is therefore in despair,
does not need to fight any longer: all he requires is to give himself
up to solitude in order soon to be alone. Albeit, between those who
take everything for granted and these anchorites, there stand the
_fighters_--that is to say, those who still have hope, and as the
noblest and sublimest example of this class, we recognise Schiller as
he is described by Goethe in his "Epilogue to the Bell."
"Brighter now glow'd his cheek, and still more bright
With that unchanging, ever youthful glow:--
That courage which o'ercomes, in hard-fought fight,
Sooner or later ev'ry earthly foe,--
That faith which soaring to the realms of light,
Now boldly presseth on, now bendeth low,
So that the good may work, wax, thrive amain,
So that the day the noble may attain."[2]
I should like you to regard all I have just said as a kind of preface,
the object of which is to illustrate the title of my lectures and to
guard me against any possible misunderstanding and unjustified
criticisms. And now, in order to give you a rough outline of the range
of ideas from which I shall attempt to form a judgment concerning our
educational institutions, before proceeding to disclose my views and
turning from the title to the main theme, I shall lay a scheme before
you which, like a coat of arms, will serve to warn all strangers who
come to my door, as to the nature of the house they are about to
enter, in case they may feel inclined, after having examined the
device, to turn their backs on the premises that bear it. My scheme is
as follows:--
Two seemingly antagonistic forces, equally deleterious in their
actions and ultimately combining to produce their results, are at
present ruling over our educational institutions, although these were
based originally upon very different principles. These forces are: a
striving to achieve the greatest possible _extension of education_ on
the one hand, and a tendency _to minimise and to weaken it_ on the
other. The first-named would fain spread learning among the greatest
possible number of people, the second would compel education to
renounce its highest and most independent claims in order to
subordinate itself to the service of the State. In the face of these
two antagonistic tendencies, we could but give ourselves up to
despair, did we not see the possibility of promoting the cause of two
other contending factors which are fortunately as completely German as
they are rich in promises for the future; I refer to the present
movement towards _limiting and concentrating_ education as the
antithesis of the first of the forces above mentioned, and that other
movement towards the _strengthening and the independence_ of education
as the antithesis of the second force. If we should seek a warrant for
our belief in the ultimate victory of the two last-named movements, we
could find it in the fact that both of the forces which we hold to be
deleterious are so opposed to the eternal purpose of nature as the
concentration of education for the few is in harmony with it, and is
true, whereas the first two forces could succeed only in founding a
culture false to the root.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Selbstverständlich = "granted or self-understood."
[2] _The Poems of Goethe._ Edgar Alfred Bowring's Translation. (Ed.
1853.)
THE FUTURE OF OUR EDUCATIONAL INSTITUTIONS.
FIRST LECTURE.
(_Delivered on the 16th of January 1872._)
Ladies and Gentlemen,--The subject I now propose to consider with you
is such a serious and important one, and is in a sense so disquieting,
that, like you, I would gladly turn to any one who could proffer some
information concerning it,--were he ever so young, were his ideas ever
so improbable--provided that he were able, by the exercise of his own
faculties, to furnish some satisfactory and sufficient explanation. It
is just possible that he may have had the opportunity of _hearing_
sound views expressed in reference to the vexed question of the future
of our educational institutions, and that he may wish to repeat them
to you; he may even have had distinguished teachers, fully qualified
to foretell what is to come, and, like the _haruspices_ of Rome, able
to do so after an inspection of the entrails of the Present.
Indeed, you yourselves may expect something of this kind from me. I
happened once, in strange but perfectly harmless circumstances, to
overhear a conversation on this subject between two remarkable men,
and the more striking points of the discussion, together with their
manner of handling the theme, are so indelibly imprinted on my memory
that, whenever I reflect on these matters, I invariably find myself
falling into their grooves of thought. I cannot, however, profess to
have the same courageous confidence which they displayed, both in
their daring utterance of forbidden truths, and in the still more
daring conception of the hopes with which they astonished me. It
therefore seemed to me to be in the highest degree important that a
record of this conversation should be made, so that others might be
incited to form a judgment concerning the striking views and
conclusions it contains: and, to this end, I had special grounds for
believing that I should do well to avail myself of the opportunity
afforded by this course of lectures.
I am well aware of the nature of the community to whose serious
consideration I now wish to commend that conversation--I know it to be
a community which is striving to educate and enlighten its members on
a scale so magnificently out of proportion to its size that it must
put all larger cities to shame. This being so, I presume I may take it
for granted that in a quarter where so much is _done_ for the things
of which I wish to speak, people must also _think_ a good deal about
them. In my account of the conversation already mentioned, I shall be
able to make myself completely understood only to those among my
audience who will be able to guess what I can do no more than suggest,
who will supply what I am compelled to omit, and who, above all, need
but to be reminded and not taught.
Listen, therefore, ladies and gentlemen, while I recount my harmless
experience and the less harmless conversation between the two
gentlemen whom, so far, I have not named.
Let us now imagine ourselves in the position of a young student--that
is to say, in a position which, in our present age of bewildering
movement and feverish excitability, has become an almost impossible
one. It is necessary to have lived through it in order to believe that
such careless self-lulling and comfortable indifference to the moment,
or to time in general, are possible. In this condition I, and a friend
about my own age, spent a year at the University of Bonn on the
Rhine,--it was a year which, in its complete lack of plans and
projects for the future, seems almost like a dream to me now--a dream
framed, as it were, by two periods of growth. We two remained quiet
and peaceful, although we were surrounded by fellows who in the main
were very differently disposed, and from time to time we experienced
considerable difficulty in meeting and resisting the somewhat too
pressing advances of the young men of our own age. Now, however, that
I can look upon the stand we had to take against these opposing
forces, I cannot help associating them in my mind with those checks we
are wont to receive in our dreams, as, for instance, when we imagine
we are able to fly and yet feel ourselves held back by some
incomprehensible power.
I and my friend had many reminiscences in common, and these dated from
the period of our boyhood upwards. One of these I must relate to you,
since it forms a sort of prelude to the harmless experience already
mentioned. On the occasion of a certain journey up the Rhine, which we
had made together one summer, it happened that he and I independently
conceived the very same plan at the same hour and on the same spot,
and we were so struck by this unwonted coincidence that we determined
to carry the plan out forthwith. We resolved to found a kind of small
club which would consist of ourselves and a few friends, and the
object of which would be to provide us with a stable and binding
organisation directing and adding interest to our creative impulses in
art and literature; or, to put it more plainly: each of us would be
pledged to present an original piece of work to the club once a
month,--either a poem, a treatise, an architectural design, or a
musical composition, upon which each of the others, in a friendly
spirit, would have to pass free and unrestrained criticism.
We thus hoped, by means of mutual correction, to be able both to
stimulate and to chasten our creative impulses and, as a matter of
fact, the success of the scheme was such that we have both always felt
a sort of respectful attachment for the hour and the place at which it
first took shape in our minds.
This attachment was very soon transformed into a rite; for we all
agreed to go, whenever it was possible to do so, once a year to that
lonely spot near Rolandseck, where on that summer's day, while sitting
together, lost in meditation, we were suddenly inspired by the same
thought. Frankly speaking, the rules which were drawn up on the
formation of the club were never very strictly observed; but owing to
the very fact that we had many sins of omission on our conscience
during our student-year in Bonn, when we were once more on the banks
of the Rhine, we firmly resolved not only to observe our rule, but
also to gratify our feelings and our sense of gratitude by reverently
visiting that spot near Rolandseck on the day appointed.
It was, however, with some difficulty that we were able to carry our
plans into execution; for, on the very day we had selected for our
excursion, the large and lively students' association, which always
hindered us in our flights, did their utmost to put obstacles in our
way and to hold us back. Our association had organised a general
holiday excursion to Rolandseck on the very day my friend and I had
fixed upon, the object of the outing being to assemble all its members
for the last time at the close of the half-year and to send them home
with pleasant recollections of their last hours together.
The day was a glorious one; the weather was of the kind which, in our
climate at least, only falls to our lot in late summer: heaven and
earth merged harmoniously with one another, and, glowing wondrously in
the sunshine, autumn freshness blended with the blue expanse above.
Arrayed in the bright fantastic garb in which, amid the gloomy
fashions now reigning, students alone may indulge, we boarded a
steamer which was gaily decorated in our honour, and hoisted our flag
on its mast. From both banks of the river there came at intervals the
sound of signal-guns, fired according to our orders, with the view of
acquainting both our host in Rolandseck and the inhabitants in the
neighbourhood with our approach. I shall not speak of the noisy
journey from the landing-stage, through the excited and expectant
little place, nor shall I refer to the esoteric jokes exchanged
between ourselves; I also make no mention of a feast which became both
wild and noisy, or of an extraordinary musical production in the
execution of which, whether as soloists or as chorus, we all
ultimately had to share, and which I, as musical adviser of our club,
had not only had to rehearse, but was then forced to conduct. Towards
the end of this piece, which grew ever wilder and which was sung to
ever quicker time, I made a sign to my friend, and just as the last
chord rang like a yell through the building, he and I vanished,
leaving behind us a raging pandemonium.
In a moment we were in the refreshing and breathless stillness of
nature. The shadows were already lengthening, the sun still shone
steadily, though it had sunk a good deal in the heavens, and from the
green and glittering waves of the Rhine a cool breeze was wafted over
our hot faces. Our solemn rite bound us only in so far as the latest
hours of the day were concerned, and we therefore determined to employ
the last moments of clear daylight by giving ourselves up to one of
our many hobbies.
At that time we were passionately fond of pistol-shooting, and both of
us in later years found the skill we had acquired as amateurs of great
use in our military career. Our club servant happened to know the
somewhat distant and elevated spot which we used as a range, and had
carried our pistols there in advance. The spot lay near the upper
border of the wood which covered the lesser heights behind Rolandseck:
it was a small uneven plateau, close to the place we had consecrated
in memory of its associations. On a wooded slope alongside of our
shooting-range there was a small piece of ground which had been
cleared of wood, and which made an ideal halting-place; from it one
could get a view of the Rhine over the tops of the trees and the
brushwood, so that the beautiful, undulating lines of the Seven
Mountains and above all of the Drachenfels bounded the horizon against
the group of trees, while in the centre of the bow formed by the
glistening Rhine itself the island of Nonnenwörth stood out as if
suspended in the river's arms. This was the place which had become
sacred to us through the dreams and plans we had had in common, and to
which we intended to withdraw, later in the evening,--nay, to which we
should be obliged to withdraw, if we wished to close the day in
accordance with the law we had imposed on ourselves.
At one end of the little uneven plateau, and not very far away, there
stood the mighty trunk of an oak-tree, prominently visible against a
background quite bare of trees and consisting merely of low undulating
hills in the distance. Working together, we had once carved a
pentagram in the side of this tree-trunk. Years of exposure to rain
and storm had slightly deepened the channels we had cut, and the
figure seemed a welcome target for our pistol-practice. It was already
late in the afternoon when we reached our improvised range, and our
oak-stump cast a long and attenuated shadow across the barren heath.
All was still: thanks to the lofty trees at our feet, we were unable
to catch a glimpse of the valley of the Rhine below. The peacefulness
of the spot seemed only to intensify the loudness of our
pistol-shots--and I had scarcely fired my second barrel at the
pentagram when I felt some one lay hold of my arm and noticed that my
friend had also some one beside him who had interrupted his loading.
Turning sharply on my heels I found myself face to face with an
astonished old gentleman, and felt what must have been a very powerful
dog make a lunge at my back. My friend had been approached by a
somewhat younger man than I had; but before we could give expression
to our surprise the older of the two interlopers burst forth in the
following threatening and heated strain: "No! no!" he called to us,
"no duels must be fought here, but least of all must you young
students fight one. Away with these pistols and compose yourselves. Be
reconciled, shake hands! What?--and are you the salt of the earth,
the intelligence of the future, the seed of our hopes--and are you
not even able to emancipate yourselves from the insane code of honour
and its violent regulations? I will not cast any aspersions on your
hearts, but your heads certainly do you no credit. You, whose youth is
watched over by the wisdom of Greece and Rome, and whose youthful
spirits, at the cost of enormous pains, have been flooded with the
light of the sages and heroes of antiquity,--can you not refrain from
making the code of knightly honour--that is to say, the code of folly
and brutality--the guiding principle of your conduct?--Examine it
rationally once and for all, and reduce it to plain terms; lay its
pitiable narrowness bare, and let it be the touchstone, not of your
hearts but of your minds. If you do not regret it then, it will merely
show that your head is not fitted for work in a sphere where great
gifts of discrimination are needful in order to burst the bonds of
prejudice, and where a well-balanced understanding is necessary for
the purpose of distinguishing right from wrong, even when the
difference between them lies deeply hidden and is not, as in this
case, so ridiculously obvious. In that case, therefore, my lads, try
to go through life in some other honourable manner; join the army or
learn a handicraft that pays its way."
To this rough, though admittedly just, flood of eloquence, we replied
with some irritation, interrupting each other continually in so doing:
"In the first place, you are mistaken concerning the main point; for
we are not here to fight a duel at all; but rather to practise
pistol-shooting. Secondly, you do not appear to know how a real duel
is conducted;--do you suppose that we should have faced each other in
this lonely spot, like two highwaymen, without seconds or doctors,
etc. etc.? Thirdly, with regard to the question of duelling, we each
have our own opinions, and do not require to be waylaid and surprised
by the sort of instruction you may feel disposed to give us."
This reply, which was certainly not polite, made a bad impression upon
the old man. At first, when he heard that we were not about to fight a
duel, he surveyed us more kindly: but when we reached the last passage
of our speech, he seemed so vexed that he growled. When, however, we
began to speak of our point of view, he quickly caught hold of his
companion, turned sharply round, and cried to us in bitter tones:
"People should not have points of view, but thoughts!" And then his
companion added: "Be respectful when a man such as this even makes
mistakes!"
Meanwhile, my friend, who had reloaded, fired a shot at the pentagram,
after having cried: "Look out!" This sudden report behind his back
made the old man savage; once more he turned round and looked sourly
at my friend, after which he said to his companion in a feeble voice:
"What shall we do? These young men will be the death of me with their
firing."--"You should know," said the younger man, turning to us,
"that your noisy pastimes amount, as it happens on this occasion, to
an attempt upon the life of philosophy. You observe this venerable
man,--he is in a position to beg you to desist from firing here. And
when such a man begs----" "Well, his request is generally granted,"
the old man interjected, surveying us sternly.
As a matter of fact, we did not know what to make of the whole matter;
we could not understand what our noisy pastimes could have in common
with philosophy; nor could we see why, out of regard for polite
scruples, we should abandon our shooting-range, and at this moment we
may have appeared somewhat undecided and perturbed. The companion
noticing our momentary discomfiture, proceeded to explain the matter
to us.
"We are compelled," he said, "to linger in this immediate
neighbourhood for an hour or so; we have a rendezvous here. An eminent
friend of this eminent man is to meet us here this evening; and we had
actually selected this peaceful spot, with its few benches in the
midst of the wood, for the meeting. It would really be most unpleasant
if, owing to your continual pistol-practice, we were to be subjected
to an unending series of shocks; surely your own feelings will tell
you that it is impossible for you to continue your firing when you
hear that he who has selected this quiet and isolated place for a
meeting with a friend is one of our most eminent philosophers."
This explanation only succeeded in perturbing us the more; for we saw
a danger threatening us which was even greater than the loss of our
shooting-range, and we asked eagerly, "Where is this quiet spot?
Surely not to the left here, in the wood?"
"That is the very place."
"But this evening that place belongs to us," my friend interposed. "We
must have it," we cried together.
Our long-projected celebration seemed at that moment more important
than all the philosophies of the world, and we gave such vehement and
animated utterance to our sentiments that in view of the
incomprehensible nature of our claims we must have cut a somewhat
ridiculous figure. At any rate, our philosophical interlopers regarded
us with expressions of amused inquiry, as if they expected us to
proffer some sort of apology. But we were silent, for we wished above
all to keep our secret.
Thus we stood facing one another in silence, while the sunset dyed the
tree-tops a ruddy gold. The philosopher contemplated the sun, his
companion contemplated him, and we turned our eyes towards our nook in
the woods which to-day we seemed in such great danger of losing. A
feeling of sullen anger took possession of us. What is philosophy, we
asked ourselves, if it prevents a man from being by himself or from
enjoying the select company of a friend,--in sooth, if it prevents him
from becoming a philosopher? For we regarded the celebration of our
rite as a thoroughly philosophical performance. In celebrating it we
wished to form plans and resolutions for the future, by means of quiet
reflections we hoped to light upon an idea which would once again help
us to form and gratify our spirit in the future, just as that former
idea had done during our boyhood. The solemn act derived its very
significance from this resolution, that nothing definite was to be
done, we were only to be alone, and to sit still and meditate, as we
had done five years before when we had each been inspired with the
same thought. It was to be a silent solemnisation, all reminiscence
and all future; the present was to be as a hyphen between the two. And
fate, now unfriendly, had just stepped into our magic circle--and we
knew not how to dismiss her;--the very unusual character of the
circumstances filled us with mysterious excitement.
Whilst we stood thus in silence for some time, divided into two
hostile groups, the clouds above waxed ever redder and the evening
seemed to grow more peaceful and mild; we could almost fancy we heard
the regular breathing of nature as she put the final touches to her
work of art--the glorious day we had just enjoyed; when, suddenly, the
calm evening air was rent by a confused and boisterous cry of joy
which seemed to come from the Rhine. A number of voices could be heard
in the distance--they were those of our fellow-students who by that
time must have taken to the Rhine in small boats. It occurred to us
that we should be missed and that we should also miss something:
almost simultaneously my friend and I raised our pistols: our shots
were echoed back to us, and with their echo there came from the valley
the sound of a well-known cry intended as a signal of identification.
For our passion for shooting had brought us both repute and ill-repute
in our club. At the same time we were conscious that our behaviour
towards the silent philosophical couple had been exceptionally
ungentlemanly; they had been quietly contemplating us for some time,
and when we fired the shock made them draw close up to each other. We
hurried up to them, and each in our turn cried out: "Forgive us. That
was our last shot, and it was intended for our friends on the Rhine.
They have understood us, do you hear? If you insist upon having that
place among the trees, grant us at least the permission to recline
there also. You will find a number of benches on the spot: we shall
not disturb you; we shall sit quite still and shall not utter a word:
but it is now past seven o'clock and we _must_ go there at once.
"That sounds more mysterious than it is," I added after a pause; "we
have made a solemn vow to spend this coming hour on that ground, and
there were reasons for the vow. The spot is sacred to us, owing to
some pleasant associations, it must also inaugurate a good future for
us. We shall therefore endeavour to leave you with no disagreeable
recollections of our meeting--even though we have done much to perturb
and frighten you."
The philosopher was silent; his companion, however, said: "Our
promises and plans unfortunately compel us not only to remain, but
also to spend the same hour on the spot you have selected. It is left
for us to decide whether fate or perhaps a spirit has been responsible
for this extraordinary coincidence."
"Besides, my friend," said the philosopher, "I am not half so
displeased with these warlike youngsters as I was. Did you observe
how quiet they were a moment ago, when we were contemplating the sun?
They neither spoke nor smoked, they stood stone still, I even believe
they meditated."
Turning suddenly in our direction, he said: "_Were_ you meditating?
Just tell me about it as we proceed in the direction of our common
trysting-place." We took a few steps together and went down the slope
into the warm balmy air of the woods where it was already much darker.
On the way my friend openly revealed his thoughts to the philosopher,
he confessed how much he had feared that perhaps to-day for the first
time a philosopher was about to stand in the way of his
philosophising.
The sage laughed. "What? You were afraid a philosopher would prevent
your philosophising? This might easily happen: and you have not yet
experienced such a thing? Has your university life been free from
experience? You surely attend lectures on philosophy?"
This question discomfited us; for, as a matter of fact, there had been
no element of philosophy in our education up to that time. In those
days, moreover, we fondly imagined that everybody who held the post
and possessed the dignity of a philosopher must perforce be one: we
were inexperienced and badly informed. We frankly admitted that we had
not yet belonged to any philosophical college, but that we would
certainly make up for lost time.
"Then what," he asked, "did you mean when you spoke of
philosophising?" Said I, "We are at a loss for a definition. But to
all intents and purposes we meant this, that we wished to make earnest
endeavours to consider the best possible means of becoming men of
culture." "That is a good deal and at the same time very little,"
growled the philosopher; "just you think the matter over. Here are our
benches, let us discuss the question exhaustively: I shall not disturb
your meditations with regard to how you are to become men of culture.
I wish you success and--points of view, as in your duelling questions;
brand-new, original, and enlightened points of view. The philosopher
does not wish to prevent your philosophising: but refrain at least
from disconcerting him with your pistol-shots. Try to imitate the
Pythagoreans to-day: they, as servants of a true philosophy, had to
remain silent for five years--possibly you may also be able to remain
silent for five times fifteen minutes, as servants of your own future
culture, about which you seem so concerned."
We had reached our destination: the solemnisation of our rite began.
As on the previous occasion, five years ago, the Rhine was once more
flowing beneath a light mist, the sky seemed bright and the woods
exhaled the same fragrance. We took our places on the farthest corner
of the most distant bench; sitting there we were almost concealed, and
neither the philosopher nor his companion could see our faces. We were
alone: when the sound of the philosopher's voice reached us, it had
become so blended with the rustling leaves and with the buzzing
murmur of the myriads of living things inhabiting the wooded height,
that it almost seemed like the music of nature; as a sound it
resembled nothing more than a distant monotonous plaint. We were
indeed undisturbed.
Some time elapsed in this way, and while the glow of sunset grew
steadily paler the recollection of our youthful undertaking in the
cause of culture waxed ever more vivid. It seemed to us as if we owed
the greatest debt of gratitude to that little society we had founded;
for it had done more than merely supplement our public school
training; it had actually been the only fruitful society we had had,
and within its frame we even placed our public school life, as a
purely isolated factor helping us in our general efforts to attain to
culture.
We knew this, that, thanks to our little society, no thought of
embracing any particular career had ever entered our minds in those
days. The all too frequent exploitation of youth by the State, for its
own purposes--that is to say, so that it may rear useful officials as
quickly as possible and guarantee their unconditional obedience to it
by means of excessively severe examinations--had remained quite
foreign to our education. And to show how little we had been actuated
by thoughts of utility or by the prospect of speedy advancement and
rapid success, on that day we were struck by the comforting
consideration that, even then, we had not yet decided what we should
be--we had not even troubled ourselves at all on this head. Our little
society had sown the seeds of this happy indifference in our souls and
for it alone we were prepared to celebrate the anniversary of its
foundation with hearty gratitude. I have already pointed out, I think,
that in the eyes of the present age, which is so intolerant of
anything that is not useful, such purposeless enjoyment of the moment,
such a lulling of one's self in the cradle of the present, must seem
almost incredible and at all events blameworthy. How useless we were!
And how proud we were of being useless! We used even to quarrel with
each other as to which of us should have the glory of being the more
useless. We wished to attach no importance to anything, to have strong
views about nothing, to aim at nothing; we wanted to take no thought
for the morrow, and desired no more than to recline comfortably like
good-for-nothings on the threshold of the present; and we did--bless
us!
--That, ladies and gentlemen, was our standpoint then!--
Absorbed in these reflections, I was just about to give an answer to
the question of the future of _our_ Educational Institutions in the
same self-sufficient way, when it gradually dawned upon me that the
"natural music," coming from the philosopher's bench had lost its
original character and travelled to us in much more piercing and
distinct tones than before. Suddenly I became aware that I was
listening, that I was eavesdropping, and was passionately interested,
with both ears keenly alive to every sound. I nudged my friend who was
evidently somewhat tired, and I whispered: "Don't fall asleep! There
is something for us to learn over there. It applies to us, even
though it be not meant for us."