ideas which now seem to lie at the base of it, Nietzsche cites the fact
that these ideas themselves are constantly varying. That is to say, the
aim and purpose of punishment are conceived differently by different
races and individuals. One authority calls it a means of rendering
the criminal helpless and harmless and so preventing further mischief
in future. Another says that it is a means of inspiring others with
fear of the law and its agents. Another says that it is a device for
destroying the unfit. Another holds it to be a fee exacted by society
from the evil-doer for protecting him against the excesses of private
revenge. Still another looks upon it as society's declaration of war
against its enemies. Yet another says that it is a scheme for making
the criminal realize his guilt and repent. Nietzsche shows that all
of these ideas, while true, perhaps, in some part, are fallacies at
bottom. It is ridiculous, for instance, to believe that punishment
makes the law-breaker acquire a feeling of guilt and sinfulness. He
sees that he was indiscreet in committing his crime, but he sees,
too, that society's method of punishing his indiscretion consists in
committing a crime of the same sort against _him_. In other words, he
cannot hold his own crime a sin without also holding his punishment a
sin--which leads to an obvious absurdity. As a matter of fact, says
Nietzsche, punishment really does nothing more than "augment fear,
intensify prudence and subjugate the passions." And in so doing it
_tames_ man, but does not make him better. If he refrains from crime in
future, it is because he has become more prudent and not because he has
become more moral. If he regrets his crimes of the past, it is because
his punishment, and not his so-called conscience, hurts him.
But what, then, is conscience? That there is such a thing every
reasonable man knows. But what is its nature and what is its origin? If
it is not the regret which follows punishment, what is it? Nietzsche
answers that it is nothing more than the old will to power, turned
inward. In the days of the cave men, a man gave his will to power free
exercise. Any act which increased his power over his environment, no
matter how much it damaged other men, seemed to him good. He knew
nothing of morality. Things appeared to him, not as good or evil,
but as good or bad--beneficial or harmful. But when civilization was
born, there arose a necessity for controlling and regulating this will
power. The individual had to submit to the desire of the majority and
to conform to nascent codes of morality. The result was that his will
to power, which once spent itself in battles with other individuals,
had to be turned upon himself. Instead of torturing others, he began
to torture his own body and mind. His ancient delight in cruelty and
persecution (a characteristic of all healthy animals) remained, but he
could not longer satisfy it upon his fellow men and so he turned it
upon himself, and straightway became a prey to the feeling of guilt, of
sinfulness, of wrong-doing--with all its attendant horrors.
Now, one of the first forms that this self-torture took was primitive
man's accusation against himself that he was not properly grateful for
the favors of his god. He saw that many natural phenomena benefited
him, and he thought that these phenomena occurred in direct obedience
to the deity's command. Therefore, he regarded himself as the debtor of
the deity, and constantly accused himself of neglecting to discharge
this debt, because he felt that, by so accusing, he would be most apt
to discharge it in full, and thus escape the righteous consequences
of insufficient payment. This led him to make sacrifices--to place
food and drink upon his god's altar, and in the end, to sacrifice much
more valuable things, such, for instance, as his first born child.
The more vivid the idea of the deity became and the more terrible he
appeared, the more man tried to satisfy and appease him. In the early
days, it was sufficient to sacrifice a square meal or a baby. But when
Christianity--with its elaborate and certain theology--arose, it became
necessary for a man to sacrifice himself.
Thus arose the Christian idea of sin. Man began to feel that he was
in debt to his creator hopelessly and irretrievably, and that, like a
true bankrupt, he should offer all he had in partial payment. So he
renounced everything that made life on earth bearable and desirable and
built up an ideal of poverty and suffering. Sometimes he hid himself in
a cave and lived like an outcast dog--and then he was called a saint.
Sometimes he tortured himself with whips and poured vinegar into his
wounds--and then he was a flagellant of the middle ages. Sometimes,
he killed his sexual instinct and his inborn desire for property and
power--and then he became a penniless celibate in a cloister.
Nietzsche shows that this idea of sin, which lies at the bottom of all
religions, was and is an absurdity; that nothing, in itself, is sinful,
and that no man is, or can be a sinner. If we could rid ourselves of
the notion that there is a God in Heaven, to whom we owe a debt, we
would rid ourselves of the idea of sin. Therefore, argues Nietzsche,
it is evident that skepticism, while it makes no actual change in man,
always makes him feel better. It makes him lose his fear of hell and
his consciousness of sin. It rids him of that most horrible instrument
of useless, senseless and costly torture--his conscience. "Atheism,"
says Nietzsche, "will make a man innocent."
[1] "_Zur Genealogie der Moral_," II, § 3.
[2] In the ancient Sanskrit the word from which "man" comes meant "to
think, to weigh, to value, to reckon, to estimate."
[3] "_Zur Genealogie der Moral_," II, § 8.
[4] "_Zur Genealogie der Moral_," II, § 9.
[5] A familiar example of this superimposition of morality is afforded
by the history of costume. It is commonly assumed that garments were
originally designed to hide nakedness as much as to afford warmth and
adorn the person, whereas, as a matter of fact, the idea of modesty
probably did not appear until man had been clothed for ages.
XII
EDUCATION
Education, as everyone knows, has two main objects: to impart
knowledge and to implant culture. It is the object of a teacher,
first of all, to bring before his pupil as many concrete facts about
the universe--the fruit of long ages of inquiry and experience--as
the latter may be capable of absorbing in the time available. After
that, it is the teacher's aim to make his pupil's habits of mind sane,
healthy and manly, and his whole outlook upon life that of a being
conscious of his efficiency and eager and able to solve new problems
as they arise. The educated man, in a word, is one who knows a great
deal more than the average man and is constantly increasing his area of
knowledge, in a sensible, orderly logical fashion; one who is wary of
sophistry and leans automatically and almost instinctively toward clear
thinking.
Such is the purpose of education, in its ideal aspect. As we observe
the science of teaching in actual practice, we find that it often fails
utterly to attain this end. The concrete facts that a student learns at
the average school are few and unconnected, and instead of being led
into habits of independent thinking he is trained to accept authority.
When he takes his degree it is usually no more than a sign that he has
joined the herd. His opinion of Napoleon is merely a reflection of the
opinion expressed in the books he has studied; his philosophy of life
is simply the philosophy of his teacher--tinctured a bit, perhaps, by
that of his particular youthful idols. He knows how to spell a great
many long words and he is familiar with the table of logarithms, but
in the readiness and accuracy of his mental processes he has made
comparatively little progress. If he was illogical and credulous and
a respecter of authority as a freshman he remains much the same as a
graduate. In consequence, his usefulness to humanity has been increased
but little, if at all, for, as we have seen in previous chapters, the
only man whose life is appreciably more valuable than that of a good
cow is the man who thinks for himself, clearly and logically, and lends
some sort of hand, during his life-time, in the eternal search for the
ultimate verities.
The cause for all this lies, no doubt, in the fact that school
teachers, taking them by and large, are probably the most ignorant and
stupid class of men in the whole group of mental workers. Imitativeness
being the dominant impulse in youth, their pupils acquire some measure
of their stupidity, and the result is that the influence of the whole
teaching tribe is against everything included in genuine education and
culture.
That this is true is evident on the surface and a moment's analysis
furnishes a multitude of additional proofs. For one thing, a teacher,
before he may begin work, must sacrifice whatever independence may
survive within him upon the altar of authority. He becomes a cog in
the school wheel and must teach only the things countenanced and
approved by the powers above him, whether those powers be visible in
the minister of education, as in Germany; in the traditions of the
school, as in England, or in the private convictions of the millionaire
who provides the cash, as in the United States. As Nietzsche points
out, the schoolman's thirst for the truth is always conditioned by
his yearning for food and drink and a comfortable bed. His archetype
is the university philosopher, who accepts the state's pay[1] and so
surrenders that liberty to inquire freely which alone makes philosophy
worth while.
"No state," says Nietzsche, "would ever dare to patronize such men as
Plato and Schopenhauer. And why? Simply because the state is always
afraid of them. They tell the truth.... Consequently, the man who
submits to be a philosopher in the pay of the state must also submit
to being looked upon by the state as one who has waived his claim to
pursue the truth into all its fastnesses. So long as he holds his
place, he must acknowledge something still higher than the truth--and
that is the state....
"The sole criticism of a philosophy which is possible and the only one
which proves anything--namely, an attempt to live according to it--is
never put forward in the universities. There the only thing one hears
of is a wordy criticism of words. And so the youthful mind, without
much experience in life, is confronted by fifty verbal systems and
fifty criticisms of them, thrown together and hopelessly jumbled. What
demoralization! What a mockery of education! It is openly acknowledged,
in fact, that the object of education is not the acquirement of
learning, but the successful meeting of examinations. No wonder then,
that the examined student says to himself 'Thank God, I am not a
philosopher, but a Christian and a citizen!...'
"Therefore, I regard it as necessary to progress that we withdraw from
philosophy all governmental and academic recognition and support....
Let philosophers spring up naturally, deny them every prospect of
appointment, tickle them no longer with salaries--yea, persecute them!
Then you will see marvels! They will then flee afar and seek a roof
anywhere. Here a parsonage will open its doors; there a schoolhouse.
One will appear upon the staff of a newspaper, another will write
manuals for young ladies' schools. The most rational of them will put
his hand to the plough and the vainest will seek favor at court. Thus
we shall get rid of bad philosophers."[2]
The argument here is plain enough. The professional teacher must
keep to his rut. The moment he combats the existing order of things
he loses his place. Therefore he is wary, and his chief effort is
to transmit the words of authority to his pupils unchanged. Whether
he be a philosopher, properly so-called, or something else matters
not. In a medical school wherein Chauveau's theory of immunity was
still maintained it would be hazardous for a professor of pathology
to teach the theory of Ehrlich. In a Methodist college in Indiana it
would be foolhardy to dally with the doctrine of apostolic succession.
Everywhere the teacher must fashion his teachings according to the
creed and regulations of his school and he must even submit to
authority in such matters as text books and pedagogic methods. Again,
his very work itself makes him an unconscious partisan of authority, as
against free inquiry. During the majority of his waking hours he is in
close association with his pupils, who are admittedly his inferiors,
and so he rapidly acquires the familiar, self-satisfied professorial
attitude of mind. Other forces tend to push him in the same direction
and the net result is that all his mental processes are based upon
ideas of authority. He believes and teaches a thing, not because he is
convinced by free reasoning that it is true, but because it is laid
down as an axiom in some book or was laid down at some past time, by
himself.
In all this, of course, I am speaking of the teacher properly
so-called--of the teacher, that is, whose sole aim and function is
teaching. The university professor whose main purpose in life is
original research and whose pupils are confined to graduate students
engaged in much the same work, is scarcely a professional teacher, in
the customary meaning of the word. The man I have been discussing is he
who spends all or the greater part of his time in actual instruction.
Whether his work be done in a primary school, a secondary school or in
the undergraduate department of a college or university does not matter
In all that relates to it, he is essentially and almost invariably a
mere perpetuator of doctrines. In some cases, naturally enough, these
doctrines are truths, but in a great many other cases they are errors.
An examination of the physiology, history and "English" books used in
the public schools of America will convince anyone that the latter
proposition is amply true.
Nietzsche's familiarity with these facts is demonstrated by numerous
passages in his writings. "Never," he says, "is either real proficiency
or genuine ability the result of toilsome years at school." The study
of the classics, he says, can never lead to more than a superficial
acquaintance with them, because the very modes of thought of the
ancients, in many cases, are unintelligible to men of today. But the
student who has acquired what is looked upon in our colleges as a
mastery of the humanities is acutely conscious of his knowledge, and
so the things that he cannot understand are ascribed by him to the
dulness, ignorance or imbecility of the ancient authors. As a result
he harbors a sort of sub-conscious contempt for the learning they
represent and concludes that learning cannot make real men happy, but
is only fit for the futile enthusiasm of "honest, poor and foolish old
book-worms."
Nietzsche's own notion of an ideal curriculum is substantially that of
Spencer. He holds that before anything is put forward as a thing worth
teaching it should be tested by two questions: Is it a fact? and, Is
the presentation of it likely to make the pupil measurably more capable
of discovering other facts? In consequences, he holds the old so-called
"liberal" education in abomination, and argues in favor of a system
of instruction based upon the inculcation of facts of imminent value
and designed to instill into the pupil orderly and logical habits of
mind and a clear and accurate view of the universe. The educated man,
as he understands the term, is one who is above the mass, both in his
thirst for knowledge and in his capacity for differentiating between
truth and its reverse. It is obvious that a man who has studied biology
and physics, with their insistent dwelling upon demonstrable facts,
has proceeded further in this direction than the man who has studied
Greek mythology and metaphysics, with their constant trend toward
unsupported and gratuitous assumption and their essential foundation
upon undebatable authority.
Nietzsche points out, in his early essay upon the study of history,
that humanity is much too prone to consider itself historically.
That is to say, there is too much tendency to consider man as he
has seemed rather than man as he has been--to dwell upon creeds
and manifestoes rather than upon individual and racial motives,
characters and instincts.[3] The result is that history piles up
misleading and useless records and draws erroneous conclusions from
them. As a science in itself, it bears but three useful aspects--the
monumental, the antiquarian and the critical. Its true monuments are
not the constitutions and creeds of the past--for these, as we have
seen, are always artificial and unnatural--but the great men of the
past--those fearless free spirits who achieved immortality by their
courage and success in pitting their own instincts against the morality
of the majority. Such men, he says, are the only human beings whose
existence is of interest to posterity. "They live together as timeless
contemporaries:" they are the landmarks along the weary road the human
race has traversed. In its antiquarian aspect, history affords us proof
that the world is progressing, and so gives the men of the present a
definite purpose and justifiable enthusiasm. In its critical aspect,
history enables us to avoid the delusions of the past, and indicates to
us the broad lines of evolution. Unless we have in mind some definite
program of advancement, he says, all learning is useless. History,
which merely accumulates records, without "an ideal of humanistic
culture" always in mind, is mere pedantry and scholasticism.
All education, says Nietzsche, may be regarded as a continuation of
the process of breeding.[4] The two have the same object: that of
producing beings capable of surviving in the struggle for existence. A
great many critics of Nietzsche have insisted that since the struggle
for existence means a purely physical contest, he is in error, for
education does not visibly increase a man's chest expansion or his
capacity for lifting heavy weights. But it is obvious none the less
that a man who sees things as they are, and properly estimates the
world about him, is far better fitted to achieve some measure of
mastery over his environment than the man who is a slave to delusions.
Of two men, one of whom believes that the moon is made of green cheese
and that it is possible to cure smallpox by merely denying that it
exists, and the other of whom harbors no such superstitions, it is
plain that the latter is more apt to live long and acquire power.
A further purpose of education is that of affording individuals a
means of lifting themselves out of the slave class and into the master
class. That this purpose is accomplished--except accidently--by the
brand of education ladled out in the colleges of today is far from
true. To transform a slave into a master we must make him intelligent,
self-reliant, resourceful, independent and courageous. It is evident
enough, I take it, that a college directed by an ecclesiastic and
manned by a faculty of asses--a very fair, and even charitable,
picture of the average small college in the United States--is not
apt to accomplish this transformation very often. Indeed, it is a
commonplace observation that a truly intelligent youth is aided but
little by the average college education, and that a truly stupid one is
made, not less, but more stupid. The fact that many graduates of such
institutions exhibit dionysian qualities in later life merely proves
that they are strong enough to weather the blight they have suffered.
Every sane man knows that, after a youth leaves college, he must devote
most of his energies during three or four years, to ridding himself
of the fallacies, delusions and imbecilities inflicted upon him by
messieurs, his professors.
The intelligent man, in the course of his life, nearly always acquires
a vast store of learning, because his mind is constantly active
and receptive, but intelligence and mere learning are by no means
synonymous, despite the popular notion that they are. Disregarding the
element of sheer good luck--which is necessarily a small factor--it is
evident that the man who, in the struggle for wealth and power, seizes
a million dollars for himself, is appreciably more intelligent than the
man who starves. That this achievement, which is admittedly difficult,
requires more intelligence again, than the achievement of mastering the
Latin language, which presents so few difficulties that it is possible
to any healthy human being with sufficient leisure and patience, is
also evident. In a word, the illiterate contractor, who says, "I seen"
and "I done" and yet manages to build great bridges and to acquire
a great fortune, is immeasurably more vigorous intellectually, and
immeasurably more efficient and respectable, as a man, than the college
professor who laughs at him and presumes to look down upon him. A
man's mental powers are to be judged, not by his ability to accomplish
things that are possible to every man foolish enough to attempt them,
but by his capacity for doing things beyond the power of other men.
Education, as we commonly observe it today, works toward the former,
rather than toward the latter end.
[1] Nietzsche is considering, of course, the condition of affairs
in Germany, where all teaching is controlled by the state. But his
arguments apply to other countries as well and to teachers of other
things besides philosophy.
[2] "_Schopenhauer als Erzieher_," § 8.
[3] An excellent discussion of this error will be found in Dr. Alex.
Tille's introduction to William Haussmann's translation of "_Zur
Genealogie der Moral_," pp. xi _et seq._; London, 1907.
[4] "_Morgenröte_," § 397.
XIII
SUNDRY IDEAS