"In spite of it all, he is still a classical writer." Well, let us
see! Perhaps we may now be allowed to discuss Strauss the stylist and
master of language; but in the first place let us inquire whether, as
a literary man, he is equal to the task of building his house, and
whether he really understands the architecture of a book. From this
inquiry we shall be able to conclude whether he is a respectable,
thoughtful, and experienced author; and even should we be forced to
answer "No" to these questions, he may still, as a last shift, take
refuge in his fame as a classical prose-writer. This last-mentioned
talent alone, it is true, would not suffice to class him with the
classical authors, but at most with the classical improvisers and
virtuosos of style, who, however, in regard to power of expression and
the whole planning and framing of the work, reveal the awkward hand
and the embarrassed eye of the bungler. We therefore put the question,
whether Strauss really possesses the artistic strength necessary for
the purpose of presenting us with a thing that is a whole, _totum
ponere_?
As a rule, it ought to be possible to tell from the first rough sketch
of a work whether the author conceived the thing as a whole, and
whether, in view of this original conception, he has discovered the
correct way of proceeding with his task and of fixing its proportions.
Should this most important Part of the problem be solved, and should
the framework of the building have been given its most favourable
proportions, even then there remains enough to be done: how many
smaller faults have to be corrected, how many gaps require filling in!
Here and there a temporary partition or floor was found to answer the
requirements; everywhere dust and fragments litter the ground, and no
matter where we look, we see the signs of work done and work still to
be done. The house, as a whole, is still uninhabitable and gloomy, its
walls are bare, and the wind blows in through the open windows. Now,
whether this remaining, necessary, and very irksome work has been
satisfactorily accomplished by Strauss does not concern us at present;
our question is, whether the building itself has been conceived as a
whole, and whether its proportions are good? The reverse of this, of
course, would be a compilation of fragments--a method generally
adopted by scholars. They rely upon it that these fragments are
related among themselves, and thus confound the logical and the
artistic relation between them. Now, the relation between the four
questions which provide the chapter-headings of Strauss's book cannot
be called a logical one. Are we still Christians? Have we still a
religion? What is our conception of the universe? What is our rule of
life? And it is by no means contended that the relation is illogical
simply because the third question has nothing to do with the second,
nor the fourth with the third, nor all three with the first. The
natural scientist who puts the third question, for instance, shows his
unsullied love of truth by the simple fact that he tacitly passes over
the second. And with regard to the subject of the fourth
chapter--marriage, republicanism, and capital punishment--Strauss
himself seems to have been aware that they could only have been
muddled and obscured by being associated with the Darwinian theory
expounded in the third chapter; for he carefully avoids all reference
to this theory when discussing them. But the question, "Are we still
Christians?" destroys the freedom of the philosophical standpoint at
one stroke, by lending it an unpleasant theological colouring.
Moreover, in this matter, he quite forgot that the majority of men
to-day are not Christians at all, but Buddhists. Why should one,
without further ceremony, immediately think of Christianity at the
sound of the words "old faith"? Is this a sign that Strauss has never
ceased to be a Christian theologian, and that he has therefore never
learned to be a philosopher? For we find still greater cause for
surprise in the fact that he quite fails to distinguish between belief
and knowledge, and continually mentions his "new belief" and the still
newer science in one breath. Or is "new belief" merely an ironical
concession to ordinary parlance? This almost seems to be the case; for
here and there he actually allows "new belief" and "newer science" to
be interchangeable terms, as for instance on page II, where he asks on
which side, whether on that of the ancient orthodoxy or of modern
science, "exist more of the obscurities and insufficiencies
unavoidable in human speculation."
Moreover, according to the scheme laid down in the Introduction, his
desire is to disclose those proofs upon which the modern view of life
is based; but he derives all these proofs from science, and in this
respect assumes far more the attitude of a scientist than of a
believer.
At bottom, therefore, the religion is not a new belief, but, being of
a piece with modern science, it has nothing to do with religion at
all. If Strauss, however, persists in his claims to be religious, the
grounds for these claims must be beyond the pale of recent science.
Only the smallest portion of the Straussian book--that is to say, but
a few isolated pages--refer to what Strauss in all justice might call
a belief, namely, that feeling for the "All" for which he demands the
piety that the old believer demanded for his God. On the pages in
question, however, he cannot claim to be altogether scientific; but if
only he could lay claim to being a little stronger, more natural, more
outspoken, more pious, we should be content. Indeed, what perhaps
strikes us most forcibly about him is the multitude of artificial
procedures of which he avails himself before he ultimately gets the
feeling that he still possesses a belief and a religion; he reaches it
by means of stings and blows, as we have already seen. How indigently
and feebly this emergency-belief presents itself to us! We shiver at
the sight of it.
Although Strauss, in the plan laid down in his Introduction, promises
to compare the two faiths, the old and the new, and to show that the
latter will answer the same purpose as the former, even he begins to
feel, in the end, that he has promised too much. For the question
whether the new belief answers the same purpose as the old, or is
better or worse, is disposed of incidentally, so to speak, and with
uncomfortable haste, in two or three pages (p. 436 et seq.), and is
actually bolstered up by the following subterfuge: "He who cannot help
himself in this matter is beyond help, is not yet ripe for our
standpoint" (p. 436). How differently, and with what intensity of
conviction, did the ancient Stoic believe in the All and the
rationality of the All! And, viewed in this light, how does Strauss's
claim to originality appear? But, as we have already observed, it
would be a matter of indifference to us whether it were new, old,
original, or imitated, so that it were only more powerful, more
healthy, and more natural. Even Strauss himself leaves this
double-distilled emergency-belief to take care of itself as often as
he can do so, in order to protect himself and us from danger, and to
present his recently acquired biological knowledge to his "We" with a
clear conscience. The more embarrassed he may happen to be when he
speaks of faith, the rounder and fuller his mouth becomes when he
quotes the greatest benefactor to modern men--Darwin. Then he not only
exacts belief for the new Messiah, but also for himself--the new
apostle. For instance, while discussing one of the most intricate
questions in natural history, he declares with true ancient pride: "I
shall be told that I am here speaking of things about which I
understand nothing. Very well; but others will come who will
understand them, and who will also have understood me" (p. 241).
According to this, it would almost seem as though the famous "We" were
not only in duty bound to believe in the "All," but also in the
naturalist Strauss; in this case we can only hope that in order to
acquire the feeling for this last belief, other processes are
requisite than the painful and cruel ones demanded by the first
belief. Or is it perhaps sufficient in this case that the subject of
belief himself be tormented and stabbed with the view of bringing the
believers to that "religious reaction" which is the distinguishing
sign of the "new faith." What merit should we then discover in the
piety of those whom Strauss calls "We"?
Otherwise, it is almost to be feared that modern men will pass on in
pursuit of their business without troubling themselves overmuch
concerning the new furniture of faith offered them by the apostle:
just as they have done heretofore, without the doctrine of the
rationality of the All. The whole of modern biological and historical
research has nothing to do with the Straussian belief in the All, and
the fact that the modern Philistine does not require the belief is
proved by the description of his life given by Strauss in the
chapter,"What is our Rule of Life?" He is therefore quite right in
doubting whether the coach to which his esteemed readers have been
obliged to trust themselves "with him, fulfils every requirement." It
certainly does not; for the modern man makes more rapid progress when
he does not take his place in the Straussian coach, or rather, he got
ahead much more quickly long before the Straussian coach ever existed.
Now, if it be true that the famous "minority" which is "not to be
overlooked," and of which, and in whose name, Strauss speaks,
"attaches great importance to consistency," it must be just as
dissatisfied with Strauss the Coachbuilder as we are with Strauss the
Logician.
Let us, however, drop the question of the logician. Perhaps, from the
artistic point of view, the book really is an example of a
well-conceived plan, and does, after all, answer to the requirements
of the laws of beauty, despite the fact that it fails to meet with the
demands of a well-conducted argument. And now, having shown that he is
neither a scientist nor a strictly correct and systematic scholar, for
the first time we approach the question: Is Strauss a capable writer?
Perhaps the task he set himself was not so much to scare people away
from the old faith as to captivate them by a picturesque and graceful
description of what life would be with the new. If he regarded
scholars and educated men as his most probable audience, experience
ought certainly to have told him that whereas one can shoot such men
down with the heavy guns of scientific proof, but cannot make them
surrender, they may be got to capitulate all the more quickly before
"lightly equipped" measures of seduction. "Lightly equipped," and
"intentionally so," thus Strauss himself speaks of his own book. Nor
do his public eulogisers refrain from using the same expression in
reference to the work, as the following passage, quoted from one of
the least remarkable among them, and in which the same expression is
merely paraphrased, will go to prove:--
"The discourse flows on with delightful harmony: wherever it directs
its criticism against old ideas it wields the art of demonstration,
almost playfully; and it is with some spirit that it prepares the new
ideas it brings so enticingly, and presents them to the simple as well
as to the fastidious taste. The arrangement of such diverse and
conflicting material is well thought out for every portion of it
required to be touched upon, without being made too prominent; at
times the transitions leading from one subject to another are
artistically managed, and one hardly knows what to admire most--the
skill with which unpleasant questions are shelved, or the discretion
with which they are hushed up."
The spirit of such eulogies, as the above clearly shows, is not quite
so subtle in regard to judging of what an author is able to do as in
regard to what he wishes. What Strauss wishes, however, is best
revealed by his own emphatic and not quite harmless commendation of
Voltaire's charms, in whose service he might have learned precisely
those "lightly equipped" arts of which his admirer speaks--granting,
of course, that virtue may be acquired and a pedagogue can ever be a
dancer.
Who could help having a suspicion or two, when reading the following
passage, for instance, in which Strauss says of Voltaire, "As a
philosopher [he] is certainly not original, but in the main a mere
exponent of English investigations: in this respect, however, he shows
himself to be completely master of his subject, which he presents with
incomparable skill, in all possible lights and from all possible
sides, and is able withal to meet the demands of thoroughness,
without, however, being over-severe in his method"? Now, all the
negative traits mentioned in this passage might be applied to Strauss.
No one would contend, I suppose, that Strauss is original, or that he
is over-severe in his method; but the question is whether we can
regard him as "master of his subject," and grant him "incomparable
skill"? The confession to the effect that the treatise was
intentionally "lightly equipped" leads us to think that it at least
aimed at incomparable skill.
It was not the dream of our architect to build a temple, nor yet a
house, but a sort of summer-pavilion, surrounded by everything that
the art of gardening can provide. Yea, it even seems as if that
mysterious feeling for the All were only calculated to produce an
æsthetic effect, to be, so to speak, a view of an irrational element,
such as the sea, looked at from the most charming and rational of
terraces. The walk through the first chapters--that is to say,
through the theological catacombs with all their gloominess and their
involved and baroque embellishments--was also no more than an
æsthetic expedient in order to throw into greater relief the purity,
clearness, and common sense of the chapter "What is our Conception of
the Universe?" For, immediately after that walk in the gloaming and
that peep into the wilderness of Irrationalism, we step into a hall
with a skylight to it. Soberly and limpidly it welcomes us: its mural
decorations consist of astronomical charts and mathematical figures;
it is filled with scientific apparatus, and its cupboards contain
skeletons, stuffed apes, and anatomical specimens. But now, really
rejoicing for the first time, we direct our steps into the innermost
chamber of bliss belonging to our pavilion-dwellers; there we find
them with their wives, children, and newspapers, occupied in the
commonplace discussion of politics; we listen for a moment to their
conversation on marriage, universal suffrage, capital punishment, and
workmen's strikes, and we can scarcely believe it to be possible that
the rosary of public opinions can be told off so quickly. At length an
attempt is made to convince us of the classical taste of the inmates.
A moment's halt in the library, and the music-room suffices to show us
what we had expected all along, namely, that the best books lay on the
shelves, and that the most famous musical compositions were in the
music-cabinets. Some one actually played something to us, and even if
it were Haydn's music, Haydn could not be blamed because it sounded
like Riehl's music for the home. Meanwhile the host had found occasion
to announce to us his complete agreement with Lessing and Goethe,
although with the latter only up to the second part of Faust. At last
our pavilion-owner began to praise himself, and assured us that he who
could not be happy under his roof was beyond help and could not be
ripe for his standpoint, whereupon he offered us his coach, but with
the polite reservation that he could not assert that it would fulfil
every requirement, and that, owing to the stones on his road having
been newly laid down, we were not to mind if we were very much jolted.
Our Epicurean garden-god then took leave of us with the incomparable
skill which he praised in Voltaire.
Who could now persist in doubting the existence of this incomparable
skill? The complete master of his subject is revealed; the lightly
equipped artist-gardener is exposed, and still we hear the voice of
the classical author saying, "As a writer I shall for once cease to be
a Philistine: I will not be one; I refuse to be one! But a
Voltaire--the German Voltaire--or at least the French Lessing."
With this we have betrayed a secret. Our Master does not always know
which he prefers to be--Voltaire or Lessing; but on no account will he
be a Philistine. At a pinch he would not object to being both Lessing
and Voltaire--that the word might be fulfilled that is written, "He
had no character, but when he wished to appear as if he had, he
assumed one."