books he gets black nails and dirty cuffs, forgets to wash, to comb his
hair, and to shave. He neglects his duties towards life, society, and
men; loses spiritual capacities, becomes absent-minded, short-sighted,
wears glasses, and takes snuff in order to keep himself awake. He
cannot follow a conversation with attention, cannot interest himself in
other people's affairs, does not see the face of the earth by day nor
the stars by night. Behind his desire to investigate lies the insidious
ambition to master his material, to become an authority, to tyrannise,
to make a career for himself, and to receive distinctions.
If men only reflected what tyrants they obey--these black magicians who
are called professors; who settle what we are to think and believe;
who test and examine, reject and choose; who form committees, write
handbooks, deliver lectures, and bestow prizes on those who accept
_their_ hypotheses.
And has it ever occurred to a student to criticise his teacher? No; he
swallows everything uncritically. But if he goes into a church where
he hears God's own word revealed by way of intuition to the prophets,
then he begins to exercise his critical faculty; then he finds it
very difficult to comprehend the simplest things; then he wants
mathematical certainty, which he considers the highest while it is
really the lowest.
Swedenborg says in one place: "Though goodness and truth are sent down
through the heavens, when they reach the hells they are changed into
evil and falsity; the brilliant light of the sun changes into ugly
colours and its warmth becomes an evil odour."
=Rousseau.=--In my youth I read of an Englishman who shot himself
because life was so wearisome. He had counted the buttons which he
had to unbutton and button up every day--in his under-clothing half
a dozen, in his day-shirt half a dozen, in his collar and cuffs half
a dozen, in his waistcoat, trousers, and coat a dozen, in his boots,
gaiters, and gloves two dozen. When he wanted to ride out he had to
change, as he had also to do for dinner and the evening.
This story, though absurd, reveals the naked truth. Life has become
so burdensome, and half the day is spent in useless occupations:
unnecessary visits, telephoning, writing letters about nothing,
reading the papers; especially in making one's toilette which formerly
consisted of a becoming mantle fastened with a single cord, but has
now developed into a whole set of things with buttons, hooks, eyes,
strings, ribbons, needles, buckles. Our toilettes are a miniature
picture of our civilisation with all its time-wasting fussiness, most
of which is useless nonsense. The man who lives in the country and
cultivates the ground needs neither art, science, nor literature. He
who has nature needs no art, and religion is more than science and
literature. There are churches everywhere, but museums, theatres,
book-shops, and clubs only in the towns. Whether they are necessary is
another question.
That is Rousseau!
=Rousseau Again.=--In Southern France I once saw some half-wild
Arab horses running loose in a meadow. They still had their long tails
to hide what is not beautiful and to protect them against the stings of
insects. They seemed well adapted to their purpose, but they were more
than useful: they were beautiful. And when I contemplated the lines in
these beautiful creatures' bodies--the curve of the withers such as
is not found in geometry, its continuation along the back and loins;
the noble construction and movements of the hind-legs; the proportions
of the shank below the knee tapering down to the hoof, which leaves
on the sand graceful prints like Moorish arches--and when the proud
creatures sped over the meadow in full gallop with movements like
that of a sailing-boat on the waves, then the curves played into new
harmonies and changed their form, tail, mane, and forelock floated like
draperies about the body, and I thought "All that is certainly adapted
for running, but it is much more, it is beautiful; it has not come
to be of itself, but it is created by a Contriver, a wise and great
Artist." It is, however, more than a work of art, for it has life and
individuality, and no two horses are exactly alike. Then I thought
of the attempts of men to "improve" this masterpiece, of the English
race-horses--those machines! In this process of selection they have
chosen the ugliest, docked their tails, robbed them of their fairest
ornament, placed an apelike jockey on their backs in order to make
money by racing. To this caricature men have degraded the beautiful
gift of God.
Anyone who has learnt at school to draw a horse knows how difficult
it is to make these lines harmonise, and fall and rise in the right
places; to draw the head not too large and not too small, but exactly
proportioned; to bring the forepart and the loins into symmetrical
relations with each other; to make the neck slope gently into the fine
curve of the back. It was the work of many days merely to copy the
outline correctly. Raphael could not draw a horse; his Attila rides on
a rocking-horse. One is often inclined to agree with Rousseau when he
says everything which comes from the hand of the Creator is perfect,
but when it falls into the hands of man it is spoiled.
=Materialised Apparitions.=--I have never seen it, but it is said
to be a fact that in hypnotic seances those who are present produce
from the half-etherialised substance of the medium a kind of being
which is visible and leads an apparitional life, so long as the circle
keeps together. Such among others was Professor Crookes' "Katie King."
But what causes me to believe this is a matter of everyday experience.
Men create their idols out of nothing, and by means of their
imagination fashion their fellow-men, both living and dead, into
something quite different to what they really are. These creations
naturally partake of their own substance and are after their own
likeness. Sometimes they create something really great, sometimes a
monster, a demigod, or a devil.
We often see that hatred against one person is, so to speak, polarised
and converted into love towards his antagonist. A great unpopularity
is, in the person of another, changed into a great popularity. The
reward which should have been given to the worthiest is given to the
unworthy, in order to crush the deserving.
At the award of a famous prize one who was uninitiated lately asked:
"Why did not X get the prize?"
"Because Y was to have it," was the answer.
Fifteen years ago a very remarkable book of 650 pages was published.
It obtained no notice in the press. But at the same time a wretched
pamphlet received all the praise which the large book ought to have
had. When I read the reviews of the paltry pamphlet I thought I was
reading those of the book, for the subject-matter was the same.
Recently an important post was filled up, connected, let us say, with
road-making and hydraulic structures. The person who received it was
a very remarkable man. Public opinion (though not private) regarded
him as the most deserving and suitable candidate. He passed for a
distinguished engineer, thoroughly up in his profession, was said to
be well off, an able organiser, diligent and considerate towards his
subordinates.
Now it is to be remarked that the man was nothing of all that; he had
never made roads or constructed hydraulic works, but left that to
his skilful assistants; he did not know his profession; he neglected
what he had in hand; he was not to be found in his office, for he
played cards and spent the nights in carousing. He was hard towards
his employees, managed so badly that he never knew the state of his
affairs, and was careless in money matters.
How then had he come to be elected? Some said he had been chosen in
order to punish and humble the conceited engineers who had become
unpopular. Others thought that the intention was that he should come to
grief and be ruined because he was feared and hated.
However that may be, he was a materialised apparition created by the
hate, envy, and malignity of the crowd; he had become an idea, a
lucky rascal, a ruthless man whose elevation was necessary in order
to still the tumult. He was like a crude mass of ore which stood for
four hundred years in the market-place and was supposed to represent
Justice, but was really the counterfeit presentment of a thievish
alderman foisted in by the burgomaster.
=The Art of Dying.=--The wish for power is said to be a
fundamental condition of the existence of the ego, without which a
man would perish, as he could not resist the pressure of others. So
we were taught by the seducing spirits of our youth. But Swedenborg
says the thirst for power comes from hell, and Balzac speaks of the
galley-slaves of ambition who can never rest. Dante has a fine verse
regarding the fate of the great painters: one must retire in order to
make place for another; he passes into the shadow and is forgotten.
Even when it is unjust, as it often is, one must acquiesce in being
relegated to the back-ground, for men get tired even of the best and
desire change. A great name becomes oppressive, is felt as a tyranny,
and hinders others from also making great names for themselves.
Napoleon and Bismarck saw this clearly, for both said beforehand that
the world would give a sigh of relief when they were gone. But, in
order to depart content, we require religious resignation, complete
irrevocable withdrawal from the world. Such as Charles the Fifth's
retirement into a monastery. To receive a "benefit" on one's retirement
and then to reappear on the stage is not becoming. If one considers
oneself dead to the world and takes no notice of it, then a new life
begins, but on the other side; it is a much more peaceful one, for it
is the resurrection from the dead already here! Beethoven was vexed
that the Viennese were ungrateful and forgetful when Rossini appeared
and brought again in fashion the Italian opera, which Beethoven,
had devoted his life to extirpate. Beethoven however, was a hard,
selfish, and very proud man, who was accordingly literally tormented
out of life, in great matters and in small. Increasing deafness, a
disagreeable lawsuit, a mad young relative, domestic scandal, illnesses
troubled his last years; he had even to be exposed to the undeserved
ridicule of underlings. Thus, well prepared, he turned his back on
life, and departed from all without missing anything.
So it should be, in order that nothing should bind one either with
longing or with hope, in order that on the other side of the river one
may not look back but go straight forward.
The object of the trials of old age is to adjust accounts, to finish
up unsettled affairs, to see through the cheat of life, and to become
weary of the incomplete, so that no backward longings may disturb the
repose of the grave.
=Can Philosophy Bring any Blessing to Mankind?=--Such was the
title of a pamphlet written in the 'sixties by a teacher of philosophy,
Pontus Wikner. The question was justified; how it was answered I do
not remember, but the answer must have been evasive, for the writer
of the pamphlet was a professor. If he had said that all philosophy,
especially systematic philosophy, was rubbish, his career would have
been at an end.
When, in 1870 at the university, I wished to study æsthetics, the
professor of the subject sent me to the lecturer in order to take
lessons. As he sat there and talked for hours by the light of a
composite candle, I tried to decipher the furrowed brow of the pale
man and to ascertain whether he really understood what he taught, or
whether he only taught by rote. But I could not see through him and I
despaired, for I understood nothing, and I cannot learn by heart what I
do not understand. That would be humbug.
About forty years later I met the professor who was now pensioned, and
consequently no longer a member of the college of augurs. Then I asked
him whether he had ever mastered æsthetics?
"Good gracious, no! That is why I sent you to the lecturer."
"Did he understand them then?"
"I don't think so. But he had a good memory."
Then after all it was not my fault, and I was not more stupid than the
rest.
Anyone who reads a short history of philosophy, and observes how one
system replaces and refutes another, must be inclined to say, "Surely
it is time to make an end of this drivel!" For the whole history of
philosophy proves that thought cannot solve these problems, or that
they cannot be solved by constructing a system of philosophy. The
few philosophers, on the other hand, who have limited themselves to
reflections on the variegated medley of life as seen in man, politics,
and nature, have been of some use, but they are hardly counted
philosophers. One can read fragments of Plato with interest, and also
the unappreciated Schopenhauer, especially in his least-valued work
_Parerga and Paralipomena_, but not in his systematic treatise _The
World as Will and Idea_. Kierkegaard is not regarded as a philosopher,
nor are Feuerbach and his pupil Nietzsche, but they are extraordinarily
instructive. All who construct an empty system with facts are fools.
Such is Boström, who tries to subtilise conceptions, analyse ideas, and
classify and arrange God, man, and human life under heads.
The history of philosophy is the history of errors, the history of
lying, for nearly all philosophers are disguised rebels against God and
opponents of religion. Philosophy is a history of falsehood, and since
it has demonstrated its own absurdity, all professorships of philosophy
should be abolished. For a Christian state frustrates its own aims and
is foolish if it supports a teacher of error and falsehood.
If for once in a way a philosopher is religious, people give him the
contemptuous name of "mystic," although very few know what mysticism is.
In one professorial chair sits an Hegelian and preaches Hegel's
pantheism as the truth, and in another sits a Boströmian and pulls
Hegel to pieces. But the student must be examined by both, and give
his adherence to both systems together. That is the higher education,
academic culture, and learning in its glory!
The mass of people believe that all which is difficult to understand is
deep, but it is not so. What is difficult to understand is immature,
vague, and often false. The highest wisdom is simple, clear, and goes
through the brain straight into the heart. Set a philosopher on the
grave where his earthly hopes lie buried, and let him discourse of
Herbert Spencer and the blastoderm! Place a philosopher in the Privy
Council, and let him have a share in the conduct of the state! Ask a
philosopher to write a drama, to paint a picture, or even to teach
school-children, and he is useless. "Philosopher" is synonymous with
superannuated donkey! Away with him!
=nd when he complained that the Apocryphal books were missing, Goethe
said among other things: "It is superfluous to raise the question
of authentic or unauthentic in matters of the Bible. I regard the
four gospels as completely genuine, for in them shines the reflected
splendour of the lofty personality of Christ, as divine as anything
which has appeared on earth. If any one asks me whether I find it
possible to pay him worship and reverence, I answer, 'Certainly!'"
Then there follows some Voltairian talk about the sun and religious
relics, about priestcraft and bishops' incomes, which belonged to the
bad tone of the time. These stupid free-thinkers could not imagine
how three could be equivalent to one, and therefore they stumbled at
the doctrine of the Trinity. Did they not know that three thirds are
equivalent to one, and that one is equivalent to three thirds? Or was
their reason so darkened by pride? Or did they not know that spiritual
things must be spiritually judged; that the Highest cannot be reached
by the highest mathematics? For neither Laplace nor Poincaré, who
busied themselves with the "Mécanique céleste," reached heaven, much
less God.
="Now we Can Fly too! Hurrah!"=--A friend of my youth, who two
weeks ago died in a distant place, wrote on his last postcard to me
these words, "Now we can fly too! Hurrah!" He was a pagan, _i.e._ an
atheist, and this last word "Hurrah!" was an expression of scorn and a
threat against heaven.
Every gift of God is regarded by the pagans as a victory over God. They
always think that _they_ have made the discovery, and they still build
at the Tower of Babel, the truth of whose story they deny, for they are
lying spirits.
When the pious Franklin drew down lightning with his damp twine,
he trembled and thanked God that He had not killed him. But when
the godless physicists imitated Franklin, and wished to store the
lightning in laboratory bottles, they were slain. People do indeed make
lightning-conductors nowadays, but they are not always efficacious even
when the conduction is right. Only imagine!--a man receives a gift, and
as a mark of gratitude puts out his tongue! Every time that God gives
something, irreligious science celebrates a triumph--that is, puts out
its tongue!
That is the nature of science! And it seems as though it were still at
present forbidden to touch the tree of knowledge, for the transgression
of the prohibition is always accompanied by ingratitude and a curse.
=The Fall and Original Sin.=--In these times when the ape-morality
rules, it is considered up-to-date to change the doctrine of vicarious
satisfaction for that of heredity. The blame for our faults is put
on our parents, especially, as might be expected, on the father. But
when the father was alive, he put the blame on his father, and so on
till we come to our first parents. That is indeed just like what the
Bible teaches about the Fall and original sin, and ought to confirm the
teaching of religion, but of course that cannot be!
That is the doctrine of heredity. But whence comes it? Where is
the starting-point? Since everyone nowadays feels burdened with
evil impulses and disease germs which he has inherited, and all our
predecessors have felt the same, the only thing left is to lay the
blame on our first parents.
How then is one to get rid of guilt--the consciousness of guilt and the
evil impulses?
Christ answers more simply than the theologians who represent the work
of grace as an examination course. "To-day shalt thou be with Me in
Paradise," He said to the thief who confessed that he suffered for his
evil deeds; but He did not say so to the other who reviled Him.
Generally speaking, one should take one's doctrine straight from the
Gospels, which are simpler, greater, diviner than other writings.
Devotional books are like the higher mathematics, mixed, complicated,
and affected with human weaknesses.
=The Gospel.=--All boast of the "Gospel," but they mean this
joyful message--the abrogation of civic laws and the opening of
the jails; in a word, immunity from punishment for themselves and
more stringent regulations for others. That was the Renaissance
morality preached at the conclusion of the Middle Ages as at the
end of our century. They wished to enlighten mankind by proclaiming
that everything is lawful (against others), and that if one only
"understood" men, one would forgive them. "He does not understand," was
the formula in common use. Were I now to enumerate all the victims of
this gospel, which we had to learn, people would cry "Scandal!" Then
they would proceed to explain the tragedies on natural grounds, such as
neurasthenia, infection, heredity (but not from our first parents); the
unfortunate Englishman,[1] they say, was wrongfully imprisoned, because
society consists of hypocrites; not because of his own sin, for it was
not his own sin: there is no sin.
Every suggestion that there are misdemeanours which draw down the
unpleasant consequences, which are called punishments, is taken ill.
Five years ago I heard one of these evangelists exclaim, "Morality!
that is a word which I cannot take in my mouth." This saying was often
quoted.
But shortly afterwards the same gentleman set heaven and hell in motion
because a pupil had used a statement in one of his lectures to base a
treatise on. This innocent proceeding the "evangelist" stigmatised as
theft, and he wished to annihilate the thief.
The young man answered quite rightly that in that case people ought
to be punished for "stealing" their knowledge out of manuals without
acknowledgment, or that if they gave chapter and verse for every
statement, a treatise would look like this: "Sum, 'I am' (Rabe's
Grammar, 6th edition, Stockholm, 1858), called an auxiliary verb
(_Sundelin Schwedische Sprachlehre_, Örebro, 1901), which indicates the
passive voice (Sjoberg, _Logic_, Upsala, 1895)," and so on.
This gentleman was a very severe moralist, although he could not take
the word morality in his mouth.
[Footnote 1: Oscar Wilde.]
=Religious Heathen.=--Hardly anywhere are there such religious
men as the Orientals. Five times a day the _muezzin_ calls from each
minaret in eastern lands: "God is great! I bear witness that there is
no God but God! I bear witness that Muhammed is the Apostle of God!
Come to prayer! Come to salvation! God is great! There is no God but
God!" Early in the morning they cry in addition, "Prayer is better
than sleep." On the streets and market-places, in the shops and inns,
everywhere one is summoned to prayer.
Is it not impressive to see a whole people, of whom not one is ashamed
of his God--not one! A people among whom, five times a day, this joyful
message comes from the Lord, the All-Merciful, who "has not forsaken
and has not repulsed thee!" And is it not uplifting in the midst of
the severe and squalid tasks of every day to hear a voice from above
witnessing, without attempting to convince, that God is God? Anything
so perverse and stupid as free-thinking and atheism does not exist in
the Orient. If anyone attempted to assert such an abominable tenet as
the non-existence of God, he would be imprisoned or put to death. And
if anyone came and tried to close the mosques ... but no one comes, for
the mosques are never empty:
"By the splendour of the day,
By the darkness of the night,
Thy Lord hath not forsaken thee,
Neither hath He repelled thee."--_Koran_.
That is the implicit and childlike faith which Christian heathen called
"intolerance," "fanaticism," and so on.
=The Pleasure-Garden.=--If the inexperienced man knew how much
suffering a separation between a married pair involves, he would
reflect before taking such a step. The two souls have so grown into
each other, that the dissolution of the duplex personality which they
form is the most painful operation possible. It is a kind of death.
When one uproots the weeds round a flower, the flower fades
away--partly because its roots are injured, partly because it has
been deprived of shade, moisture, and support, or perhaps merely
companionship.
The sorrow in this case resembles that which follows on a death, but
is not so uplifting and ennobling. The image of the separated wife
is always present to one's eyes, and becomes idealised in memory;
ugly traits are obliterated, one begins to reproach oneself, there
is a painful emptiness and longing; one's soul is tom in pieces by
her departure; she has carried off its finest-fibred roots, and one
feels as though bleeding to death. One can no more exchange common
recollections. The loss of the illusions of the first springtide of
love shatters one's faith in everything. A cry of mourning rings
through the universe as though an irreparable crime had been committed,
such as the sin against the Holy Ghost. Love, God's creative power, the
sun's warmth that fills the heavens, the origin of life has ceased to
exist. Chaos and darkness resume their reign. It is a spiritual death,
without comfort and without hope.
Nevertheless something remains, if there ever was something there. And
though both may marry again, there is a recollection of the former tie.
It cannot be as though it had not been, nor be forgotten. However
unpleasant the relationship may have been, still in its best hours it
resembled something which is not to be found on earth. In its glorious
beginning it was a Garden of Eden, such a heightening of existence
that one felt nearer God. That was no optical delusion, but a higher
reality. Then came the Fall and the expulsion. But the memory of the
first joy remains, and it is true that a real love never ends.