path of true culture, beware of interrupting his naive, confident,
and, as it were, immediate and personal relationship with nature. The
woods, the rocks, the winds, the vulture, the flowers, the butterfly,
the meads, the mountain slopes, must all speak to him in their own
language; in them he must, as it were, come to know himself again in
countless reflections and images, in a variegated round of changing
visions; and in this way he will unconsciously and gradually feel the
metaphysical unity of all things in the great image of nature, and at
the same time tranquillise his soul in the contemplation of her
eternal endurance and necessity. But how many young men should be
permitted to grow up in such close and almost personal proximity to
nature! The others must learn another truth betimes: how to subdue
nature to themselves. Here is an end of this naive metaphysics; and
the physiology of plants and animals, geology, inorganic chemistry,
force their devotees to view nature from an altogether different
standpoint. What is lost by this new point of view is not only a
poetical phantasmagoria, but the instinctive, true, and unique point
of view, instead of which we have shrewd and clever calculations, and,
so to speak, overreachings of nature. Thus to the truly cultured man
is vouchsafed the inestimable benefit of being able to remain
faithful, without a break, to the contemplative instincts of his
childhood, and so to attain to a calmness, unity, consistency, and
harmony which can never be even thought of by a man who is compelled
to fight in the struggle for existence.
"You must not think, however, that I wish to withhold all praise from
our primary and secondary schools: I honour the seminaries where boys
learn arithmetic and master modern languages, and study geography and
the marvellous discoveries made in natural science. I am quite
prepared to say further that those youths who pass through the better
class of secondary schools are well entitled to make the claims put
forward by the fully-fledged public school boy; and the time is
certainly not far distant when such pupils will be everywhere freely
admitted to the universities and positions under the government, which
has hitherto been the case only with scholars from the public
schools--of our present public schools, be it noted![7] I cannot,
however, refrain from adding the melancholy reflection: if it be true
that secondary and public schools are, on the whole, working so
heartily in common towards the same ends, and differ from each other
only in such a slight degree, that they may take equal rank before the
tribunal of the State, then we completely lack another kind of
educational institutions: those for the development of culture! To say
the least, the secondary schools cannot be reproached with this; for
they have up to the present propitiously and honourably followed up
tendencies of a lower order, but one nevertheless highly necessary. In
the public schools, however, there is very much less honesty and very
much less ability too; for in them we find an instinctive feeling of
shame, the unconscious perception of the fact that the whole
institution has been ignominiously degraded, and that the sonorous
words of wise and apathetic teachers are contradictory to the dreary,
barbaric, and sterile reality. So there are no true cultural
institutions! And in those very places where a pretence to culture is
still kept up, we find the people more hopeless, atrophied, and
discontented than in the secondary schools, where the so-called
'realistic' subjects are taught! Besides this, only think how immature
and uninformed one must be in the company of such teachers when one
actually misunderstands the rigorously defined philosophical
expressions 'real' and 'realism' to such a degree as to think them the
contraries of mind and matter, and to interpret 'realism' as 'the road
to knowledge, formation, and mastery of reality.'
"I for my own part know of only two exact contraries: _institutions
for teaching culture and institutions for teaching how to succeed in
life_. All our present institutions belong to the second class; but I
am speaking only of the first."
About two hours went by while the philosophically-minded couple
chatted about such startling questions. Night slowly fell in the
meantime; and when in the twilight the philosopher's voice had sounded
like natural music through the woods, it now rang out in the profound
darkness of the night when he was speaking with excitement or even
passionately; his tones hissing and thundering far down the valley,
and reverberating among the trees and rocks. Suddenly he was silent:
he had just repeated, almost pathetically, the words, "we have no true
educational institutions; we have no true educational institutions!"
when something fell down just in front of him--it might have been a
fir-cone--and his dog barked and ran towards it. Thus interrupted, the
philosopher raised his head, and suddenly became aware of the
darkness, the cool air, and the lonely situation of himself and his
companion. "Well! What are we about!" he ejaculated, "it's dark. You
know whom we were expecting here; but he hasn't come. We have waited
in vain; let us go."
* * * * *
I must now, ladies and gentlemen, convey to you the impressions
experienced by my friend and myself as we eagerly listened to this
conversation, which we heard distinctly in our hiding-place. I have
already told you that at that place and at that hour we had intended
to hold a festival in commemoration of something: and this something
had to do with nothing else than matters concerning educational
training, of which we, in our own youthful opinions, had garnered a
plentiful harvest during our past life. We were thus disposed to
remember with gratitude the institution which we had at one time
thought out for ourselves at that very spot in order, as I have
already mentioned, that we might reciprocally encourage and watch over
one another's educational impulses. But a sudden and unexpected light
was thrown on all that past life as we silently gave ourselves up to
the vehement words of the philosopher. As when a traveller, walking
heedlessly across unknown ground, suddenly puts his foot over the edge
of a cliff, so it now seemed to us that we had hastened to meet the
great danger rather than run away from it. Here at this spot, so
memorable to us, we heard the warning: "Back! Not another step! Know
you not whither your footsteps tend, whither this deceitful path is
luring you?"
It seemed to us that we now knew, and our feeling of overflowing
thankfulness impelled us so irresistibly towards our earnest
counsellor and trusty Eckart, that both of us sprang up at the same
moment and rushed towards the philosopher to embrace him. He was just
about to move off, and had already turned sideways when we rushed up
to him. The dog turned sharply round and barked, thinking doubtless,
like the philosopher's companion, of an attempt at robbery rather than
an enraptured embrace. It was plain that he had forgotten us. In a
word, he ran away. Our embrace was a miserable failure when we did
overtake him; for my friend gave a loud yell as the dog bit him, and
the philosopher himself sprang away from me with such force that we
both fell. What with the dog and the men there was a scramble that
lasted a few minutes, until my friend began to call out loudly,
parodying the philosopher's own words: "In the name of all culture and
pseudo-culture, what does the silly dog want with us? Hence, you
confounded dog; you uninitiated, never to be initiated; hasten away
from us, silent and ashamed!" After this outburst matters were cleared
up to some extent, at any rate so far as they could be cleared up in
the darkness of the wood. "Oh, it's you!" ejaculated the philosopher,
"our duellists! How you startled us! What on earth drives you to jump
out upon us like this at such a time of the night?"
"Joy, thankfulness, and reverence," said we, shaking the old man by
the hand, whilst the dog barked as if he understood, "we can't let you
go without telling you this. And if you are to understand everything
you must not go away just yet; we want to ask you about so many things
that lie heavily on our hearts. Stay yet awhile; we know every foot of
the way and can accompany you afterwards. The gentleman you expect may
yet turn up. Look over yonder on the Rhine: what is that we see so
clearly floating on the surface of the water as if surrounded by the
light of many torches? It is there that we may look for your friend, I
would even venture to say that it is he who is coming towards you with
all those lights."
And so much did we assail the surprised old man with our entreaties,
promises, and fantastic delusions, that we persuaded the philosopher
to walk to and fro with us on the little plateau, "by learned lumber
undisturbed," as my friend added.
"Shame on you!" said the philosopher, "if you really want to quote
something, why choose Faust? However, I will give in to you, quotation
or no quotation, if only our young companions will keep still and not
run away as suddenly as they made their appearance, for they are like
will-o'-the-wisps; we are amazed when they are there and again when
they are not there."
My friend immediately recited--
Respect, I hope, will teach us how we may
Our lighter disposition keep at bay.
Our course is only zig-zag as a rule.
The philosopher was surprised, and stood still. "You astonish me, you
will-o'-the-wisps," he said; "this is no quagmire we are on now. Of
what use is this ground to you? What does the proximity of a
philosopher mean to you? For around him the air is sharp and clear,
the ground dry and hard. You must find out a more fantastic region for
your zig-zagging inclinations."
"I think," interrupted the philosopher's companion at this point, "the
gentlemen have already told us that they promised to meet some one
here at this hour; but it seems to me that they listened to our comedy
of education like a chorus, and truly 'idealistic spectators'--for
they did not disturb us; we thought we were alone with each other."
"Yes, that is true," said the philosopher, "that praise must not be
withheld from them, but it seems to me that they deserve still higher
praise----"
Here I seized the philosopher's hand and said: "That man must be as
obtuse as a reptile, with his stomach on the ground and his head
buried in mud, who can listen to such a discourse as yours without
becoming earnest and thoughtful, or even excited and indignant.
Self-accusation and annoyance might perhaps cause a few to get angry;
but our impression was quite different: the only thing I do not know
is how exactly to describe it. This hour was so well-timed for us, and
our minds were so well prepared, that we sat there like empty vessels,
and now it seems as if we were filled to overflowing with this new
wisdom: for I no longer know how to help myself, and if some one asked
me what I am thinking of doing to-morrow, or what I have made up my
mind to do with myself from now on, I should not know what to answer.
For it is easy to see that we have up to the present been living and
educating ourselves in the wrong way--but what can we do to cross over
the chasm between to-day and to-morrow?"
"Yes," acknowledged my friend, "I have a similar feeling, and I ask
the same question: but besides that I feel as if I were frightened
away from German culture by entertaining such high and ideal views of
its task; yea, as if I were unworthy to co-operate with it in carrying
out its aims. I only see a resplendent file of the highest natures
moving towards this goal; I can imagine over what abysses and through
what temptations this procession travels. Who would dare to be so bold
as to join in it?"
At this point the philosopher's companion again turned to him and
said: "Don't be angry with me when I tell you that I too have a
somewhat similar feeling, which I have not mentioned to you before.
When talking to you I often felt drawn out of myself, as it were, and
inspired with your ardour and hopes till I almost forgot myself. Then
a calmer moment arrives; a piercing wind of reality brings me back to
earth--and then I see the wide gulf between us, over which you
yourself, as in a dream, draw me back again. Then what you call
'culture' merely totters meaninglessly around me or lies heavily on my
breast: it is like a shirt of mail that weighs me down, or a sword
that I cannot wield."
Our minds, as we thus argued with the philosopher, were unanimous,
and, mutually encouraging and stimulating one another, we slowly
walked with him backwards and forwards along the unencumbered space
which had earlier in the day served us as a shooting range. And then,
in the still night, under the peaceful light of hundreds of stars, we
all broke out into a tirade which ran somewhat as follows:--
"You have told us so much about the genius," we began, "about his
lonely and wearisome journey through the world, as if nature never
exhibited anything but the most diametrical contraries: in one place
the stupid, dull masses, acting by instinct, and then, on a far higher
and more remote plane, the great contemplating few, destined for the
production of immortal works. But now you call these the apexes of the
intellectual pyramid: it would, however, seem that between the broad,
heavily burdened foundation up to the highest of the free and
unencumbered peaks there must be countless intermediate degrees, and
that here we must apply the saying _natura non facit saltus_. Where
then are we to look for the beginning of what you call culture; where
is the line of demarcation to be drawn between the spheres which are
ruled from below upwards and those which are ruled from above
downwards? And if it be only in connection with these exalted beings
that true culture may be spoken of, how are institutions to be founded
for the uncertain existence of such natures, how can we devise
educational establishments which shall be of benefit only to these
select few? It rather seems to us that such persons know how to find
their own way, and that their full strength is shown in their being
able to walk without the educational crutches necessary for other
people, and thus undisturbed to make their way through the storm and
stress of this rough world just like a phantom."
We kept on arguing in this fashion, speaking without any great ability
and not putting our thoughts in any special form: but the
philosopher's companion went even further, and said to him: "Just
think of all these great geniuses of whom we are wont to be so proud,
looking upon them as tried and true leaders and guides of this real
German spirit, whose names we commemorate by statues and festivals,
and whose works we hold up with feelings of pride for the admiration
of foreign lands--how did they obtain the education you demand for
them, to what degree do they show that they have been nourished and
matured by basking in the sun of national education? And yet they are
seen to be possible, they have nevertheless become men whom we must
honour: yea, their works themselves justify the form of the
development of these noble spirits; they justify even a certain want
of education for which we must make allowance owing to their country
and the age in which they lived. How could Lessing and Winckelmann
benefit by the German culture of their time? Even less than, or at all
events just as little as Beethoven, Schiller, Goethe, or every one of
our great poets and artists. It may perhaps be a law of nature that
only the later generations are destined to know by what divine gifts
an earlier generation was favoured."
At this point the old philosopher could not control his anger, and
shouted to his companion: "Oh, you innocent lamb of knowledge! You
gentle sucking doves, all of you! And would you give the name of
arguments to those distorted, clumsy, narrow-minded, ungainly,
crippled things? Yes, I have just now been listening to the fruits of
some of this present-day culture, and my ears are still ringing with
the sound of historical 'self-understood' things, of over-wise and
pitiless historical reasonings! Mark this, thou unprofaned Nature:
thou hast grown old, and for thousands of years this starry sky has
spanned the space above thee--but thou hast never yet heard such
conceited and, at bottom, mischievous chatter as the talk of the
present day! So you are proud of your poets and artists, my good
Teutons? You point to them and brag about them to foreign countries,
do you? And because it has given you no trouble to have them amongst
you, you have formed the pleasant theory that you need not concern
yourselves further with them? Isn't that so, my inexperienced
children: they come of their own free will, the stork brings them to
you! Who would dare to mention a midwife! You deserve an earnest
teaching, eh? You should be proud of the fact that all the noble and
brilliant men we have mentioned were prematurely suffocated, worn out,
and crushed through you, through your barbarism? You think without
shame of Lessing, who, on account of your stupidity, perished in
battle against your ludicrous gods and idols, the evils of your
theatres, your learned men, and your theologians, without once daring
to lift himself to the height of that immortal flight for which he
was brought into the world. And what are your impressions when you
think of Winckelmann, who, that he might rid his eyes of your
grotesque fatuousness, went to beg help from the Jesuits, and whose
disgraceful religious conversion recoils upon you and will always
remain an ineffaceable blemish upon you? You can even name Schiller
without blushing! Just look at his picture! The fiery, sparkling eyes,
looking at you with disdain, those flushed, death-like cheeks: can you
learn nothing from all that? In him you had a beautiful and divine
plaything, and through it was destroyed. And if it had been possible
for you to take Goethe's friendship away from this melancholy, hasty
life, hunted to premature death, then you would have crushed him even
sooner than you did. You have not rendered assistance to a single one
of our great geniuses--and now upon that fact you wish to build up the
theory that none of them shall ever be helped in future? For each of
them, however, up to this very moment, you have always been the
'resistance of the stupid world' that Goethe speaks of in his
"Epilogue to the Bell"; towards each of them you acted the part of
apathetic dullards or jealous narrow-hearts or malignant egotists. In
spite of you they created their immortal works, against you they
directed their attacks, and thanks to you they died so prematurely,
their tasks only half accomplished, blunted and dulled and shattered
in the battle. Who can tell to what these heroic men were destined to
attain if only that true German spirit had gathered them together
within the protecting walls of a powerful institution?--that spirit
which, without the help of some such institution, drags out an
isolated, debased, and degraded existence. All those great men were
utterly ruined; and it is only an insane belief in the Hegelian
'reasonableness of all happenings' which would absolve you of any
responsibility in the matter. And not those men alone! Indictments are
pouring forth against you from every intellectual province: whether I
look at the talents of our poets, philosophers, painters, or
sculptors--and not only in the case of gifts of the highest order--I
everywhere see immaturity, overstrained nerves, or prematurely
exhausted energies, abilities wasted and nipped in the bud; I
everywhere feel that 'resistance of the stupid world,' in other words,
_your_ guiltiness. That is what I am talking about when I speak of
lacking educational establishments, and why I think those which at
present claim the name in such a pitiful condition. Whoever is pleased
to call this an 'ideal desire,' and refers to it as 'ideal' as if he
were trying to get rid of it by praising me, deserves the answer that
the present system is a scandal and a disgrace, and that the man who
asks for warmth in the midst of ice and snow must indeed get angry if
he hears this referred to as an 'ideal desire.' The matter we are now
discussing is concerned with clear, urgent, and palpably evident
realities: a man who knows anything of the question feels that there
is a need which must be seen to, just like cold and hunger. But the
man who is not affected at all by this matter most certainly has a
standard by which to measure the extent of his own culture, and thus
to know what I call 'culture,' and where the line should be drawn
between that which is ruled from below upwards and that which is ruled
from above downwards."
The philosopher seemed to be speaking very heatedly. We begged him to
walk round with us again, since he had uttered the latter part of his
discourse standing near the tree-stump which had served us as a
target. For a few minutes not a word more was spoken. Slowly and
thoughtfully we walked to and fro. We did not so much feel ashamed of
having brought forward such foolish arguments as we felt a kind of
restitution of our personality. After the heated and, so far as we
were concerned, very unflattering utterance of the philosopher, we
seemed to feel ourselves nearer to him--that we even stood in a
personal relationship to him. For so wretched is man that he never
feels himself brought into such close contact with a stranger as when
the latter shows some sign of weakness, some defect. That our
philosopher had lost his temper and made use of abusive language
helped to bridge over the gulf created between us by our timid respect
for him: and for the sake of the reader who feels his indignation
rising at this suggestion let it be added that this bridge often leads
from distant hero-worship to personal love and pity. And, after the
feeling that our personality had been restored to us, this pity
gradually became stronger and stronger. Why were we making this old
man walk up and down with us between the rocks and trees at that time
of the night? And, since he had yielded to our entreaties, why could
we not have thought of a more modest and unassuming manner of having
ourselves instructed, why should the three of us have contradicted him
in such clumsy terms?
For now we saw how thoughtless, unprepared, and baseless were all the
objections we had made, and how greatly the echo of _the_ present was
heard in them, the voice of which, in the province of culture, the old
man would fain not have heard. Our objections, however, were not
purely intellectual ones: our reasons for protesting against the
philosopher's statements seemed to lie elsewhere. They arose perhaps
from the instinctive anxiety to know whether, if the philosopher's
views were carried into effect, our own personalities would find a
place in the higher or lower division; and this made it necessary for
us to find some arguments against the mode of thinking which robbed us
of our self-styled claims to culture. People, however, should not
argue with companions who feel the weight of an argument so
personally; or, as the moral in our case would have been: such
companions should not argue, should not contradict at all.
So we walked on beside the philosopher, ashamed, compassionate,
dissatisfied with ourselves, and more than ever convinced that the old
man was right and that we had done him wrong. How remote now seemed
the youthful dream of our educational institution; how clearly we saw
the danger which we had hitherto escaped merely by good luck, namely,
giving ourselves up body and soul to the educational system which
forced itself upon our notice so enticingly, from the time when we
entered the public schools up to that moment. How then had it come
about that we had not taken our places in the chorus of its admirers?
Perhaps merely because we were real students, and could still draw
back from the rough-and-tumble, the pushing and struggling, the
restless, ever-breaking waves of publicity, to seek refuge in our own
little educational establishment; which, however, time would have soon
swallowed up also.