(_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."
For instance, I heard the younger of the two men defending himself
with great animation while the philosopher rebuked him with ever
increasing vehemence. "You are unchanged," he cried to him,
"unfortunately unchanged. It is quite incomprehensible to me how you
can still be the same as you were seven years ago, when I saw you for
the last time and left you with so much misgiving. I fear I must once
again divest you, however reluctantly, of the skin of modern culture
which you have donned meanwhile;--and what do I find beneath it? The
same immutable 'intelligible' character forsooth, according to Kant;
but unfortunately the same unchanged 'intellectual' character,
too--which may also be a necessity, though not a comforting one. I ask
myself to what purpose have I lived as a philosopher, if, possessed as
you are of no mean intelligence and a genuine thirst for knowledge,
all the years you have spent in my company have left no deeper
impression upon you. At present you are behaving as if you had not
even heard the cardinal principle of all culture, which I went to such
pains to inculcate upon you during our former intimacy. Tell me,--what
was that principle?"
"I remember," replied the scolded pupil, "you used to say no one would
strive to attain to culture if he knew how incredibly small the number
of really cultured people actually is, and can ever be. And even this
number of really cultured people would not be possible if a prodigious
multitude, from reasons opposed to their nature and only led on by an
alluring delusion, did not devote themselves to education. It were
therefore a mistake publicly to reveal the ridiculous disproportion
between the number of really cultured people and the enormous
magnitude of the educational apparatus. Here lies the whole secret of
culture--namely, that an innumerable host of men struggle to achieve
it and work hard to that end, ostensibly in their own interests,
whereas at bottom it is only in order that it may be possible for the
few to attain to it."
"That is the principle," said the philosopher,--"and yet you could so
far forget yourself as to believe that you are one of the few? This
thought has occurred to you--I can see. That, however, is the result
of the worthless character of modern education. The rights of genius
are being democratised in order that people may be relieved of the
labour of acquiring culture, and their need of it. Every one wants if
possible to recline in the shade of the tree planted by genius, and to
escape the dreadful necessity of working for him, so that his
procreation may be made possible. What? Are you too proud to be a
teacher? Do you despise the thronging multitude of learners? Do you
speak contemptuously of the teacher's calling? And, aping my mode of
life, would you fain live in solitary seclusion, hostilely isolated
from that multitude? Do you suppose that you can reach at one bound
what I ultimately had to win for myself only after long and determined
struggles, in order even to be able to live like a philosopher? And do
you not fear that solitude will wreak its vengeance upon you? Just
try living the life of a hermit of culture. One must be blessed with
overflowing wealth in order to live for the good of all on one's own
resources! Extraordinary youngsters! They felt it incumbent upon them
to imitate what is precisely most difficult and most high,--what is
possible only to the master, when they, above all, should know how
difficult and dangerous this is, and how many excellent gifts may be
ruined by attempting it!"
"I will conceal nothing from you, sir," the companion replied. "I have
heard too much from your lips at odd times and have been too long in
your company to be able to surrender myself entirely to our present
system of education and instruction. I am too painfully conscious of
the disastrous errors and abuses to which you used to call my
attention--though I very well know that I am not strong enough to hope
for any success were I to struggle ever so valiantly against them. I
was overcome by a feeling of general discouragement; my recourse to
solitude was the result neither of pride nor arrogance. I would fain
describe to you what I take to be the nature of the educational
questions now attracting such enormous and pressing attention. It
seemed to me that I must recognise two main directions in the forces
at work--two seemingly antagonistic tendencies, equally deleterious in
their action, and ultimately combining to produce their results: a
striving to achieve the greatest possible _expansion_ of education on
the one hand, and a tendency to _minimise and weaken_ it on the
other. The first-named would, for various reasons, spread learning
among the greatest number of people; the second would compel education
to renounce its highest, noblest and sublimest claims in order to
subordinate itself to some other department of life--such as the
service of the State.
"I believe I have already hinted at the quarter in which the cry for
the greatest possible expansion of education is most loudly raised.
This expansion belongs to the most beloved of the dogmas of modern
political economy. As much knowledge and education as possible;
therefore the greatest possible supply and demand--hence as much
happiness as possible:--that is the formula. In this case utility is
made the object and goal of education,--utility in the sense of
gain--the greatest possible pecuniary gain. In the quarter now under
consideration culture would be defined as that point of vantage which
enables one to 'keep in the van of one's age,' from which one can see
all the easiest and best roads to wealth, and with which one controls
all the means of communication between men and nations. The purpose of
education, according to this scheme, would be to rear the most
'current' men possible,--'current' being used here in the sense in
which it is applied to the coins of the realm. The greater the number
of such men, the happier a nation will be; and this precisely is the
purpose of our modern educational institutions: to help every one, as
far as his nature will allow, to become 'current'; to develop him so
that his particular degree of knowledge and science may yield him the
greatest possible amount of happiness and pecuniary gain. Every one
must be able to form some sort of estimate of himself; he must know
how much he may reasonably expect from life. The 'bond between
intelligence and property' which this point of view postulates has
almost the force of a moral principle. In this quarter all culture is
loathed which isolates, which sets goals beyond gold and gain, and
which requires time: it is customary to dispose of such eccentric
tendencies in education as systems of 'Higher Egotism,' or of 'Immoral
Culture--Epicureanism.' According to the morality reigning here, the
demands are quite different; what is required above all is 'rapid
education,' so that a money-earning creature may be produced with all
speed; there is even a desire to make this education so thorough that
a creature may be reared that will be able to earn a _great deal_ of
money. Men are allowed only the precise amount of culture which is
compatible with the interests of gain; but that amount, at least, is
expected from them. In short: mankind has a necessary right to
happiness on earth--that is why culture is necessary--but on that
account alone!"
"I must just say something here," said the philosopher. "In the case
of the view you have described so clearly, there arises the great and
awful danger that at some time or other the great masses may overleap
the middle classes and spring headlong into this earthly bliss. That
is what is now called 'the social question.' It might seem to these
masses that education for the greatest number of men was only a means
to the earthly bliss of the few: the 'greatest possible expansion of
education' so enfeebles education that it can no longer confer
privileges or inspire respect. The most general form of culture is
simply barbarism. But I do not wish to interrupt your discussion."
The companion continued: "There are yet other reasons, besides this
beloved economical dogma, for the expansion of education that is being
striven after so valiantly everywhere. In some countries the fear of
religious oppression is so general, and the dread of its results so
marked, that people in all classes of society long for culture and
eagerly absorb those elements of it which are supposed to scatter the
religious instincts. Elsewhere the State, in its turn, strives here
and there for its own preservation, after the greatest possible
expansion of education, because it always feels strong enough to bring
the most determined emancipation, resulting from culture, under its
yoke, and readily approves of everything which tends to extend
culture, provided that it be of service to its officials or soldiers,
but in the main to itself, in its competition with other nations. In
this case, the foundations of a State must be sufficiently broad and
firm to constitute a fitting counterpart to the complicated arches of
culture which it supports, just as in the first case the traces of
some former religious tyranny must still be felt for a people to be
driven to such desperate remedies. Thus, wherever I hear the masses
raise the cry for an expansion of education, I am wont to ask myself
whether it is stimulated by a greedy lust of gain and property, by
the memory of a former religious persecution, or by the prudent
egotism of the State itself.
"On the other hand, it seemed to me that there was yet another
tendency, not so clamorous, perhaps, but quite as forcible, which,
hailing from various quarters, was animated by a different
desire,--the desire to minimise and weaken education.
"In all cultivated circles people are in the habit of whispering to
one another words something after this style: that it is a general
fact that, owing to the present frantic exploitation of the scholar in
the service of his science, his _education_ becomes every day more
accidental and more uncertain. For the study of science has been
extended to such interminable lengths that he who, though not
exceptionally gifted, yet possesses fair abilities, will need to
devote himself exclusively to one branch and ignore all others if he
ever wish to achieve anything in his work. Should he then elevate
himself above the herd by means of his speciality, he still remains
one of them in regard to all else,--that is to say, in regard to all
the most important things in life. Thus, a specialist in science gets
to resemble nothing so much as a factory workman who spends his whole
life in turning one particular screw or handle on a certain instrument
or machine, at which occupation he acquires the most consummate skill.
In Germany, where we know how to drape such painful facts with the
glorious garments of fancy, this narrow specialisation on the part of
our learned men is even admired, and their ever greater deviation
from the path of true culture is regarded as a moral phenomenon.
'Fidelity in small things,' 'dogged faithfulness,' become expressions
of highest eulogy, and the lack of culture outside the speciality is
flaunted abroad as a sign of noble sufficiency.
"For centuries it has been an understood thing that one alluded to
scholars alone when one spoke of cultured men; but experience tells us
that it would be difficult to find any necessary relation between the
two classes to-day. For at present the exploitation of a man for the
purpose of science is accepted everywhere without the slightest
scruple. Who still ventures to ask, What may be the value of a science
which consumes its minions in this vampire fashion? The division of
labour in science is practically struggling towards the same goal
which religions in certain parts of the world are consciously striving
after,--that is to say, towards the decrease and even the destruction
of learning. That, however, which, in the case of certain religions,
is a perfectly justifiable aim, both in regard to their origin and
their history, can only amount to self-immolation when transferred to
the realm of science. In all matters of a general and serious nature,
and above all, in regard to the highest philosophical problems, we
have now already reached a point at which the scientific man, as such,
is no longer allowed to speak. On the other hand, that adhesive and
tenacious stratum which has now filled up the interstices between the
sciences--Journalism--believes it has a mission to fulfil here, and
this it does, according to its own particular lights--that is to say,
as its name implies, after the fashion of a day-labourer.
"It is precisely in journalism that the two tendencies combine and
become one. The expansion and the diminution of education here join
hands. The newspaper actually steps into the place of culture, and he
who, even as a scholar, wishes to voice any claim for education, must
avail himself of this viscous stratum of communication which cements
the seams between all forms of life, all classes, all arts, and all
sciences, and which is as firm and reliable as news paper is, as a
rule. In the newspaper the peculiar educational aims of the present
culminate, just as the journalist, the servant of the moment, has
stepped into the place of the genius, of the leader for all time, of
the deliverer from the tyranny of the moment. Now, tell me,
distinguished master, what hopes could I still have in a struggle
against the general topsy-turvification of all genuine aims for
education; with what courage can I, a single teacher, step forward,
when I know that the moment any seeds of real culture are sown, they
will be mercilessly crushed by the roller of this pseudo-culture?
Imagine how useless the most energetic work on the part of the
individual teacher must be, who would fain lead a pupil back into the
distant and evasive Hellenic world and to the real home of culture,
when in less than an hour, that same pupil will have recourse to a
newspaper, the latest novel, or one of those learned books, the very
style of which already bears the revolting impress of modern barbaric
culture----"
"Now, silence a minute!" interjected the philosopher in a strong and
sympathetic voice. "I understand you now, and ought never to have
spoken so crossly to you. You are altogether right, save in your
despair. I shall now proceed to say a few words of consolation."