tone chiefly because it brings into prominence the fact that we do not
belong to a world of reason, which from the beginning had only to be
perceived and enjoyed, but that we have first to advance to such a
world; and for this we require a revolution of the first condition of
things. The basis of true life must continually be won anew; and even
the individual achievement always contains a decision between one and
another type of life. Only through ceaseless activity can life remain at
the height to which it has attained; that which life experiences and
receives is judged according to the more precise form of activity. Since
it gives this precedence to activity, to such activity, this system may
be called "Activism." Activism, however, demonstrates its unique
character and develops its capacity only if it is definitely
distinguished from all other apparently related tendencies. Neither a
sudden resolution nor even a mere incitement of power brings us at once
into the condition of activity. For at first we are surrounded and
embraced by a world of inflexible nature and of feeble spirituality,
which is at the same time mixed with human pretence: this world binds us
so strongly, and suppresses all independence with such force, that the
mere individual remains entirely powerless in opposition to it, and
could soar to no higher wisdom than that of an involuntary submission to
it. Activity without release from the given world is an absurdity; but
such release is attainable only through the living presence of a world
of self-determining activity; the power of such a world alone is able to
arouse the individual to self-determining activity. But how could man
appropriate this world to himself without changing its life into his
own; without acknowledging its content as valid for himself also;
without making its laws norms of his conduct?
Activity in this way acquires an ethical character; it is this which
draws the boundary line between spiritual activity and merely natural
impulse, and distinguishes genuine from imaginary self-determining
activity. Ethical relation does not mean a submission to alien and
unsympathetic regulations, but a taking up of the infinite spiritual
world into our own volition and being: this relation brings things close
to us and reveals them, so that they are able to impart their life to
us, and we are able to grow with their growth. So understood, ethical
relation is primarily not regulative but productive; it is not merely
being prepared to fulfil certain demands, when they are made upon us, to
live in accordance with strict regulations, but it involves the motive
of aiding in the development of the world, of advancing everything good
and true: it requires an untiring forward endeavour and advance to the
building up of a kingdom of reason and love. If in this way conduct is
lifted above the pursuit of that which pleases and interests the mere
subject, this is not on behalf of something alien, but for the elevation
of our own being, for the sake of this genuine being, for the sake of
our spiritual self.
It is this inner elevation and this demand for a new world that
distinguishes Activism from all mere Voluntarism and Pragmatism, to
which it appears to approximate, and with which, in its negative aspect,
it is, indeed, associated. For it shares with them the rejection of an
intellectualistic view of life, in which cognition is regarded as
finding truth of its own power and as conveying it to the rest of life.
Further, Activism desires, as do Voluntarism and Pragmatism also, the
basing of truth upon a more spontaneous and essential activity. But the
flight to the will is more a reaction against Intellectualism than an
overcoming of the difficulty. As such the will does not yield a new
world and a transcendent power; it may, therefore, be that mere volition
is implicitly transformed into a self-determining activity encompassing
the whole extent of life. Pragmatism, also, which has recently made so
much headway among English-speaking peoples and beyond them, is more
inclined to shape the world and life in accordance with human condition
and needs than to invest spiritual activity with an independence in
relation to these, and apply its standards to the testing and sifting of
the whole content of human life. But after the experiences of history
the claim to this latter can scarcely be given up. After man has been
seen to be particular and limited in nature, as things first present
themselves, he no longer suffices for the starting-point of the
endeavour for truth, but to attain to this starting-point an elevation
above the human into a universal spiritual life is necessary. And that
is the intention of Activism.
The unique character of Activism becomes clearer especially in
comparison with organisations of life, of which one indeed makes
activity the chief thing, but gives to it the character of a mere
process; while another thinks of the fundamental relation of man to
reality in general not under the ideas of conduct and progress but under
those of contemplation and enjoyment. The idea that life constitutes a
process transcending all human endeavour and decision has shown a strong
power of attraction in the Modern Age; and, in the system of Hegel
especially, has found an imposing embodiment. This idea is asserted most
definitely in the evolutionary conception of history, since it regards
the motive power of history as striving to its aim, certain of
accomplishing it, and unaffected by human opinion and preference. By
this deliverance from the insignificance of human motives and the
variations of human conditions the object seemed to gain incomparably in
greatness; but it was considered that this deliverance from man involved
an elevation above the ethical conception, which then appeared to be
something subjectively human. But not only does this conception of a
process that ceaselessly advances with compelling necessity contradict
the actual state of things as they are found in history, which shows so
much stagnation and retrogression, and so many different spheres of
culture existing side by side indifferent to one another, but the
transformation of life into a mere process, if consistently carried out,
must also destroy or seriously debase its spiritual character. If life
were a mere process it would be nothing other than a soulless
mechanism; only in the case of such a mechanism can one phase proceed
immediately from the others without at the same time a whole of life
becoming active and exercising an animating power within the whole
process. As a fact, the process is usually supplemented in thought by a
universal life unifying, sustaining, and controlling the individual
phases; however, so far as such a life does not simply come to us, but
needs our own activity, the deed comes before the process; and a new
world reveals itself to us. The disregard of the ethical element by the
systems which make mere process their fundamental idea is explained by
the fact that they understand the ethical only as a decision and turning
of man, accompanying the spiritual life, not as the motive and
progressive power of the spiritual life itself. They know only a human
ethic, not an ethic of the spiritual life--as a self-assertion and a
self-elevation, through which it first attains its complete freedom and
independence. Still, to trace this further is the less necessary since
this mode of thought lives rather from earlier achievements than works
from fresh impulse springing up in the present.
The relation of Activism to the æsthetic mode of thought requires closer
consideration; we indicated at the beginning of our investigation that
Æstheticism forms one of the chief streams of the life of the present
day; at this point, only its relation to Activism need be examined. This
Æstheticism has its definite conditions. Where the contemplation and
enjoyment of the world and its beauty are to constitute the essence of
life, we must be assured that the world is a kingdom of reason and
beauty, so that the condition in which it is incites us to no
far-reaching change. Further, there must be no perplexities in our soul,
and no deep conflicts within our being, so that this contemplation may
occupy us completely, and be a source of happiness. Lastly, we must be
closely and surely united with the world so that a change of life may be
accomplished easily and smoothly. If one of these requirements is not
satisfied; if, instead of this harmony, the world manifests severe
conflicts and harsh contradictions; if such exist also within our soul;
if, lastly, there appears to be a deep gulf between us and the whole,
then the æsthetic solution of the problem of life is an impossibility.
If in spite of these contradictions we attempt to entertain this
solution, our life will become insincere, and will lose all spiritual
productivity, and, as a whole, our life will be spent in subjective
mood, empty enjoyment, and become feeble. Now, however, the Modern Age
develops in a direction which is directly opposed to the requirements of
the æsthetic form of life. The great world appears to us to be a
meaningless machine; and in the struggle for existence the earlier
harmony is forgotten. We perceive in man far too much that is
insignificant and far too much selfishness, emptiness, and mere show for
us to be able to regard him as being inwardly complete. Lastly, the
modern strengthening of the subject and the ceaseless growth of
reflection have so fundamentally overthrown the immediate relation of
man to the world that only a far-reaching transformation of life can
prepare for a reunion. If our life is so full of problems and tasks; if
we do not find ourselves in a completed world of reason; but if we must,
with all our powers, work toward such a world, we shall turn to Activism
as the only help possible. But we shall resolutely reject Æstheticism as
a veiling of the real condition of things and a too facile solution of
the great problems of life.
Activism does not imply that immediately and at one stroke our life may
be transformed into spiritual activity and may quickly establish a
positive relation to reality: that would be to fail to recognise the
conditions under which man exists, and the necessity of undergoing
experiences and changes. Such an attitude might easily lead to the
formation of syntheses of life that would be much too hasty and far too
narrow; and the necessary breaking up of these would arouse a keen
distrust of the whole undertaking. The power which the Romantic movement
from time to time wins over minds is based on the fact that it warns us
against an over-estimation of our activity; that it demands that the
soul should be open to the influences of the world; that its
impressions should be appropriated without restriction and permitted to
fade away completely; that in opposition to all the limitation and
organisation of life, it still longs for the infinite; and that it also
to some extent satisfies by turning to unrestrained feeling. At the same
time, the Romantic movement makes us clearly conscious of the power of
destiny, the transcendence of external and internal necessities above
all human intention and utilitarian conduct. In this way life acquires a
much greater comprehensiveness and freshness; it seems to return to its
source, to retain far more immediacy. But it is one thing to acknowledge
the importance of this, another to make it the essence of life. When
such precedence is given to this Romantic tendency life threatens to
become delicate, feeble, effeminate; it knows no energetic opposition to
the flow of presentations; instead of a definite union it offers
aphoristic thoughts and stimuli; through the lack of logical acuteness
it falls into the direst contradictions; it sacrifices all distinct form
and organisation to a revelling in vague moods. As in such a state of
weakness the spiritual life does not succeed in gaining complete
independence in face of the natural conditions of our existence, so it
does not attain the necessary ascendancy over sense. Sense, in its own
province entirely incontestable, raises doubts in us in that it flows
together with the spiritual, is undifferentiated from it, brings it
under itself, and turns it from its course. And, in this, sense does not
possess the naïve freshness and the natural limitation of its original
state, but it is over-refined and too full of excitement.
To recognise all this clearly is at the same time to acknowledge the
superiority of Activism over all mere Romanticism. However much may
still be lacking in Activism, through the fact that man often regards
the difficult and complicated task as easy and simple, and thus sets too
low an estimate upon the distance between himself and the spiritual
world, there is still the objective necessity of the requirement to
transform our life as far as possible into a state of independence, to
achieve independence in opposition to a world confused and only half
rational. Such a self-determining activity is by no means simply a
matter of subjective disposition; it requires a particular form of life.
In opposition to the desultoriness and change of the life of sense it
needs a powerful unification and organisation. It advances to methods
and laws of the object in contrast to playful caprice; to a logic of the
object in opposition to a persistence in contradiction; to a further
construction of the first impression in contrast to comfortable
complacency; to a courageous continuation and building up of life in
opposition to a complacent acceptance of destiny. It gives to life a
dramatic character in contrast to a lyrical, sentimental one, and along
with this it can acknowledge fully that a genuine drama usually contains
much that is lyrical.
It is detrimental to Activism itself if it takes the problem of life
lightly. It is vital that it should not forget or underestimate the fact
that the effort to solve the problems of life meets with great
difficulties, that the solution costs incalculable trouble and work, and
that even when the best is achieved it is only approximate. When
Activism recognises this fact it may acknowledge a certain validity in
the positions of its opponents and may learn from them. But there is a
harsh contradiction that extends to the innermost basis of life, an
implacable "either--or," whether man simply receives the world and
accompanies it with his own mood, or whether he finds courage and power
to take up a conflict against confusion and irrationality, to co-operate
in the building up of a kingdom of reason. For the latter, the
affirmation of reason in the innermost basis of reality as a whole and
of his own being is necessary. Whether men and times find a way to such
an inner establishment, to such transcendence of all external and
internal limitation, is that which decides the main tendency of their
life.
III. THE SPIRITUAL LIFE IN MAN IN CONFLICT AND IN VICTORY
We intend to make the following section as short as possible, as we have
treated this subject so much in detail in "The Truth of Religion" and
also in "The Struggle for a Concrete Spiritual Experience." We must
refer those who wish for a closer consideration of the subject to those
works: the subject will be treated of here only so far as is necessary
for a representation of life as a whole; a concise statement may have
distinct advantages.
(a) DOUBT AND PROSTRATION
It is a leading idea of our whole investigation, and one which has held
good in every branch of it, that for us men spiritual life is evolved
only in opposition to a world other than spiritual; that reality does
not surround us from the beginning, but forms a high ideal in contrast
to the customary want of purpose and energy in life. The existence of a
world lower than the spiritual, and the late appearance of that which
arises from within as the primary and the all-dominant reality, must
give birth to many questions and much doubt; from early times these
facts have occupied and much disturbed reflective thought. Man might
place the problem on one side without incurring any risk, if the
spiritual life when it comes to the fore assumes the guidance of life
and manifests itself as world-transcendent power--externally, in that it
subordinates to itself and takes up into itself everything else;
internally, in that with certain progress it presses forward in the
human province, wins the whole soul of man, and becomes more and more
his only world. In particular, where the spiritual life is regarded, as
we regard it, as the self-consciousness of reality; where, therefore,
that which apparently stands in opposition to the spiritual life must
ultimately have its basis within it, the demands of the spiritual life
have a coercive power. And so when experiences a thousandfold, new and
old, present a picture which contradicts these demands we must feel the
state of things to be a particularly painful one.
That, however, is what really happens: it is the case in the relation of
the spiritual life to nature, as well as in its relation to humanity; it
happens, therefore, in our whole experience. If the spiritual life
constitutes the fundamental nature of reality; if, in it, reality first
attains to self-consciousness, it is to be expected that when the
spiritual life appeared it would create for itself an independent form
of existence in contrast to that of nature, and would exercise a
superior power in this form of existence, to which nature must
accommodate itself. But, as a fact, this is so far from being the case
that even the attempt to imagine the spiritual in any way leads
immediately to the quixotic. In the experience of humanity the spiritual
life is related in its entirety to a natural basis; in no way does it
seem able to free itself from this, but in all its activity it remains
dependent upon nature. If nature simply follows its own tendencies; if,
indifferent to value and lack of value, without aim and ideal, nature
lives its life of soulless movement, union with an order so alien and
impenetrable must most seriously affect the spiritual life. The world
goes on its course unconcerned with the weal or the woe, the persistence
or the disappearance of spiritual being, of spiritual relations, indeed
of spiritual life in general. Not only do great catastrophes, as in
earthquakes, storms, and floods, show how indifferent the existence or
the non-existence of spiritual life is to the forces of nature, but the
commonplaces of everyday experience and of individual destiny also show
the same indifference. In nature we find no difference of treatment in
accordance with any distinction of good and evil, great and mean, noble
and vulgar. Even the most eminent personality, who may be almost
indispensable to our spiritual welfare, is subject to the same
contingency, the same fate as all others. Regarded from the point of
view of the world of sense, all spiritual life is a chaotic confusion of
fleeting appearances, all of which are dependent; it is not an
independent world, but a subsidiary addition to a world which is other
than spiritual.
Experience of the impotence of the spiritual life in relation to nature
has been the cause of mental disquiet from early times. But this
experience was not necessarily oppressive so long as mankind was called
upon to transform nature into a realm of reason, and so long as there
was hope of accomplishing this. For the contrast with the cold and rigid
external world has deepened the inwardness of human relationship and
made us conscious of the dignity and greatness of spiritual creation. In
culture, humanity has formed a characteristic sphere of life, and in
doing this has aided the spiritual life to attain a certain reality. In
culture, spiritual factors and values win power; and a new order of life
in contrast to that of nature is evolved. It cannot be doubted that a
new reality makes its appearance; but it is an open question whether
this new reality fulfils the hopes which have been placed upon it; and,
further, whether perplexities and confusions, which make it doubtful
whether anything has been gained, do not arise out of its further
development. This question is certainly not answered lightly in the
affirmative by the conviction that regards the spiritual life as a
turning of reality towards its own truth, which therefore in its
development must insist primarily on complete spontaneity and
independence. For, if in culture the spiritual life attains an
independence over against nature, it is at the same time drawn so deeply
into the particularity and limitation of human life, and is associated
so much with the merely human, that culture as a whole is anything but
the unfolding of a realm of pure, or even of only preponderating,
spirituality.
In the first place, the spiritual life does not introduce a definite and
fixed content into our experience, and it does not follow paths
independent of human striving and error; but arises through hard toil
and only slowly finds any unity: in its further endeavour it by no means
follows the same tendency, but effects great changes, indeed
revolutions, into states the exact opposite of its previous states. When
it is so uncertain as to its own aim the spiritual life becomes
seriously involved in the seeking and vacillation, in the needs and
passions, of man: instead of giving to man an immovable support and
pointing out a definite aim for his activity, it seems itself unable to
pass beyond a state of uncertain groping and error.
Corresponding to this uncertainty as to its content, there is a want of
power on the part of the spiritual life within man. Instead of
controlling the conduct of man directly, the spiritual life generally
determines it through that which it contributes towards the attainment
of his aims. If this is so in the case of the individual, it is even
more so in the case of social life, for in it spiritual activity is
regarded chiefly as a means to obtain advantages over others, and to
advance socially. And so that of which it is the nature to be an end
complete in itself is treated as a means to other ends; it is not itself
active, and its own power is not a motive force; but even for its own
maintenance it needs the help and support of things alien to itself: the
artificial mechanism of social organisation must bring forth toilsomely
that which, unless it flows immediately from its source, cannot be fresh
or genuine. Such a state of human affairs remains far below the aims of
the spiritual life; it produces insincerity, a luxuriant growth of
hypocrisy and pretence. For all striving for the true and the good
involves the assertion that the object is desired for its own sake: if
the object really serves the aims of mere man, there inevitably
originates a wide divergence between what is willed and what is alleged
to be willed. In respect of this, one cannot, with the moralists, lay
the blame simply on the will. For, in man, spiritual impulse in general
is insignificant; without the compulsion of the social environment it
would hardly prevail at all against nature. This social compulsion,
therefore, notwithstanding its defects, cannot be dispensed with;
however clearly we may see its inadequacy, we cannot renounce it
altogether. Society cannot exert such coercive power without presenting
itself as the champion of pure reason; without desiring an infallibility
for its decisions. This attitude naturally arouses the opposition of
individuals and a keen struggle ensues, but as one side may be right the
condition of the spiritual life is not much improved by the struggle.