Reflections of a Non-Political Man 0804464820

Table of contents :
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
CONTENTS
Translator's Introduction
Prologue
1. The Protest
2. The Unliterary Country
3. Civilization's Literary Man
4. Soul-Searching
5. Burgherly Nature
6. "Against Justice and Truth"
7. Politics
8. On Virtue
9. Some Comments on Humanity
10. On Belief
11. The Politics of Estheticism
12. Irony and Radicalism

Citation preview

THOMAS MANN

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

Translated, with an introduction, by Walter D. Morris

UNGAR I NEW YORK

1987 The Ungar P ublishing Company 370 Lexington Avenue New York, NY 10017

Library ofCongress Cataloging in Publication Data Mann, Thomas, 1875-1955. Reflections of a nonpolitical man. Translation of: Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen. Includes index. l. Mann, Thomas, 1875 - 1955-..:Political and social views. 1933. results.

2. Germany-Politics and go vernment-19183. European War, 1914-1918-lnfluence and I. Title .

PT2625.A 44B5l3

1982

833' .912

82-40249

ISBN 0-8044-6482-0 (pbk) Original title

Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen by Thomas Mann © S. Fischer Verlag, Berlin, 1918 by arrangement with the original publishers English translation Copyright© 1983 by The Ungar Publishing Company Printed in the United States of America First paperback edition 1987

Contents Translator's Introduction I vii Prologue I 1 Chapter I I The Protest

25

Chapter 2 I The Unliterary Country

31

Chapter 3 I Civilization's Literary Man

35

Chapter

4 I Soul-Searching

47

Chapter

5 I Burgherly Nature

Chapter

6 I "Against Justice and Truth"

Chapter

7 I Politics

Chapter

8 I On Virtue

Chapter

9 I Some Comments on Humanity

71 107

160

Chapter I 0 I On Belief

273

361

Chapter II I The Politics of Estheticism Chapter 12 I Irony and Radicalism

419

396

315

Translator's Introduction

B

efore the first World War, Thomas Mann had shown little interest in politics. His novels and stories had dealt more with personal

and artistic themes; he was, or at least seemed to be, a nonpolitical man. Indeed, if any political trend at all can be found in his prewar works it is the liberal one in his light novel,

Roytl Highness,

which moved toward

a democratic outcome even though it also contained some antidemo­ cratic, aristocratic thoughts and characters. Moreover, Mann was surprised by the outbreak of the war.

"I

still feel

as if I were in a dream," he wrote to his brother Heinrich on August 7,

1914,

"but one should probably be ashamed of oneself now not to have

considered it possible, not to have seen that the catastrophe had to come." Soon, however, he recovered from the shock and to almost everyone's surprise promptly allied himself intellectually with the pa­ triotic national conservatives, speaking out strongly in favor of the war and of German tradition. In the essay "Thoughts in War" in

R undschau,

September

1914,

D ie neue

he praised Germany's musical, metaphys­

ical, pedagogical and subjective culture, contrasting it with the more analytical, skeptical, political and social civilization of the West. l\Iann felt that Germany, the moral country, had been attacked, and he welcomed the war as a glorious opportunity for his country to prove itself in meeting the challenge. Writers, he said, should join with soldiers as they joyfully faced the dangerous, exciting life ahead. Mann expressed similar thoughts in an article for the Swedish newspaper,

Svenska Dagbladet,

and he soon followed these initial expres­

sions of patriotic enthusiasm for his country's cause with the superbly written essay, "Frederick and the Great Coalition," which he finished by December

1914.

Although the Frederick essay had been planned

and researched to a great extent before the outbreak of the war, its Vll

VIII

Introduction

theme and content were admirably suited to express :'\lann's enth usiasm for the war. Frederick's struggle for sur vival in I i56-63 could be thought of as Germany's struggle in 1914; the Prussian king became a symbol of the German character. Thus, in a period of four months, Mann had produced some rousingly patriotic works that revealed a body of ideas on politics , h is tory, art, and Germany. A pparently i t was not just an i nitial outburst of patriotism that caused Mann to react so strongly at the beginning of the war, for after these writings were completed he began to plan the more extensi,·e deYel­ opment of h is ideas in Reflections of a Xonpolitical Man. He wanted to show that Germany was a great a nd special nation that had an i m portant role to play in the Europea n community and i n the worl d . Germany's defeat and democratization, he feared , m ight lead to the loss of this important special culture. �ot long a fter he had begun writing Reflec­ tions, h owever, h is brother H einrich, who was l iberal, democratic. and pro-French, shocked him with an essay on Emile Zola and the Dreyfus affair. The essay was a thinly Yeiled criticism of Germany in which Heinrich might easily be substituted for Zola, and the \\'ilhelmian Empire for the France of Lou is Bonaparte. In addition to its pro- French message, the essay argues that poli tics and literat ure are inseparably bound to one another, that the intellectual m ust act to fu rther liberal causes. Beyond this, Thomas felt that seYeral sentences in the work were meant as attacks on him. Heinrich had re ferred to those "false intellectuals" who "turned i njustice i nto justice," and who stood "in elegant array against truth and justice. " H e urged that these "enter­ taining parasites," who were aspiring to become national poets. be knocked from their pedestals and cast into the abyss. Thomas was deeply offended , and he i mmediately began to plan a new Reflections, which would now, i n addition to being a descri ption of German national character and of a romantic, non political world ,·iew . also be an answer to h is brother. 1\:ow the European st ruggle was ref1ected in miniatu re in t he struggle between the two brothers. and the whole book was set i n a tragic fra mework, reminiscent o f /lam/d. On the international level, Germany became the nation t hat had to hear courageously and tragically a fate to wh ich she was called but not hom . while on the personal level Thomas, like lla mlet. \\:as t he u n l i kely one who had the terrible task of set t i ng thi ngs right. At the same time, I l einrich became "ci\'ilizat ion's litci-ai·y man ," a Claudius-likc traitor who scorned his nation's values and accepted those of its enemies.

Introduction

zx

Germany then also became the i ntellectual battleground on which European antitheses were fought out. Mann now felt a challenge to h imsel f, to his country, and to all the values he had cherished . H is efforts to defend and to justify himself turned into a pai n ful search for identity that often became an unreserved self-confession. He searched for the origins of h is strong convictions i n h i s own works, i n Goethe, Schopenhauer, N ietzsche, Wagner, and i n many other writers, foreign and native. He wanted t o make every­ t h ir.g clear, to omit nothing, to define the essential words, to show what it meant to be a German and a German creative writer. For the next two years he worked on the essays, trying to bring all the themes together i n to a n artistic whole; in the spring of 1918 he wrote the introduction, trying once again to bring the threads together, to obviate error and m isu nderstanding. I t was his war book, the effort of a writer who was well established within Wilhelmian Germany, conscious of being a part of a great German cultural tradition and eager to preserve what he could of it. As he became more pessimistic of success and more certain of the coming of democracy to Germany, he began to call Reflections a d elaying action. I n the end , a spiri t of irony pervades the book, for Mann felt that he h imsel f, as a l iterary man-even against his will-was also contributing to civilization's triumph over German culture, for l iterature, by Mann's own definition, belonged to civilization. Even before Reflections was complete, Thomas Mann began to think of it more as a work of fiction than as a series of essays. For the book is by no means straightforward , one-sided, simple and to the point. On the contrary, it is much more like an intricate drama, full of irony, plot and counterplot and suspense, with the many players-people, nations, ideas-enjoying their moments on stage, arguing, struggling and re­ vealing their characters. I t is l ike a Wagnerian opera with its leitmotifs, its romantic-modern style, its complicated passages and delayed reso­ lutions. Finally, the book is like Germany herself, the stubborn , pro­ testing nation so full of contradictions that courageously pursues its struggle and i ts destiny, determined to stick things out to the end. Both hu morously and seriously the book not only describes the qualities of the German character, it also embodies them. When the book was published , Thomas Mann awaited the public's reaction with a great deal of curiosity. The war was just over, the Social Democrats were in power, and Germany had become a republic. He did not regret what h e had written, but he was not at all sure how

x

lntrorlurlw11

people_: would n·att, whether tl1c hook would h;l\·e any clle11 at all, whethn it would be understood and by whom, and whether he might personally he harmed hy i1. On Septemher I I, I�� I H, he wmte in his diary. "Curiosity ahout the advenlllre or the ;q>pearance of

Ul'f!nliol/\,

Secret and utmost humor in the expectation of everything possible." But prohahly even he did not suspell that the hook would dog his path throughout the rest or his life. At any rate, the "nonpolitical" man found that he cotdd not avoid politit:s. The hook sold well, and he soon found himself popular with the conservatives, although they did not completely accept him because, after all, he had not been a conserv;ttive before the war, and hi., hook was dil"licult, sometimes confusing. and not so1ncthing with which a conservative could he completely contfortahlc. As for Tho1n;1s 1\lann, he soon found his association with the t:onscrvatives a lillie 111ore than unt:omfortahle; 111a1ty of them actually frightened him, ;n1d when he found 1hey were placing national considcratio11s aho\'c l111ma1H' ones, he could 110 longer count himself OIH_' of" them. In the years following the war, l\l;111n gradually shifted his suppol"l from the t:OIJServative cause to the new (;ennan H'IHrhlic ;\!any critics have called this shirt a hasit: t:han�-:e in 1\lann's tlrinkin�-:. hut he alw;n·s resisted this interpretatio11 and probably ri�-:htly so. The ch;u1ge was not so IIllich in his hasit: convictions as in the r;u1se Ire was delt·nding. Durin�-: the war he had thought of" (;ennany as mali�-:ned. rnistre;rted and atl;wked hoth lrom without and witl1in. and he had stepped in to help. But in I ���() the Wilhelm ian empire 110 longn existed and one lrad to live in the new times. Now the Rq>11hlic was hein�-: unl:ri.-ly. some1i111es viciousl>· atlacked, and ironically pnhaps hut also consistently Mann he�-:an to lean toward tilt' d1·rnotTatic gonTIInlt'nt. I k was no doubt inlluenced hy liberal nitics ol

Ul'flntion'

such ;tsJuliiiS Bah, who.

while agreeing with IIllich oii\Llnn's analysis of the (;l'l'man char;tctn, still pointed 0111 lauhs in the lormer empire ;uHI tilL' llelessit�· lor the people's participation in politics ;uul de1nonacy. 1\l;tllll rccei\cd this nitit:ism well. as l1c began to regard man)' a11e111p1s to resist the Ill'\\' government as hoth wrong and nul'l. Mann l'Vl'll ht·�-:an to think o l'

Ni'f/1'(/ioll.\

as IIIII so IIIIlCh the end or ;til

epo('lt as a continual ironical tension pointing in a I kgeli;nt sense low;u·d tl1c l'ultiH'. lie was l1clpcd in these tlto11gltts hr a nr;un1snipt Ire received in the 111ail on Fehm;try �!1, I ���II. "1\lctaplty:o.ics and II istory: /\n Open Letter to Tlto11tas 1\l;llllt," hy

;1

young scholar n;uncd Allred

Introduction

xz

Baeumler. Baeumler's manuscri pt gave Thomas Mann a way out of the dead end i n which Reflections seemed to have left him. Baeumler said that for many years Germany had strayed from the reality of h istory and the power of logical h istorical t hought as represented by Hegel . Spengler, for i nstance, was far from Leibnitz and Hegel , but Thomas l\lann in his R eflections was a h isto1·ical thinker. Spengler was a meta­ physician , an eastern mystic, a translator of Schopenhauerian will into history; h is work rep1·esented an end, while Thomas l\lann's was a beginning. Baeumler praised Mann's ironic method as eternal tension without resolution. The iro nist is patient; he deals with reality, h istory and politics d ialectically. Baeumler contrasted Mann's ironical attitude toward life with that of the radical who is i m patient, hates l i fe, and remains nihilistic and selfish . The radical wants to mold l i fe through i nstitutions, but h istory, like art, recognizes the tension between intellect and life, and both politics and art seek the middle path . Neither h istory nor art believes so much in institutions as i n moods, ways of thinking, dispositions. Even though the total mood of Reflections might be pessimistic, the total meaning was not so. The book pointed toward the future. M an n was excited and pleased when h e read the manuscript, and he immediately used his in fluence to have it published. When i t appeared he wrote in his diary on October 18, 1920, that h is wife, Katia, "read Baeumler's open letter to me in the Rwzdschau . . and it provides her, as it does me, with great pleasure." In the first years after the war, Thomas Mann still could not forgive H einrich's remarks in the Zola essay. I n January 1922, however, t here was a tentative reconciliation between the two brothers, and for the new edition of Reflections, Thomas took the opportunity to eliminate several lines, which altogether added up to abou t t hirty pages, in which he had spoken harshly against Heinrich and against Romai n Rolland, the French Nobel Prize laureate. Not only d id t he changes soften the personal excesses, they also allowed for a slightly more favorable attitude toward the Weimar Republic. This change in the direction of Mann's sympath ies was greatly accelerated on June 24, 1922, when the Re­ public's forei gn minister, Walter Rathenau, whom Mann ad mired, was assassinated by radical reactionaries. M�nn decided to speak out. I n October 1922, in Berlin h e delivered a speech "On t h e German Republic," arguing for freedom and finishing with the words, "Long live the Republic ! " .

xu

Introduction

The speech caused quite a stir. Thomas Mann immediately lost the favor of the conservatives and found himself together with the Social Democrats. People spoke of a basic change in Mann's convictions, but the speech itself as well as Thomas Mann's later comments on it show clearly that no such basic change took place. For Mann , freedom remained a Germanic idea i nvolvi ng morality rather than the political freedom of the West. For the speech, he had derived his concept of freedom partly from Friedrich von Gentz and from I mmanuel Kant, but mainly from the romanticist, !'l:ovalis. H e had remained a monarchist at heart but had become a republican through reason; h e still retai ned h is romantic view of the German character, but he no longer believed , i f he ever did, that silence was better than political expression . From then on he was to speak out courageously and frequently against cruehy and inj ustice. The conservatives would never forgive Thomas Mann his speech on the German Republic. They thought he had gone against Rrflrctions, and in 1 92 7 a young critic named Arthur H ilbscher attacked Mann in an article, "The Reworked Reflections of a !'l:onpolitical Man," accusi ng him of having falsified the contents of the book in the 1922 edition. Mann immediately replied that he had made only a few changes and that the mean ing of the book had not been changed at all. H iibscher countered with a line-by-line comparison of the two editions, empha­ sizing that Thomas Mann had not mentioned the changes in a preface to the new edition, and continuing to insist that the changes substantially altered the tenor of the book . !'l:o doubt Mann was right when he said that thirty pages made up only a tiny part of the whole, that the book had remained essentially the same. The argument had only pro\'ed that the conservatives would continue to hold a grudge against Thomas Mann, and that they would seize every opportunity to attack him. However, j ust as the conservative Germans looked back in anger at Mann's seeming repudiation of h is views, the rest of the world wou ld not let him forget the book, either. Even after he had been forced from Germany by the Nazis and had become an American citizen, he still feh the sting. I n the Atlantic in May 1 944, in an a rticle entitled "\\'hat is German?" Thomas Mann emphasized the da ngers of a cuhured society remaining nonpolitical. The article was in no way pro-Gennan. !'l:e\'er­ theless, such a noted schola r as Henri Peyre felt it necessary to remind Thomas Mann of h is essay 011 Frederick the Great and of Rtjll'Ciions. He suggested that Mann explain what had happened to cause h is con­ version "from his former Pan-Germanist and pro-Nazi views.·· The attack

Introduction

xm

was unnecessary, but typical of the lasting e ffects that Reflections called forth in the West. Since Thomas Mann h ad never been a Pan-Germanist or a pro-Nazi, and since h is record of political decency and courage was open to all, he could and did-gently and correctly-fulfill Peyre's request for clari fication, and to Peyre's satisfaction, but to many Americans Thomas Mann still remained suspect. Thomas Mann never d isavowed Reflections. The book was a sincere, painfu l self-ana lysis , a stage i n his intellectual development that made future work, particularly The Magic Mountain, possible, and it also showed his deep affection for and defense of the German culture that he knew and loved , and of which he was a part. As far as the Nazis were concerned, it is clear that Thomas Mann would never have accepted them, even in h is most conservative period. What he wrote to Reinhold N iebuh r on February 19, 1943, is undoubtedly true: "If I had remained at the level of Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man, which was, after all, not an antihumane book, I would still have taken a position with the same rage and with the same justification against this horror as I do today­ sit venia verb o-as a 'democrat."' In speaking of Reflections, Thomas Mann was fond of quoting Goethe's words on Wieland: "The clever man liked to play with his opinions, but I can call u pon all contemporaries as witness that he never played with h is basic nature." Thomas Mann was a man of irony, of dialectics; his nature was often ambivalent, and he was courageous enough to admit this and to try to do justice to all his thoughts. This courage sometimes caused irritation and misunderstanding, but those who thought of him as a sophist with no convictions at all certainly misunderstood his honesty in the search for truth. In America h e became a democrat and d utifu lly travelled around making speeches in favor of democracy, but he was honest enough to admit that he often fel t a little strange in doing so. The straightforward , sometimes platitudinous s peeches he was making seemed m u c h less interesting than Reflections, which had been so rich in ambivalence. H e did not completely separate t h e good Germany from the bad one; he knew that the German past formed a u nity and that h e, as well as his countrymen, was part of i t. As late as November 25 , 1949, he could write to Willy Sternfeld: Reflections is a correct book with a false omen ." · The book was part of him and he would never deny it. Except for some concessions to American format and punctuation, I h ave fol lowed the original German edition as far as possible in style and

xzv

Introduction

atmosphere as well as in sentence and paragraph structure. For the most part, this will present no problems to the reader, but a t times he may come across a rather long and complicated sentence with se,·eral qualifiers and d i fferentiations, which may strike him as strange. There are reasons for this somewhat i nvolved style. First, Mann took great pains to write with precision. He was by nature complex and often ambivalent and spared no effort to say exactly what he had in mind, even i f the reader might not easily follow him. But he was also aware of this tendency in himself, and sometimes in a kind of self-irony, he enjoyed making fun of h is own style. Thus what may at first seem a bit pompous and stuffy is often really j ust 1\lann exagger­ ating and laughing at h imsel f, and also inviting the reader to join in the fun . Beyond this, Reflections is a very German book i n i t s fullness and variety, in its tendency to include every thing relevant. This follows a long tradition i n German culture that goes back as far as Wolfram nm Eschenbac h , who, in Parzival, eschewed the simple style and purpose­ fully wrote in a sometimes tortuous language that befitted the difficu lt nature of his subject. For writers i n this tradition. to simplify things is to falsify them. Finally, since the book is, to a great extent, a consenative treatise that combats the coming of democracy, the style also resists simple, easy-to­ read, platitudinous writing. In particular, Mann wants to emphasize the difference between h is style and that of the rhetorically passionate, and sometimes gawdy approach of "civi lization's literary man," the herald of the new era. Therefore in his aristocratic aloofness and deep sympathy with German culture, Mann seems to state: "What I have to say is worthwhile; if you want to benefit from it, you m ust make the effort to come i n to my world ." There are no footnotes at all in the original work. For the most part, Man n made at least general references within the text to h is sources. but he d id not try to be thorough. Throughout the book some two hundred and fifty names are mentioned and many historical events. literary themes, and philosoph ical problems are referred to. There are also personal references. To footnote all of this would make the book far too pedantic, and it would also deviate too much from the original. The reader will no doubt be fa miliar with many of the references ; in any event, he will not find it necessary to know all o f them in order to understand and to enjoy the book. wh ich is, as 1\lann suggests, much

Introduction

xv

more a story and an inner-personal con flict than a scholarly treatise. Nevertheless, footnotes have seemed necessary h ere and there , although they have been kept to an absolute minimum. Throughout the book , Mann uses many, many quotations-from his own works, from those of other Germans, and from foreign writers as well. He also quotes extensively from poetry, mainly German. I n several cases, he skillfully weaves the material into the main narrative , often skipping around in his sources, selecting those items that suit his purpose, eliminating words and sentences that are not pertinent, and e\·en adding his own emphasis w hen he feels i t necessary. Accordingly, in order to have an accurate translation of Mann's book, it was necessary to translate the quotations directly from it rather than using publ ished English translations. Therefore all of the translations from the original German excerpts are my own, and I have even fol lowed the German translations of the Russian and French. 1\ly translations agree in essence, if not in exact wording, with published English translations of these passages. Excerpts from English sources are, of course, another matter. Here I have used the original English text in every case. As a supplement to the translations of German verse, the originals have been i ncluded as footnotes. I am grateful to I owa State U niversity for granting me leave during the academic year 1 9i9-80 so that I might h ave time to do this translation. My thanks go also to the many people, who, over the years, have helped me with t h is translation. Particularly deserving of my thanks are Johannes Bechert, W. F. Michael , and Barbara von Wittich, who soh·ed many a problem in the interpretation of German words and phrases, while Eugene V . Smith and J eannette Bohnenkamp read the entire manuscrip t and made excellent suggestions on style and reada­ bility. Will J u m per was helpfu l with the translation of an Eichendorff poem, and J eannette Bohnenkamp and Thora Runyan gave generously of their time in reading proof. l\lany thanks go also to Hans Wysling and Therese Schweizer of the Thomas Mann A rchiv in Zurich for their generous assistance in my research on the background of Reflections . I am also indebted to Colo 1\lann for d iscussing family details with me, particu larly with regard to the relationship between Mann and h is brother H ei nric h . B y far the greatest help, however, came from Frederick U ngar, who read and compared original and translation , line by l ine, and made innumerable suggestions that greatly improved the translation in style -

0

xvz

Introduction

and accuracy. It has been a pleasure and a privilege for me to work together with a man so experienced i n editing and publishing literary translations, who also has a thorough knowledge of the German language and l iterature. I must add that in all matters the final decision was mine, and that I am responsible for any faults and errors that may remain in the translation. Ames, Iowa WALTER D. MoRRIS

Summer, 1982

Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere? Moliere, Les Fourberies de

Scapin

Compare yourself with others! Know what you are! Goethe. Tasso

RE FLECTIONS OFA NONPOLITICAL MAN

Prologue

W

h e n , in 1 9 1 5 , I had presented to the public the little book Frederick a n d the Great Coalition, I thought I had discharged m y duty to the day and the hour and that I would be abl e , even in the turmoil o f the times, to rededicate myself to the artistic endeavors I had begun before the outbreak of the war. This proved to be an error. I was , like hundreds of thousands of others who were taken from their paths by the war, "drafted," estranged , and held for long years from my true calling and occupatio n . It was not the state and the army that "drafted" me, but the times themselves : to more than two years of military service of the mind-for which I was, by birth and by skill, finally just as little suited spiritually as was many a companion i n misfortune physically for real duty on the fron t or at home, and from w hich I , not exactly i n the most even fram e of mind , a war casualty, as I should probably say, return today to my deserted worktable . The harvest of these years-but I will not speak of a "harvest." I will do better to speak of a resid u e, a remainder, and a sedimen t, or also of a trail . and i ndeed , to tell the truth , of a trail of suffering-the remnant of these years , then , in order to correctly twist the proud concept of remaining into a noun that does not have an excessively proud character, makes up this volume, which I shall. for good reason, beware of calling a book or a work. For twenty years of not com pletely though tless artistic practice have after all taught me too m uch respect for the concept of a work or composition to claim these terms for an effusion or a notebook , ah inventory. a diary, or a chn�micle. Here, however, we are dealing with just such a piece of writing, something that h as bee piled u p-although the volume does , at times, and with some justi fiet .ion, by the way, take on the appearance of a com position and work . \" ith some j ustification : a basic thought that is organic and omnipresent could be

2

Reflections of a NonjJOlitical Ala n

pointed to-i f i t were not just the waveri n g sense of such a thought, with which, to be sure, t he w hole work i s permeated . O n e could speak of "vari ations on a theme," if t h is theme had only atta ined more precise for m . A book ? 1'\o. w e c a n n o t say that. Th is search ing. struggli ng, and prob i n g toward the essence , toward the causes of an a n g u i s h , t h is d ialectical fen c i n g a l l the way i n to t h e fog res u l t w a s n a t u ra l l y no boo k .

against

such ca u ses-t h e

F o r among t hese ca uses t here was

u n doubtedly an antia r t i s t ic and unacc u stomed lac k o f m astery of t h e subjec t , a lack t o w h i c h m y clear a n d s h a m ing awareness was always alert, a n d that i n st inctively had to be concealed by means of a light and sovereign manner of s pea k i n g . :\"everth eless , j ust as a work o f a rt can have the form and a p pearance of a c h ronicle (someth i n g I know from experience ) , a c h ronicle c a n also, i n the end , have t h e form a n d a p peara n ce o f a w o r k o f a rt; a n d t h u s t h is b u n d l e of pa pers shows, at times a t least, the a m bi tion and

habitus

o f a work : i t i s somet h i n g

i ntermed iate between w o r k a n d e ffusion, com position a n d hackwork­ even if its point of existence lies so fa r from the exact m id d l e . in t r u t h , so m uc h more on the s i d e o f t h e nonartistic, t h a t one would do better to take it, in spite o f its com posed c h a pters , as a fo rm o f d iary. the e a rl y parts of w h i c h can be dated from t h e beginning of t h e war and the later sections ap proxi m a t e l y at t h e t u rn of t h e yea rs 191 7- I S . I f, howeve r , t hese notes do not form a work of a rt, the reason i s fina l l y because,

as

notes a n d reflections, they a r e j ust to o m uch the

work of an artist , of an a rt istic natu re-for they a re that. in fact, in more ways than one. They a re that, fo r example, as the prod uct o f a cert a i n indescribable i rr i t a b i l i t y with i nt e l l ec t u a l tendencies of the t i mes. of a touchiness, se n s i t i v i t y a n d nervousness of percept ion that I h;l\·e a lways recogn i zed in m yself. At t i mes I beli e ve I have deri,·ed ad vantage from t h i s as an a rtist. N ev e rt he less . it has a lways prod uced t he d u bious side i nc l ination to react in an i m mediate l iterary. critica l , jJolemir way to these sti m u l i . This is partic u larly t ru e wh en. yes. precisely w h e n , it is not j ust a q u estion of a s u pe rf i c i a l t ingl ing of t h e skin . b u t when I am to a certa in extent i n wa rd l y involved i n what I percei,·e. It is simply a l iterary pugnacity or q u a rrelsomeness. based on the need fo r balance. a n d t h e re fo re, for its part, com m i t ted again all too s t rongly to angry one-sided ness. A l l t h i s h a p p e n s before my cri t ical u n derstand ing is i n tel l ec t u a l l y ripe enough in awa reness, l a n guage. and ana lysis for me to be able to hope seriously fo r essa y istic resol u tion. In m y opi nion. t h is is how artistic works come i n to be ing. T hese essays a re also t h e work o f a n a rt ist in l heir d e pendence. in

Prologue

3

their need for help and re ference , in their endless quotations and appeals to strong affidavits of support and to "authorities"-in their expression of reveling gratefu lness for favors received , and in the childish u rge to force literally u pon the reader everything I have selected in my read ing for consolation, instead of letting it form the silent and calming background of my own diction. B y the way , it seems to me that, in all the unbridled ness of this desire, there was a certain poetic sensitivity and taste at work in its satisfaction : quoting was perceived as an art, similar to the art of tightening a story by inserting dialogue , and the attempt was made to practice it with similar rhythmic effect. An artist's work, an artist's writing: a person speaks here who, as it says in the text, is not accustomed to speak but rather to have others, people a nd things, speak, a nd who therefore "has" others speak even when he seems to be, a nd thinks he is, speaking directly himself. A trace of the actor, the lawyer, of play, artistry, detachment, of lack of conviction a nd of that poetic sophistry that allows the one s peaking at the moment to be correct, a nd who in this case was I , mysel f-this trace is undoubtedly to be found everywhere; it scarcely stopped being half­ conscious-and still, what 1 said was at every moment truly my i n tel­ lectual conviction , my heartfelt emotion . I t is not for me to solve the paradox of this m ixture of dialectics and genuine, honestly striving will to truth. I n the end, the very existence of this book vouches for my senousness. For I certainly hope that i ts feuilletonistic tone will deceive no one of the fact t hat the years in w h ich I piled i t up were the most difficult of my life. Yes, it is the work of an artist, and not a work of art; for it stems from an artistic nature that is shaken in its foundations, endan­ gered in i ts vital dignity, and called in question, from an artist who is disconcerted to the point of crisis, who absolutely could not express himself in any other way. The insight from which it grew, and which made its production seem to be u navoidable, was above all that every work would otherwise have been intellectually overladen-a correct consideration, which, however, still did not do justice to the true state of a ffairs; for in truth, a continuation of the work on these other things would have shown itself to be completely im possible, and did show itself, u pon repeated attempts, to be completely i mpossible: thanks, that is, to the intellectual conditions of the times, to the agitation of everything cal m , to the shaking of all cultural foundations, to an artistically hope less turmoil of thought, to the naked impossibility of

4

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

creating something on the basis of an existence, to the breaking-up and impugning of this exi stence itself by the times and their crisis, to the necessity of understanding, clarifying and defending this existence that had been called in question and brought into d istress, and that could no longer be u nderstood as a firm, self-evident and instinctive basis for cu lture; thanks to a pressing need , t herefore, for a revision of all the foundations of this artistic nature i tsel f, for its self-study and self­ assertion, without w h ic h its activity, impact, and cheerful fulfillment, its every action and creation, seemed from now on to be quite impossible. B u t why did things have to seem this way to me, of all people? Why the galley for me w h ile others went free? Of course I know very well that there were artists of all types who met this crisis and turning point at about the same age as I did, who, if they were physically spared by the war, were only temporarily inhibited , i f at all, i n their work. Works of belles lettres, music, and visual arts have been created in these four years and made public, and they h ave brought their creators appreci­ ation , fame, and happiness. Youth arrived and was greeted. But also artists of an older generation, older even than mine, have progressed . completed what they began, produced their work as before i n accord­ ance with their cultural background and their talen t. and it almost seemed as i f their creations were the more welcome the less they touched u pon and reminded people of what was happening. For the demand of the public for art had ever risen, its appreciation of creative work was livelier than usual, the prospect of every type of reward . including the material, particularly favorable. What I am saying here is a captatio benevolentiae, and I make no secret of it. Really. I am attempting to concil iate by poin ting out how much renu nciation the book has i nvolved . I put off m y dearest plans, w hich many awai ted not without desire or i m patience-whether to their credit or discred it-so that I might finish a piece of writing, the extensiveness of which I was ad m ittedly, t h is time as well, not even vaguely aware ; otherwise I would. in spite of everything, hardly have allowed mysel f to embark on it. I remember well that my enthusiasm in the begi nning was great; that I was driven by the bel ief that I had many good a nd important things to say to myself and to others. B u t the n : what growing unrest, what longing for "freedom in limitation," what pain from the enormously compromising and disorganizing nature of all speech; what gnawing worry about the loss of months, of years! But when the point where it is still possible to turn back, to abandon the material and to walk away from it, h as passed , then "carrying on to the end" becomes more of a n

Prologue

5

economic than a moral i m perative-even if the will to bring it to completion definitely takes on hero ic proportions when its growing to completion is u nthinkable. There is only one motto for action and writing such as this that explains its foolishness and pain without condemning it com pletely. I t is found in Thomas Carlyle's French Revolution: Thou shalt know that this Universe is, what it professes to be, an infinite one. Attempt not to swallow it, for thy logical d igestion; be thankful, if skillfully planting down this and the other fixed pillar in the chaos, thou prevent its swallowing thee.

A gain, why did "my body have to labor i n place of Christendom," to speak with Claudel's V iolaine? After all , was my psychological condition so particularly grave-that it seemed so much in need of d iscussion, explanation, and defense? Forty is probably a critical age ; one is no longer young, one notices that one's own future is no longer the general fu ture, but only-one's own. You have to live your life to the end-a l i fe that has already been overtaken by the course of the world. New thi ngs have come over the horizon that negate you without being able to deny that things would not be as they are if it had not been for you. Forty is a turning point in life ; and it is no small matter- ! pointed this out in the text , I believe-when the turning point i n an individual life coincides with the thundering of a turning point in the world ; the awareness of t h is becomes terrifying. But others, too, were forty, and got along better. Was I weaker, more vulnerable to consternation, to destruction? Did I lack pride and inner strength so that I lost myself polemically in new ideas at the risk of bringing about my sel f-destruc­ tion? Or must I attribute to myself a particularly sensitive feeling of solidarity with my epoch , a particular i ntensification, sensitivity, and vulnerability because I belong to a particular time? B e that as it may, I red uce the origi n of these pages to its common denominator when I call it conscientiousness-a q uality that makes up such an essential part of my a rtistic gift that one could say briefly that it consists of it: conscientiousness, a moral-artistic quality to which I owe everyt hing it has been my lot to accomplish , and that now has played this trick on me. For I know well how close it comes to pedantry, and whoe,·er would l ike to label and explain away th is whole book as monstrous , childishly hypochondriacal pedantry would hardly miss the mark; many times it has not seemed otherwise to me. More than once, more than a hundred times, throughout all my explorations, explica-

6

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

tions, and expectorations, the question of t he motto has forced i tself upon me with the laughter that accom panies incomprehensibility. I n retrospect , when I consider m y clumsy efforts o n t h e political question, I notice some of the same feeling that will certainly come over my readers. "What the de,·il d id it matter to him?" But i t did matter to me, it was truly and passionately close to m y heart, and i t seemed absolutely necessary somehow to clear up t hese questions according to my best understanding, belief. and ability. For the times were such that one could no longer tell the di fference between what concerned the indi­ vidual and what did not. Everything was excited , sti rred up, the problems stormed i n to one another a nd could no longer be separated . One could see the i nterrelationshi p, the unity of all intel lectual matters ; the question of the human bei ng himsel f was t here, and the responsibility to this question also incl uded the necessity for a political point of view and resol ution. I t was the magn itude, t he weight and the limitlessness of t h e t imes that left the conscientious person and somehow- I do not know to what or to whom-the responsible person, the person who took himself seriously, nothing that he did not have to take seriously. All pain for the sake of things is sel f-torment , and the only person who torments h imself is the one who takes himself seriously. One will pardon all my pedantry and child ish ness in t hese pages when one has pardoned me for taking myself seriously-a fact that becomes clear when I speak directly about myself, and certainly a quality that one can recogn ize and smile at as t h e very origi n of all pedantry. " Lord , how h e ta kes himself seriously ! " - M y book certainly prm·ides continual opportunity for this exclamation . I have nothing to say against this except for the fact that I have never lived nor could live without taking myself seriously. except for the knowledge that everything that seems good and noble to me­ intellect , art, morality-comes from human bei ngs taking th emselves seriously; for the clear i nsight that everything I IM\'e accomplished and prod uced , indeed the charm and val ue of e\·ery single bit of it , e,·ery line and expression of my life's work u p to now-as much and as little as t h is may say-can exclusively he t raced bac k to Ill\' taking myself seriously. But closely related to conscie ntiousness is lolldim•.1.1-it is perha ps only anot her name for it: that loneli ness, you see, t h at' is so d i fficult for the artist to d i fferen tiate from jmblic lifl'. All in all. he is not e\·en d isposed to d isti ngu ish between t he two. I l is life element is a public loneliness. a lonely pu blic l i !C that is of an intellect ual nature. and whose feeling and concept of d ignity d iffer com pletely fmm ci,· ic. material-social

Prologue

7

public l i fe , although in practice both can , as it were, coincide. Their unity consists in the l iterary public l i fe that is both intellectual and social at the same time (as in the theater) and in which the emotion of loneliness becomes socially acceptable, civically possible, and even civi­ cally meritorious. The recklessness, the extremity of the artist's com­ m u nicative dedication, may lead h i m to the prostitution and revelation of his personal l i fe, to the most complete J ean-J acques shamelessness­ nevertheless , the dignity of the artist as a private person remains completely inviolate. It is possible, it is even natural, for an artist who has j ust sacrificed , sur rendered , yes , even abandoned himself personally in his work to step out at the next moment among people without the slightest feeling that he has compromised his civic existence in the least-and a cooperative, cultured public, that is to say, one that equates itself as much as possible with the i n tellectual public, will su pport h i m ; t h e merits h e h a s earned as a lonely public person m a y even stand h is civic honor i n good stead. But all t h is is only conditionally valid; a personal con fession to the social public through literary publ ication is only valid when it is worthy of the intellectual public-otherwise, publ ication makes it into a joke or a scandal. One must hold to this law, this criterion. But I must now ask myself whether the publication of these pages , the product of a loneliness that is accustomed to being public, is j ustified ; that is, whether they may show themselves worthy of the social public because they are worthy of t he i ntellectual public-and I will be h elped little here if I can only defend their publishability, their right to publication, or the public's right to them, with reasons that are only h uman and personal. 1'\evertheless, such reasons must be included. My production suddenly stopped ; announced works did not appear; I seemed struck dumb, lamed, seemed to have left the field. Did I not owe it to my friends to tell how I had spent the years ? And if it was not a question of a debt­ was it perhaps a question of a right? For a fter all , I had struggled and renounced , had taken great pains, had honestly tried to achieve u nderstanding, even if with insufficient and d ilettante powers. and it was h u man to wish that all this should not be borne, tolerated, done completely "in vain" in private, nonpublic loneliness . I say that such reasons should be included-they are not the decisive ones. The publishability of these pages must be proven and their publication justified from the point of view of the intellect : it is a question of their intellectual right to publication-and truly, I think such a right exists. This writing, w hich has the uninhibited nature of a private letter,

8

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

offers, i n fact, to the best of my knowledge and belief, the i ntellectual foundations of w hat I have had to give as an artist, and what belongs to the public. I f this has been worthy of the intellectual public, then the following statement of accou nts must also be so. And since it was the times that irresistibly demanded it of me, it seems that the times have a right to it: a document, it seems to me, has been presented that is not unworthy of being known by contemporaries and even by future generat ions, if only for its transiently symptomatic value, for its bound­ less i ntellectual excitement, its eagerness to talk about everything at once. B ut even the m isgiving that I may not only have s hown myself to be a poor thinker, but that I may also have com promised my artistic gift itself by reveal ing its intellectual foundations, cannot justify my locking up the manuscri pt. Let what is true see the light o f day. I have never pretended to be better than I am, and I want to do so neither by talk nor by c lever silence. I h ave never been afraid of revealing myself. The will that Rousseau expresses i n the first sentence of his Confessions and that seemed new and un heard of at the time: "to show a man in the whole truth of his nature, and this man is I ," this will that Rousseau called "unprecedented until today," and t hat he believed would find no imitators- has become an i nveterate matter of course, the i ntellectual, artistic eth os of the century to w h ich I essentially belong, the nineteenth: and the verses of Platen stand over my life as well as over the ]ires of so many sons of this age o f confession: I am not yet so pale that I need make-up; Let the world know me that i t may pardon me!*

I repeat: a fixation of a problematical nature, whether it be i mage or speech, is suitable for the general public i f it is worthy of the in tellectual one. I f it is, one's private dignity remains completely untouched . Here I have a human-tragic element of t he book particularly in mind. that intimate con flict to which a series of pages is particu larly dedicated and which also colors and determ ines my thought in many other places. I t i s true of it, too-especially of it-t hat its exposure, a s far a s this was at all times possible, is intellectually justified and therefore not offensive. For this i ntimate con flict ta kes place in the intellect and has, beyond all doubt, enough symbolic d ignity to have a right to publicat ion and, once presented, not to have a rude e ffect. A cultured general public, that is, one that equates itself as much as possible with the i ntellect ual public, is not scandalized by the revelation of personal matters that are wort hy * Noch bin ich nicht s o hlcich, da[3 it:h dn Schminke hraudll!': Es kcnnc mich die Welt, au! dajJ sic mir wrzeihc!

Prologue

9

of the intellectual public and to which the latter has a right. The trust im plied i n such a revelation may prove to be much too "lonely" and optimistically gullible: if it is m istaken, the one who cherished it will not be d ishonored. I said I had served the times by writing this book, by trying conscien­ tiously or pedantically to "put down" in connected sentences the excited , stirred-up fou ndations of my bei ng. But many a person , after he has taken note of the following chapters, will judge that I have served the times in a very questionable manner, without a healthy love for them, without discipline; that I have "served" obstinately, with a hundred manifestations of hostile d isobedience and ill will, and that I have done little to further their fulfi ll ment, completion, and real ization. They will say I had not only, or not just, shown myself to be a bad thinker, but also, and much more, to be one who thinks bad thoughts, has a mean d isposition and a bad character: by attempting, you see, to support and defend what is dying out and falling away, and to oppose what is new and necessary, to do harm to the times themselves. To this I must reply that one can serve the times in more ways than one, and that mine does not definitely have to be the wrong, bad , and fruitless one. A contem­ porary thinker has said : " I t is not so difficult to d iscover the d irection a culture is taking, and i t is not so wonderful as the half-wits all around the country think to join it with great fan fare. To recognize the t rue path of life, the reversals, the contradictions, the tensions of life, the counterweights it needs, the opposing forces that tense it anew where it has become weak through expenditure of effort, the a ntagonists, without whom the drama of life does not progress-not only to see all these things, but to feel them alive in oneself, struggling against one another­ this makes the person who is the complete human being i n his times." A beautifu l statement that strikes a chord in my soul. I do not think that it is the essence and duty of the writer to join "with great fan fare" the main direction the culture is taking at the moment. I do not think and cannot from my very nature think that it is n atural and necessary for the writer to support a development in a completely positive way by direct , credulous-enthusiastic ad\'Ocacy-as a solid knight of the times, without scru ple and doubt, with straightforward intentions and an unbroken determination and spirit for it, his god . On the contrary, authorship itself has ahvays seemed to me to be a witness to and an expression of ambivalence, of here and there, of yes and no, of two souls in one breast, of an annoying richness i n inner confl icts, antitheses and contradictions. What is, after all, the origin and purpose of writing i f it is not a n intellectual-moral effort in behalf of a problematic ego?

10

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

r\o, granted, I am not a knight of the ti mes , nor am I a "leader," and I do not want to be. I do not lm·e "leaders," and I do not lm·e "teachers ," either, for example, "teachers of democracy. " But least of all do I love and respect those small, empty people who have good noses and who live from knowing what is goi ng on and from followi ng the right scent, those servile and conforming vermin of the times who, with incessant announcements of their contempt for all those who a re less qu ick and mobile, trot alongside the new; or also the fops and u p-to-date people, those intellectual swel ls and elegant ones who wear the most recent ideas and catchwords just as they wear their monocles: for example, "spirit," " love ," "democracy,"-so that one can hardly hear this jargon today without being disgusted . All of t hese people, the con formers as well as the snobs, enjoy the freedom of their nothingness. They are not hing, as I said in the text, and therefore they are completely free to express opinions and to judge, and always, of course, accord ing to the latest fashion and a Ia mode. I honestly despise them. Or is my contempt only hidden envy, since I do not share their frivolous freedom? But to what extent do I not share it? To what extent am I bound and determined? If I am not nothing, as t hey are, what am I, then ? It was this question t hat forced me into the "galley," and b y "com parison" I sought to find the a nswer. The understanding that repeatedly tended to appear was wavering. misty, insufficient, dialetically one-sided and distorted by eff(>rt. Shall I . at the last minute, try again to nail i t down to tolerable satisfaction? I am, in what is i nt e llectually essential, a gen uine child of the centu ry into which the fi rst twenty- five years o f my life fa ll: the nineteent h . To be sure, I find in myself both art i stic- formal and intellectual-moral element s , needs and i nstincts that no longer belong to that epoch , hut to a more recent one. But si nce as a writer I feel myself st rictly speaking to be a descendant (natura lly not a member) of the ( ;erman hurgherlv art of storytelling of the nineteenth cent u ry t hat reaches from :\dalhen Stifter to the last works of Fontane ; since, as I say. my t rad itions and artistic tendencies reach back to this na tive world of ( ;erman mast er­ fulness that charms and strengt hens me by an idealistic confirmat ion of myself as soon as I come into cont act with i t , my intellectual center also lies on the other side of the t u rn of the cenJ u ry. Roma nticism, na tionalism, hurgherly nature, music, pessimism, hum or-these cle­ ments from the atmosphere of the past age form in the main the impersonal parts of my being as well. But it is especially in a basic dis posit ion and spiritual tendency, in a character t rait, that the nine-

Prologue

11

teenth century, taken as a whole, differs from the previous one, and, as is becoming i ncreasingly clear, from the new, present one as well. It was 1\' ietzsche who first grasped this difference of character a nd put it best i n to critical language. " Honest but gloomy," i\ ietzsche called the n ineteenth cen tury in contrast to the eighteenth, which he found, as Carlyle had , feminine and deceitful. But the eighteenth did have in its humane sociability a spirit in the semice of desirabilit)' that the nineteen t h cent ury did not know. !\lore bestial a nd ugly, yes, more vulgar, and precisely for this reason , "better," "more honest," than t h e former, t h e n ineteenth century was truer, more subservient to rea/it)' of ePfl)' kind. To be sure it was, i n the process, wea k in will, sad and darkly covetous, fatalistic. Neither for "reason" nor for the "heart" d id it s how awe and respect, and through Schopenhauer it even reduced morality to a n i nstinct, namely pity. As the scientific cen tury that was u npretentious in its wishes, it freed itself from the domination of ideals and i nstincti\·ely sought everywhere for theories to j ustify a fatalistic submission to the factual. The eighteenth century sought to forget what one knew of the nature of the h uman being in order to adapt h i m to its utopia. Superficial, soft, h umane, enthusiastic for the "human being," it advocated, with the use of art, reforms of a social and jJOiitical nature. On the other hand, Hegel , with his fatalistic way of thinking, h is belief in the greater reason of the victorious, signified quite essen tially a \·ictory m·er sentimentality. And l\'ietzsche spea ks of Goethe's opposition to re\·olution, of his "will to deify the u niverse and l i fe i n order to find peace and happiness i n his visualizing and fathoming. " i'\ ietzsche's critique, never u nsympathetic, becomes highly positive; in truth, it rewrites the religiosit)' of a whole age by rewriting Goethe's nature as an "almost" happy and trusting fatalism "that does not re\·olt, that does not weary, that tries to form a totality out of itself i n the belief that only i n totality is everything soh·ed, does e\·erything appear as good and justified ." l\' ietzsche's critique of the last century. of this powerful but not very "high-minded" epoch, one that was intellectually not very gallant, has never seemed to hit the mark more splendidly than when it is seen from the point of view of the here and now. Recently I found in print that Schopen hauer had been "social-altru istic" because his morality had peaked in pity- 1 marked the passage ,\·ith a large question mark. Schopenhauer's philosophy of the will (and Schopenhauer never tended to forget what is known of the nature of the hu man being) was without all social and political interessement. His pity was a means of sah·ation,

12

Reflections of a Nonpolitical lvlan

not a means of improvement in any sort of intellectual-political sense that went against reality. In this, Schopen hauer was a Christian. One should have talked to h im about the role of art in social reform ! -to him for whom the esthetic condition was a blessed predominance of pure contemplation , a stopping of the wheel of Ixion, a breaking au'a)' from the will, freedom in the sense of redemption and i n 110 other sense. Here we have Flaubert's hard estheticism, his boundless doubt with the nihil as a result, with the scornful resignation of "liein. le progres, quelle blague! " Here Ibsen's burgherl y evil head stands out, similar in expres­ sion to Schopenhauer's. The l ie as a condition of life, the bearer of the "moral demand" as a comical figure, Hjalmar Ekdal as the h uman being as he is, h is coarsely realistic wife as the upright one. the cynic as a querulous person : here we have the asceticism of honesty-the harsh nineteenth century. And how much of i ts brutal and honest pessimism, of its particularly stern , masculine and "unpretentious" ethos, still holds sway in Bismarck's Realpolitik and anti-ideology ! I see that this often varying tendency and basic disposi tion of t he nineteenth century, i ts truthful, blunt, and u n feeling submission to the real a nd factual, which is averse to the cult of beautiful feelings. is the decisive inheritance that I have received from it; I see that i t is this that limits and sets my being against certain aspirations that are now appeari ng and that negate my world as being without ethos. The novel of the twenty-five-year-old, w hich appeared at the threshold of the century, was a work completely without that "spirit in the sen·ice of desirability," completely without social "will," com pletely without so­ lemnity, eloquence, sentimentality. On the contrary, it was pessimistic. humorous, and fatalistic, truth ful i n its melancholy submission as a study of decadence. One single unpretentious quotation will be enough to-forgive the expression-indicate the significance of the book in intel lectual history. Toward the end, bitter and farcical school stories are told . "Whoever," it says, a m o n g thes�

twenty- li,·e sol id you n g peo ple, was st ro n g a n d capable o f "

l i v i n g l i fe as i t is, t o o k t h i n gs a t t h is m o m e n t completely a s t h n w e r e , d i d n o t feel o ffe n d ed by t h e m a n d fou n d t h a t e\'erv t h i n g w a s oil\ ious a n d a s

it s h o u l d be . B u t there were a l so eyes t h a t were f'ot: u sed i n d a r k rellenion

t oward

one point . . .

And these eyes belonged to the latecomer of the bu rgher family. little .Johan, who had been sublimated bv decay . and whose only remai ning talent was i n m usic.

Prologue

13

Little Johan stared at the broad shoulders of the bov in front of him, and his golden brown eyes with their bluish shadows were full of disgust, resistance a nd fear . . .

Well, the resistance, the h ighly sensitive-moral revolt against "life as it is," against what is given, reality, " power"-this resistance is a sign of deca_)', of biological insu fficiency : intellect itsel f (and art ! ) is understood and presented as a symbol of this, as the product of degeneration: this is the nineteenth century; this is the relationship of intellect to l i fe that this century sees-but admittedly again in a special and extreme nuance that was only possible after the culmination of that melancholic-honest tendency in 1\'ietzsche. N ietzsche, you see, who has depicted the character of this epoch in the most sharply critical manner, signified in a certain sense such a culmination: the self-den ial of intellect in favor of life, of "strong" and especially ·'beautiful" life. This is undoubted ly a most extreme and final escape from the "domination of ideals," a submission to "power" that was by now no longer fatalistic but enthusiastic, erotically intoxicated , a submission that was no longer quite masculine but-how shall I say­ of a sentimental-esthetic nature-and moreover a find for artists of quite a d i fferent degree from Schopenhauer's philosophy! From an intellectual-poetic viewpoint, there are two brotherly possibilities pro­ duced from experiencing i\ ietzsche. The one is that ruthless Renaissance estheticism , that hysterical cult of power, beauty, and life that fou nd favor for a w hile i n a certai n literary school. The other is called irony­ and here l am speaking of myself. With me, the experience of the self­ denial of intellect in famr of life became irony-a moral attitude for which I know no other description and designation than precisely this one: that it is the self-denial, the self-betrayal of the intellect i n favor of l ife-and here I define "life" just as the Renaissance estheticism d id, but w ith a d i fferent, l ighter, and more reserved nuance of feeling that signifies lovableness, happiness , power, grace, the pleasant normality of lack of i ntellect, and of nonintellectuality . !\'ow to be sure, irony is an ethos that is not completely of a passive nature. The self-denial of the intellect can never be com pletely serious, completely accom plished . I rony woos, even if secretly; it seeks to win for the intellect, e\·en if in vain. I t is not anima l but intellectual. not gl�)omy bu t witty. But it is still weak in will and fatalistic, and it is at any rate very far from placing itself seriously and actively in the service of desirability and of ideals. Above all, however, it is a com pletely personal ethos, not a social one, just as Schopenhauer's "pity" was not social; not a means of im prO\·ement

14

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

in the intellect ual-political sense, not exalted , because it does not believe in the possibility of winning life for the intellect-and precisely for t h is reason it is a form of play (I say form of play), of ni neteenth-century mentality. But even the person who has not already been aware of it for ten or fi fteen years now can no longer fail to see that this young century, the twentieth, is clearly showing signs of taking after the eighteenth much more strongly than its direct predecessor. The twentieth century declares the character, the tendencies, the basic mood of the n ineteenth to be discredited , it defames its form of truth fuln ess, its weakness of will and submissiveness, its melancholy lack of belief. I t believes-or at least it teaches that one must believe . It tries to forget "what one k nows of the nature of the h uman bei ng"-in order to adapt him to its utopia. It adores "the human being" completely i n dix-lwitieme fashio n ; it is not pe s simistic, not skeptical, not cynical and-most of all-not ironical. The "spirit in the service of desirability" is obviously the spirit it fa,·ors ; it is i ts own-a spirit of social humanitarianism. R easo11 and heart are again foremost i n the vocabulary of the times-the former as a means of bringing " happiness," and the latter as "love," as "democracy." Where is there still a trace of "submission to reality?" I nstead , one finds activism, voluntarism, reform , politics, exjJressionism; in short : the dom­ ination of ideals. And art must propagate reforms of a social and political nature. If i t refuses, judgment is passed u pon it : critically it is called estheticis m ; polemically, parasitism. The new sentimen tal ity is not a product of the war, but there is no doubt that t he war has strongly i ntensified it. No more of Hegel's "state": "�lan kind" is again the order of the day : no more of Schopenhauer's denial of the will : let intellect be will and let it create paradise. No more of Goethe's ethos of personal culture : society rather ! Politics ! Poli tics ! And as far as "progress" is concerned , by which Flaubert's heroic Faustian cou ple reached such an ironical end- progress is dogm a -and not a blagut' fo r the pc1·son "·ho wants "to be considered ." This, i n sum, is the "New Passion."* It combines sentimentality with toughness; it is not "human" in any kind of pessimistic-hu morous sense ; it heralds "resolute lm·e of hu manity." I n tolerant, exclusive, with French rheto rical maliciousness, it insu lts by * One of t h e expressi o n i st llla).(a l i n e s o f t he t i me w a s c n l i t led /Ja.1

111'1/t'

l'atfw., , a n d t h e

n a m e became o n e o f t h e srmbols o f t h e e x pressio n i s t mmTI I I e n l . I h a lT used t he words. "New Passion , " because t he ( ;c r m a u " Pat hos" i m p lies " passion" and no! " p i l l " as t h e English "pa t h os" docs. " Passion" h a s been u sed fa i d ) n l l l sist e l l l h for " l 'al hos . " h n l .. som e t i mes related words such a s 'Ten·or," "e n t h usiasm . " " kel i n ).( . a n d "emot i o n " were select e d .

Prologut>

15

claiming a l l morality for itself-although i n the end other people, too, claim with some justification not to have lived exactly as debauchees, purely for pleasure, even before the rule of virt ue was proclaimed , a nd they might be tempted to a nswer as Goethe answered a reproachful patriotism : Everyone does his best, each according to his God-given ability. I can say I have allowed myself no rest day and night in the things nature has determ ined to be my daily work, and I have granted myself no time for recuperation, but have always struggled and searched and done as well and as m uch as I could. When everyone can say the same of himself, things will be fine for us all.

As far as I a m concerned, I have tried at various places in the followin g essays to make clear to what extent I have to do with the n ew times, how m uch there is also i n m e something of that "resolu tion," of that denial of the "indece n t psychologism" of the past era, of its lax and i n formal tout comp rm drt>-of a will, then, that one might call a ntinatu­ ral istic, anti-im pressionistic, and antirelativistic, but which , in the artistic as in the moral sense, was, after all, a will and not simply "submissiveness." I have made t h is quite clear i n my work-not because I had a need to join, but sim ply beca use I only had to listen to my own i n ner voice to hear the voice of the times as well. Why d id I nevertheless have to come i nto con f1ict with the new, to feel myself pushed aside by it, negated , offe nded and actual[_\· abused and i nsulted by it, the more unbearable and poisonous because it was done by the highest l iterary skill, with the most rapacious writing, the most practiced passion it was capable of? Because it con fronted me, me personally, in a form that had to call forth fro m me in o pposition the deepest and most basic element, the most personal-impersonal one, the most i nvol u n tary, inalienable and i nsti nctive one, the basic national element of my nature and culture: because it con fronted me i n political form. The word "politics" can i n no way be avoided i n any analysis of the New Passion. It is completely a part of its optimistic-ameliorative n ature that it is always but two steps from politics: approximately-and not j ust approximately-in the sense in which Freemasons a nd illuminati of a Latin tint are always but two steps from_ it, and never even maintain these two steps. But whoever asks what kind of politics the New Passion follows shows h imself to be caught in an error, as if there were two types or even many types of "politics," and as if the political attitude were not always one a nd the same: the democratic one. When, i n the

16

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

following discussions, the identity of the concepts "politics" and "de­ mocracy" is defended or treated as obvious, it is done with an extraor­ dinarily clearly perceived right. One is not a "democratic," or, say, a "conservative" politician . One is a politician or one is not. And i f one is. then one is democratic. The political-intellect ual attitude is the demo­ cratic one; bel ief in politics is belief in democracy, in the contrat social. For more than a century and a half, everything that has been understood in a more intellectual sense by politics goes back to jean-jacqurs Roussnw ; and he is the father of democracy brcause he is the father of the political spirit itsel f, of political h umanity. I met the r\ew Passion, then , as democracy, as political enlightenment and the humanitarianism of happiness. I u nderstood its efforts to be toward the politicization of every ethos; its aggressiveness and doctrinary intolerance consisted- ! experienced them personally-in its denial and slander of every non pol itical ethos. "l\lankind" as h u manitarian internationalism ; "reason" and "virtue" as the radical republic intellect as a thing between a J acobin club and Freemasonry; art as social literature and maliciously seductive rhetoric in the service of social "desirability"; here we have the l\' ew Passion in its purest political form as I saw it close up. I admit that this is a special, extremeh· rom anticized form of it. B u t my destiny was to experience it in this way: and then, as I have al ready said. it is always at any moment on t h e \ erge of assu ming t h is form ; "acti\·e intellect," that is; an i ntellect t hat is "resolved" to be active in favor of enlightened world liberat ion . world im provement, world happiness, does not long remain "politics" in the more abstract, figurative sense; it is im mediately so i n t he st rict . real sense as well. And-to ask the question again foolishly-what kind of pol itics is this? It is a politics that is hostile to Gf'nnan_r. This is obvious. The political spirit that is anti-German as i nt ellect is wit h logical necessity anti-German as politics. When , in the following pages . I have held t hat democracy. that politics itself, is foreign and poisonous to the German character; when I have doubted or argued against Germany's calling to polit ics. I have not done so- personally or im personally-with the laughable pu rpose of spoiling my nation's will to reality. of shaking its b e l i ef in t h e just ice of its i n t ernational claims. 1 myself confess t hat I ,am deeply con\·inced that the Germa n people will never he able to love polit ical democracy simply because they can not love politics itself. and that the much decried "authoritarian state" is and rema ins the one that is proper and becoming

Prologue

17

to the German people, and the one they basically want. A certain amount of cou rage is required today to express this conviction. r\ ever­ theless, in doing so, I not only intend no derogation of the German nation in the intellectual or in the moral sense-I mean j ust the opposite-! also believe that its will to power and worldly greatness (which is less a will than a fate and a world necessity) remains com pletely uncontested in its legitimacy and its prospects. There are h ighly "political" nations-nations that are never free of political stimul ation and excitement, that still, because of a com plete lack of ability in authority and governance, have never accomplished anything on earth and never will. The Poles and the I rish , for example. On the other hand , h istory has nothing but praise for the organizing and adminis­ trative powers of the completely nonpolitical German Nation. When one sees where France has been brought by her politicians, it seems to me one has the proof in hand that at times things do not work at all with "politics" ; and t h is in turn is a sort of proof that things can also work in the end without "politics." There fore no m isu nderstanding should arise when people like me declare the political spirit to be an alien and impossible spirit i n Germany. What provoked the deepest element in me, my national i nstinct, was the cry for "politics" in that m eaning of the word that belongs to the intellectual sphere: i t is the "politicization of the i ntellect," the distortion of the concept of intellect into that of reforming enligh tenment, of revolutionary h u manitarianism, that works l ike poison and orpi ment on me; and I know that my disgust and protest is not something insignificantly personal and tem porary, but that here the n ational character i tself is speaking through me. I n tellect is not politics. As a German, one does not have to be bad nineteenth century to fight to the death for this "not." The difference between intellect and pol itics includes that of culture and civilization, of soul and society. of freedom and voting ri g hts, of art and literature ; and German tradition is culture, soul, freedom, art and not civilization, society , voting rights, and l i terature. The d i fference between intellect and politics , as a fu rther exam ple, is the difference between cosmopol­ itan and international. The former concept comes from the cultural sphere and is German; the latter comes from the sphere of civilization and democracy and is-something quite different. The democratic bourgeois is international, even though h� may drape himself every­ where ever so nationally; the burgher, also a motif of this book-is cosmopolitan because he is German, more German than princes and

18

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

"nation": t h is man of the geograph ical , social, and spiritual "middle" has always been and remains the bearer of German intellectuality , humanity. and amipolitics. I n N ietzsche's literary remains an interpretation of the Meistersinger was found that is unbelievably full of intuition. h says : "l\leistersinger­ antithesis of civilization, German tradition against the French ." The statement is inval uable. Here in a blinding lightning flash of ingenious criticism there appears for a second the antit hesis that t h is whole book struggles with-the antit hesis that for cowardly reasons has been much denied and disputed, but that is neverth eless still immortally true, of music and politics, of German t radition and civilization. As far as German tradition is concerned , t his antithesis remains a mauer of the heart that can only be acknowledged with h esitatio n ; it is something emotional that cannot be grasped rationally and is therefore nonaggressive. For civilization, however, it is political hatred . How could it be otherwise? Civilization is politics through and through, politics itself, and its hatred . too, can only be, and must immediately be , political. The political spirit as democratic enlightenment and "humanitarian civilization" is not only psychologically ami-German ; it is also by necessity politically anti­ German wherever it holds sway. And this has determined the a u i t u d e of i ts internal German adherent and prophet who haunts the pages of this book as civilization's literary man. H istorical research will reveal what role the international illuminati, the world lodge of Freemasons. excluding, of course, t he unsuspecting Germans, has played in t h e intellectual prepara tion and actual u nleashing of the Worl d War. the war of "civilization" against Germany. As for me, even before t h ere was any evidence, I had my own exact and irrefu table convictions a bo u t this. Today, it is no longer n ecessary to allege, let alone prm·e. that . fo r example, the French lodge is political to the point of i dent i t y with t h e rad ical party-the radical party t h a t in France li t er a l l y for m s t h e hotbed and fertile soil for intellectual hatred of Germ any and of t h e German character. It is not the nouvea u esprit of young France t h at rea l l y nou rishes haired of Germans ; this spirit, too, is at w a r w i t h u s tod a y . but to it we are an honorable enemy. Germany's ene m y . i n the most intellectual, instinctive , veno m o u s and d ea d l y sense. is t h e " pacifistic:· "virt uous," "republ ican" bou rgeois rhetorician and flls de Ia rh•olution ; th is born three-point m an-and h e was t h e one w i t h w hose word and will the German re p rese n t a tiv e of t h e pol i t ica l spi ri t t h e one w ho deals with the New Passion in the sense o f " l n unanit a 1·ian c i v i l i tat ion," could imm ed i a t e ly in 1 9 1 4 , u 1 1 i fy his o w 1 1 word and his ow11 will. and w h ose .

,

,

Prologue

19

disgusting argot h e spoke a s h e had always done. I repeat: the German representative was not in agreement with the u pstanding, nobly re­ spectful foreign enemy, not with the nouveau esprit, which in t he intellectual-moral sphere basically sym pat h izes with Germany, but with the political, the venomous e nemy who is the fou nder and shareholder "d'un journal qui repand les lumiei"es." This enemy was h is hero, the German representative wished for the enemy's victory, he longed for his invasion of Germany; and this was logical. The triumph of one "military way of t h inking" (to use the words of Max Scheler) over the other would have made l ittle sense; what was u rgently desired was the victory of the pacifistic-bou rgeois "militarism with a cause" (with negro armies) over the "military way of t h inking": A nd it is here, at the latest here, that our opinions, those of the political neoenthusiast and m ine, separated ; i n the pressure of the times, the contrast between us became acu te; for there were constraints of my being and essence that caused me to long for Germany's victory. In Germany, one must take the greatest pains to explain and to excuse this wish. I n the cou ntry of Kantian esthetics, it is above all advisable to emphasize that one desires a German victory in a disinterested way. I am neither a power-proud J unker nor a shareholder i n heavy industry, nor even a social imperialist with capitalist con nections. I have no life-and-death interest in Germany's trade dom inance, and I even entertain oppositional doubts about Germany's calling to grand politics and to an i m perial existence. Finally, for me it is also a matter of intellect, of "domestic policy." With my heart, I stand with Germany, not as far as sl_1 e is competing with England in power politics, but as far as she opposes her intellect ually; and for the German defender of " h u man itarian civilization," it was soon not so m uch h is political hostility to Germany as his spiritual hostility to German tradition that bothered me and awakened my fear, hatred and resistance-especially since for his part , as well, "domestic" policy soon su pplanted "foreign" affairs, and hostility to Germany retreated beh i nd opposition to German trad ition, or more correctly: fel l away from it and left it as its center. His hostility to German y soon had little more to hope for : the military invasion of Germany by civilization's t roops had failed . What he has continued to put his hopes i n , not witl� out a strong semblance of correctness, · is the in tellectual i nvasion that is possibly by far the strongest and most overpowering political i nvasion by the West that has ever become German destiny. Germany's spiritual conversion (which would mean a real transformation and st ructu ral change) to politics, to

20

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

democracy: this is what he is hoping for. No! This is what has become for h i m , not without a strong semblance of correctness , as I said, a tri u mphant certainty, indeed, so much so that he deems it possible today, and does not think it a blemish on his honor, to un ite hi mself with German y i n the first person plural; now he forms words on his lips that he has not u sed all the days of his life ; the words, "We Germans." "We Germa ns," civilization's literary man says in a man i festo that appeared at the turn of the years I 9 I 7 - I 8, "now that we have grown u p to democracy, h ave the greatest experience of all before us. A nation does not reach self-government without learning m uch about human nature and without managing life with more mature organs. The play of social forces lies i n nations that govern themselves i n full public view with the individuals educating one another and learning about each other. B u t i f we act now at home, the barriers abroad will also soon fall ; European distances will become shorter, and we will see our fellow nations as family members travelling the same paths. As l on g as we persisted in the national status quo, they seemed to us to be enemies-doomed because t hey did not also persist. Has not e\·ery revolution come just before the end? Was it not ruin to t ry to realize ideas i n battles and crises? This destinv shall now be ours as ,,·ell . . . "' What unspeakably pai n fu l resistance rises u p in m y inner bei n g before this hostile gentleness, before all this beaut i fu ll y stylized unpleas­ antness ? Should one not laugh? After all, is not e\·ery sen tence, e\·ery word in it, false, translated , basically mistaken , grotesq ue self-decep­ tion-the confu sion of the wishes, instincts, and needs of a n m· eli s t who has been spiritually naturalized in Fra nce with German re a lit y ? "This destiny shall now be ours as wel l ! " A sublime a n d brill ia n t b u t basically Latinized literary man who long ago renounced e\·ery fe eli n g for the particular ethos o f his people, yes, who e ve n rid icules t h e recognition of- such a special n a t io n a l ethos a s bestial nat iona lis m , ;md who opposes it with h is h umanitaria n-democratic ci,·il ization a mi "socia l" internationalism. This literary man is drea ming! H e t h i n ks t hat j u s t because Ge rma n r is i n the p rocess o f b road e n i n g h e r basis fo r select i n g her polit ical leadei·ship, calling this "de mon-a t i z a t ion , " t h a t t h i n gs will now be as m a g n i fice n t l y pleasa nt for "us" as they are i n France! C a u g h t up i n mania a n d co n fu sio n , h e is f l i n g i n g at hi s Cr things could natu r� lly not continue as they were in East Prussia. But this does not negate the fact that in the present war, d angerous, clumsy Russia is merely the tool of the West ; she can only be considered from an intellectual point of view today to the extent she is l iberalized in a Western manner-precisely as a member of the

30

Reflections of Nonpolitical Man

entente to which she is adapting spiritually as well as s he can (the fascinating conversation that the Russian foreign minister, Sazonov, carried on with an Engl ish novelist about the Christian-human meekness of the sinner and the unbearable "strict morality" of Prussia shows that this adaptation is going rather well-a very good , witty conversation that our press tried to make fun of in the most inappropriate manner) : as a member of the entente, I say, which , America included, is the unification of the Western world , of the heirs of Rome, of "civilization" against Germany, against the Germany that is now protesting with more pri meval power than ever before.

CHAPTER 2

The U nliterary Country

T

here is considerable self-restraint in Dostoye,·sky's description of the Germans as a "great, proud, and special people," for we know that he was far from lo\'ing Germany-not because of enormous sympathy for the countries farther west, but because to him, Germany, despite her protestantism , was still part of that "frivolous" Europe that he hated to the depths of h is soul . Considerable self-restraint and appropriate mod­ eration, then , the result of great, free, h istorical intuition , underlie h is way of speaking about Germany. For instead of "proud, and special," he could j ust as easily have said "stubborn, callous, malicious"-terms that wou ld , of cou rse, have been m ild in comparison to those that the Roman West, with its excellent manners , has used against us during the war. I ndeed , Dostoye\'sky's formulation of the German character, of German primeval individuality, of what is eternally German, contains the whole basis and explanation of the lonely German position between East and West, of Germany's offensiveness to the world. of the antipathy, the hatred she must endure and defend hersel f against-in bewilderment and pain at t h is un iversal hatred that she does not understand because she knows l ittle about hersel f and has not developed very far at all in matters of psychological understanding-the basis and explanation also of her enormous co u ragP that she has u n fl i nchingly d isplayed to the surrou nd­ ing world, the world of the Roman West that today is almost everywhere, in the East, the South, even in the North and across the ocean where the new Capitol stands-of that blind-heroic courage with which Germany is striking out everywhere with a gigantic reach. And it also explains the good sense of the charge of "barbarism," a charge that one cannot logically reject with i nd ignation, because the h eirs of Rome, articulate as they are, could indeed find no better, simpler, more effective, more persuasive word than precisely this one to characterize 31

32

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

those who have instinctively, from time immemorial , protested against their world. For the worst thing was not that Germany never wanted to combine her word and will with that of Roman civil ization : she only opposed it with her will, her disturbing, stubborn, obstinate, "special" will-but not with her word , because she had no word . She was speechless, she did not love words, and she did not believe in them as did civilization ; she engaged in a silent, inarticulate resistance, and there is no doubt that it was not so much Germany's resistance itsel f as her wordlessness and inarticu lateness that were percei\·ed by civilization to be "barbaric" and hate-inspiring. The word , the formu lation of the will, as with everything that has to do with form , has a conciliatory, winning effect, it can reconcile itself even tually with every type of will, especially when it is beautifu l , generous, convincing, and clearly pro­ grammatic. The word is absolutely necessary to win sympathy. What good is great cou rage without the generous word ? What good the stubborn conviction that "one will once again be in a posit ion to speak one's word and to lead mankind with it" if one cannot or will not utter it at the crucial moment ? ( For it comes to the same thing: ability comes from desire ; fluency comes from love of words, and vice versa. ) One cannot lead mankind without the word. Gigantic cou rage is barbaric without a well-articulated ideal to guide it. Only the word makes life worthy of a h u man being. To be without words is not wort hy of a human being, is i n h u mane. I n the innate and eternal com·iction of Roman civilization, not only h umanism- hu manitarianism in general , human dignity, respect for h uman beings, and human self-respect . are inextricably bou nd to literature. 1'\ot to music-or at least in no way necessarily to it. On the contrary , the relationship of music to human­ itarianism is so much looser than that of literature that the musical attitude seems to the l iterary moral sense at the very least to be undependable, at the very least , suspicious. !'\or to poetry. where the relationship is too m uch like that of m usic; in it words and intellect play a much too i ndirect , cunn ing, irresponsible, and therefore also ltlule­ pendable role. Rather expressly to literature. to li ngu istically art icu lated intellect-civil ization and literature a re one and the sa me. The Roman West is literary : this separates it from the Cermanic-or more exactly-from the German worl d . w h ic h , whate\·er else it is. is definitel y not literary. Literary humanitarianism . the legacy of Rome, the classical spirit, classical reason , the generous won! to wh ich the generous gesture belongs, the beautifu l , heart -stirring ph rase that is

The Unliteml)' Country

33

worthy of a h u man being and t hat celebrates his beauty and dignity, the academic rhetoric in honor of the human race-this is what makes life worth living in the Roman West, what makes the h uman being human. It is the spirit that was at its height d uring the Revolution; it was its spirit, its "classic form," that spirit that in the Jacobin hardened into a scholastic-literary formula, into a m u rderous doctrine, a tyran­ nical, schoolmasterly pedantry. I ts champions are the lawyer and the literary man, the spokesmen of the "Third Estate," and of its emancipation, the spokesmen of the Enlightenment , of reason, of progress, of "the philosophy," against the seigneurs , against authority, trad ition, history, "power," kingdom and church-the spokesmen of the spirit t hat t hey consider to be the uncond itional, sole, and dazzlingly true one, spirit itsel f, spirit in itself. while it is really j ust the pol itical spirit of the m iddle-class revolution t hat t hey mean and understand . It is an h istorical fact that cannot be denied t hat ''spirit" in t his political-civilizing sense is a midd le-class conce rn , e\'en i f it is not a middle-class in\'ention ( for spirit and cu lture in France a re not originally of the middle class, but of noble-seigneurial descent; the m iddle class only usurped them). Its representati,·e is actually t he eloquent citizen, the literary lawyer of the Third Estate, as I ha\·e said , the representati\'e of its spiritual as well as, not to forget , of its material interests. The ,·ictorious ad\'ance of t his spirit, i ts expansiYe process, which is the result of colossal , turbulent, explosive forces within it, can be defined as a process involving the simultaneous conquest of the world by the m iddle class and by literature. What ,,·e call "ci\'ilization," and what calls itself civilization, is nothing more than precisely this victo rious advance, this propagation of t he politicized and litera rized m iddle-class spirit, its colonization of the in habited areas of the globe. The imperialism of rir "civilization," where o n l y a good bit of dash and tremolo are necessary and the job is done-si nce to speak for Germany one must try, for better or worse. to d i g a hi t deeper, civilization's literary man re fe rs i n such a case, w i t h m a r ked disdain, to his opponen t's "deep chatter." This is the way civilization's l it e ra ry man looks a t t h i n gs . H is s y m pa t h y with t h e enemies o f t h e protesting k i n gdom i s intellectual solidarit v . His love a n d passion are with t h e troops o f the \\'estern a l l ies . o f Fra nce and England, and pro bably also of Italy; he sees in them t h e a rmies o f the spirit with which civilization marches. H is heart goes o u t to t h e m ­ to Germany his l�ea rt goes o u t q u i t e i n d i rect l y : t h a t i s , i n t h e s e n s e t ha t he yearns from the bo tt o m o f h is hea rt for Germ a n y's d e fea t . That h i s motives are of: a more s p i r i t u a l a n d t h e re fo re of a more noble sort is a matter of course . He wishes a G e r m a n d e fea t because of i t s s p i r i t u a l significance, beca u s e o f the s p i r i t u a l con seq u e nces i t w o u ld e n t a i l fo r Germany and for E u ro pe . H e wa n ts it for "domest ic" reasons-as a substitute, as it were, fo r t he re n > l u t io t l t h a t ( :erma n y h a s o f cou rse lacked until today: for 1 84 8 was a fa ilure, a nd t he u n i fica t ion of Germ a n y did n o t res u l t from the democratic re\'olution hut from t h e worst a n d m o s t u n pa rd o n a ble c i rc u m s t a nce poss i b l e : from Fra nce's

Civilization's Literary Man

41

humiliation. To be sure, France's defeat blossomed into her greatest fortune, for it brought her the republic , that is: truth and justice. But i f the only explanat ion of Germany's victory at that time is that providence smiled upon France ( for from an i ntellectu a l viewpoint, according to civil ization's l iterary man, Germany could never triumph under Bismarck, such a totally u n in tellect ual man, such an anti-intel­ lectual man o f power). this is still no excuse for Germany. I do not know, it is hard to guess, what our rad ical literary man would have wished for at that time; today he wishes for Germany to he beaten and cmwerted by the entente-its victory would be the victory of literature for Germany and for Europe, it would be his ,·ictory. just as its defeat would he his: so much has he made the cause of rhetorical democracy his own. He w ishes, there fore. the physical hu miliation of Germany beca use it would include her spiritual defeat ; he wishes the collapse-hut one says it more correctly in French : the debiicle of the Kaiserreich because such a physical and moral debacle would-the moral one, by the way, may come before the physical one- finally. finally bring the warmly wished for, palpable. and catastrophic proof that Germany has lived in lies and brutality rather than in truth and spirit. Yes, if it could still be hoped for today, with all h is heart he would certainly wish for the democratic invasion of Germany; h e would not wish to let matters rest at any Marne-Valmy (it was, however, more like a Marne-Kol in) , but to have ci,·ilization's troops march into Berl in with a full band-how h is h eart would welcome the m ! How he would find ways and means to give ambiguous expression to the tri u m ph of h is sou l ! A las, t h is will not happen. It is a thankless business to play the blaspheming prophet in a count ry w here conseq uences do not follow, in the cou nt ry of half­ measures, wh ich is at best only overtaken by half-catastrophes and which is not capable of a tid y. novelistic fate! Civilization's literary man will not have the debacle of the German second empire to write. l\'ot at all. He will have to be coutent if Germany does not win f�tr too impressively. I ask you to believe me that i f anything like scorn or bitterness may have forced itself into my lines, it has happened against my will. I have no desire at all to spea k bitterl y or scornfully; on the contrary, my efforts in this stu d y are-let us say: to maintain a popular-scholarly style and to characterize a l iterary-political type. With this is mind, I · hasten to make the following obsen·ation. The logica l, psychological equation of the concepts, "beaten," and "convert ed , " the equation of the physical and spiritual h u m iliation of a nation, proves that civiliza­ tiou's l iterary man is not really an opponent of war, not absolutely a

42

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

pacifist, that he acknowledges incontestable intellectual val i d i t y in the decision to wage war, and that he sees in war an ultima ratio, y es something like God's judgment. Striking, but true. Here we see a type of irrationalism that in truth is a spiritualized rationalism in wh ich one proclaims war to be God's judgment as long as t here is the sligh test chance that Germany may in any way be beaten , even if only by economic su ffocation. But on no accou n t longer! For as soon as this prospect disappears, war becomes i nj ustice and raw powe1·, its outcome without spiritual sign ificance. But this must not stop us from insisting that "spirit" is not n ecessarily pacifistic-as I taly's example teaches, where "spirit" actually made war: for is it not true, the repu blica ns, Freemasons, radicals and literati of Italy who have waged the wa r represent "spirit" in that country-a nd certainly not the Social Demo­ crats, who h ave resisted the war and who are really paci fists. The truth is that civilization's l iterary man does not denigrate war when it is waged in the service of civilization . Here he fol l ow s Voltaire's example, w h o , though d isgusted by Frederick the Great's wars, could flatly demand a war (against the Tu rks, with whom Frederick had instead almost allied h imsel f) for the sake of civilization. How, then , cou ld the d isciple of the Revolution-not to say; its epigone-condemn on principle the spilling of blood for the good cause, for truth, for spirit? "Resolute lm·e of humanity"-the ph rase belongs to civilization's li t e ra ry m a n - reso l u t e love of humanity is not fearful of shedding blood . The g u ill o t i ne. just as much as the literary word. is one of its tools. j u st as the stake was earlier, which, to be sure, was not blood y . \\'e do not need ( �abriele d'A n nunzio's lewd estheticism at all to point out w he re c i v i l izat ion's literary man is on principle not a n opponent o f war. He f i n d s fa ult w i t h this war beca use he sees it as a German war. a n h i s torical e n t er p rise of Germany, as an ou tburst of the G e r m a n prot es t. beca u se t h is w;n· carries a German stamp, its act i vi t y , its g reat deed s , a re ( ;erma n . H e does nut find fa u l t w i t h i t t o t he extellt t h ;ll h e sees i t a s a wa r of civilization against the ba rbaric stu hborness of Cerm a n y . 1 1 1 t h is sense. for the o t h e r side, he sees it as good . In s ho rt , he does not so much f in d fa ult with the war as w i t h Germ a n y . a 1 1d only herei 1 1 lies t h e sol u t io n to all t h e co n t ra d i c t i o n s of w h ic h c i v i li z a t io 1 1 s l i t e ra ry m a n see m s g u i l t y . and wh ich would truly seem a m a z i n g w i t h o u t t h is key. l l is a t t it u d e ,

"

"

'

toward t h e w a r vaci l la t es bet ween h u m a n i t a r ia 1 1 d i sgust a 1 1 d t h e greatest ad m i ra t io n

for

t h e m ilitary

one h a n d , he sees

n o bly

-

in

acco m p l is h m e 1 1 t s

o f t he e n e m ies. 011 t h e

t h e l'llir'llir' somet h i 1 1 g t e n d e r , fra g i le . precio u s .

weak , w h ich i s n a t u ra l l y in great d a n ge r

of

bei n g b r u t a l ized

by

Civilization 's Literat)' Man

43

barbaric Germany. On the other hand , however, he has only the ut most contempt for those of his cou nt rymen who underestimated the t'ntente's military ,·irtues and powers, or who even still underestimate them. He is delighted by the accomplishments of the powers of civilization ; he admires their war materiel, their armor plate, concrete forti fications , aircraft formations, and poison and choking gas bombs, without asking how this fits the i mage of noble weakness, while he fi nds the same th ings on the German side disgusting. A French cannon seems ve nerable to h i m , a German one, criminal. repulsiYe , and idiotic. Here, too, h e agrees with all the entmte ministers and journalists that every German victory is only the result and proof of long-standing, sneaky preparation, while every enten te success is a triumph of spirit over matter. On the other hand, however, his love ca nnot even abide the idea that an entente power, particularly France, could be poorly prepared or insu fficiently armed. A rmed ? They are sjJlendidt_,· armed ! Again, the logic of all this is not oln·ious. But who would be such a pedant as to demand logic of love ! As I have said, I want to remain scholarly and informative. But my sketch of ciYilization's literary man re,·eals that I do not qu ite agree with him. 1\ly position on the eYen ts-a position that I certai nly did not "choose," a position that was at first qu ite u nreflected and naively olwious-everyth i ng I said about it from the very beginning has embittered him. I f I had not done so before, I have now ruined my rela tionship with him forever. \\'ith "pain and anger," he says, he has tu rned from me, but his pain did not prevent his anger from making ambiguous, half-public statements to me that may be excellent in a political sense, but t hat are, from a human poi nt of ,·iew, sim ply outright meanness-clearly a nod that the " politics of h umanitarianism" is still politics and not exactly conducive to h umaneness. But this external estrangement is all the more regrettable because we a re basically of one opinion-not of one feeling, but of one opinion on this war. He also agrees with DostoyeYsky's concept. He. too, recognizes in the war the ancient rebellion of ( �ermany agai nst the Western spirit, agai nst his own spirit, that of the radical literary man-and the intenention of Rome (Western Rome, allied with Eastern Rome) against this rebellion; a war of inten·ent ion, then, of Eu ropean civilization against st ubborn Ger­ many: for when the London Times annou nced one day that this war was being \\·aged by the al lies "in the in terest of Germany's domestic affairs." this is assuredly al most exactly what one means by the words. "shameless audacity," but it was spoken completely in accord with the feeling of

44

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

civilization's literary man who is also wagi ng it for the sake of E u ropea n interest i n the domestic "conditions" of his country, and, like e\·ery Frenchman, a fter he su ffered a period of demoralization in the fi •·st few weeks of the war, he has been com·inced , since the miracle of the Marne, of the final victory. "Germany will have to con form ," he said then, and his eyes glowed . Germany will fi nally ha\·e to be wel l behaved , he said, and she will then be happy. like a child that cries to be spanked , and , afterward is gratefu l that its st ubbo rnness has been broken , that it has been helped over its inhibitions, saved, liberated. By beating Germany, by throwing her over our knee, by breaking her e v i l stu b­ born ness for her own good, and by forcing her to accept reason and to become an honorable member of t he democratic society of states, we are saving and freeing her. I have already ad mitted that I cannot quite follow t his t ra i n of thought. I will go fu rther and admit that I fi nd it quite un pleasant , t h a t it somehow jJersonally insults and angers m e , touches my innermost honor, yes, when I first heard it, worked on me quite like poison and orpiment. B u t \•: hence comes all this? Whence comes t he rebellion of my fi nal and deepest personal-suprapersonal will a ga ins t t h e fe e l i n gs of a good European, who, because he is a good E uropea n, wishes for and believes in the defeat of his fatherland, in the taming of h i s people by the powers of Western Ci\·ilization ? I was ne\·er one of those who felt that an easy and tri u m phant German militan victo ry m·er h e r enemies, with drums beating and trumpets sounding. would be good for Germany or for Europe. I said this \ cry e a rly. But w h ence comes the feeling that, from the beginning o f t h e war. h a s r u l e d Ill \' w h o l e being to the very core that I d i d not want t o l i \·e-al t ho u gh I a m i n n o way a hero and resolute in the face of d ea t h -t h a t I l i t e ra l l y did n o t want to l i\·e anymore if Germany were bea t e n by t h e \\'est , h u m b led . her belief in herself broken so t h a t s h e w o u l d h ;n·e to " c on for m " a n d accept the arguplent, t h e r a t i o n a l e o f h e r e n e m ies? Su ppos i n g t h i s h a d happened , that the entente, for its part , had w o n a s pl e n d i d a n d speed y victory, that til e world had been liberated fro m t h e C e r m a n " n i g h t m are," the German " p ro tes t ," that the e m pi re of c i v i l ization had been fu l fi l led . a n d that it h a d beco me a rroga n t from l a c k of o pposi t ion : t h e res u l t wou l d have been a E uro pe t h at was-wel l . a some,,· h at a m usi ng, somewhat i nsi pidly humane, t ri v i a ll y de pra ved . fe m ini ne ly elega n t Euro pe t h at was alr e ad y a l l too " h u m a n , " somewh a t i m p l a u s i b l y a(h· e n­ turous a n d l o u d - m o u t hed d emocrat ic. a Eu rope o f t a n go a n d t wo-st e p man ners, a E u rope o f business a n d plea s u re rl Ia E d w a rd t h e Se\· e nth ,

Civilization 's Litermy Man

45

a Monte-Carlo E u ro pe , literary as a Parisian cocotte-but perhaps not a Euro pe in which it would have been much more advantageous for the likes of me to live than i n a "military'' one? Perhaps not an amusing, yes, a thoroughly amusing Europe, lack of desire for which , in a writer, would at least not testify to selfish ness? For beyond doubt it would have been extremely arty. this m/en/e-E u rope for human freedom and peace , and the artiste, as far as he was precisely an "artiste," would have been able to feel as happy as a lark in it. He should consider t h is and one should give him cred it for it. Seriously, my rejection is quite remarkable! Remarkable for me-and I h ave the bad habit of forcing u pon others as remarkable what seems so to me. Remarkable-for the fact remains that my own being and essence are much less foreign to those of civilization's l iterary man than would appear from the cold , objecti\·e critique I have subjected him to. What does h e want, and if I do not want it-why not? I t is, of course, not at all as if he were a bad citizen and patriot who did not care about Germany. On the contrary! H e cares about her with all his might. H e feels h imself t o the h ighest degree responsible for her fate. He wants and su pports a de\·elopment-that I consider necessary, that is to say, unavoidable, and that I also have a certain i nvoluntary part i n because of my nature, but that I still cannot see any reason to cheer. With whip and spurs he is hastening a progress-that to me, not seldom at least, seems irresistible and fated , and that I for my modest part am destined to fu rther; but to w h ich I nevertheless, for unclear reasons, am putting up a certain conservati\·e resistance. I want to be completely understood . What I mean is, then : one can very well regard a progress as unavoidable and destined, without in the least feeling l ike egging it on with cheers and shouts-in my opinion, progress does not really need this at all. Progress has everyth ing for it, above all, the good writers. If it appears that the good writers own the future, the truth in reality is much more that the fu ture owns the good writers. A metaphysical proof of the goodness and imminence of a cause is the good writing in its behalf. H owever, one can a lso say that as long as a cause is su pported by good writing, it, too, has value and justification , even if it is not progress. I repeat ; progress has everything for it. I t only seems to be the opposition. It is the conservative counterwill that in tru_th always and everywhere forms the opposition, that finds itself on the defensive, indeed , hope­ lessly on the defensive, as it well knows. What is, then, t h is development, this progress I have been speaking of? Well, to indicate what it is about, I need a handful of shamelessly

46

Rejll'ctions u( a No lljJO!itical Ma11

ugly, artificial words. I t is about the politicization, literarization, intel­ lectualization, and radicalization of Germany. I t aims at her "hu mani­ zation" in the Latin-political sense, and her dehumanization in the German one. It aims, to use the fa\"orite word , the battlecry and hosanna of civilization's literary man, at the democratization of Germany, or. to summarize everything and to bring i t over a common denom inator: it aims at her de-Germanization. And I should h ave a part in all this mischief?

CHAPTER 4

S oul-Searching Could it rea l l Y be true that cosmopolitan radicalism has a l ready taken roots in Germany. too? Dostoye\·sk y , Work.1

A

nd yet,

I

t oo h a\'e a part i n i t . A n d no\\' , for s i m pl i c i t y . l e t u s pass

O\'e r a l l t hose apologies t hat are obviou s l y most a ppropriate

no\\·adavs \\' h e ne\·er an \"lve ment with i t al most becomes a vice. it becomes

moral, it becomes a reckless eth ical dedication to what

i s h a r m fu l a n d cons u m i n g w h e n i t is not naively e n t h usiastic but fused with an analysis w h ose most mal icious i ns i ghts are fi n a l l y a fo rm o f glo ri fication a n d again o n l y t h e e x pression of passion. As late a s i n Ecce llomo, t h e re is a page on Trista n . and t h is wou l d be proo f enough that i\' i etzsche"s relation s h i p to Wagner, e\·en i n t o his para lysis, rem a i n ed one of t h e strongest love. The i n tel lectu a l name for "lm·e" is "in terest," a nd h e is no psychologist who does not k n o w that i n te rest is a n y t h i n g but a weak emotion-it is rat h e r one that is, for exam ple, much more i n tense than "ad m i ration . " I t is t h e real w riter's emotio n , a n d not o n l y does a nalysis n o t destroy i t , but, i n a \·ery a n ti-Spinozan way. t h e emotion d raws con t i n u a l nourish­ ment fr01i1 the a n alysis. Thus i t is not panegyric: it is criticism . and i ndeed , m a l i cious, even hatefu l criticism, yes, even lampoon, provided it is ingenious a n d t h e prod uct o f passion - i n w h i c h passionate interest fi n d s sat isfaction . Si m p le pra ise lea ves i n te rest with a flat taste ; it finds

52

Reflections of a NonfJolitiwl Man

nothing to learn from this praise. Yes, if interest itsel f should perha ps reach the point of productively celebrating the ol�ject, the personality, the problem for which it burns, the resu lt is something strange that almost seeks its honor in being misunderstood, a prod uct of insidious, slyly deceiving enth usiasm that may, at first glance, be con fused with a pasquinade. I recently gave a little example of this when I contributed a h istorical writing, a sketch of the life of Frederick of Prussia. to the discussion of the war-a little work that was inspired, yes, pro,·oked , by current events . At first, worried friends stmngly advised me not to publish it-the war had not lasted long-not because of its "pat riotism," which offended literature, but for diametrically opposite reasons. I know very well where I am headed when I speak of these things. Nietzsche and Wagner-they are both great critics of the German character; Wagner in an indirect-artistic way, l\'ietzsche in a direct-literary one­ whereby the artistic method , since it is modern. is not inferior in intellectual awareness and noninnocence to the literary one. As I ha,·e said, with the exception of 1\' ietzsche, there has ne\'er been a school of Wagner cri ticism in German y-for the "un literary" nation is also the non psychological and antipsychological one. Baudelaire a n d Ba rres have said better things about Wagner than can be fou n d in any German Wagner biographies and apologies, and at this moment it is a Swede. W. Peterson-Berger, who. in his book, Richard \\'agner as a Cultuml Phenomenon , is gi ving us Germans a few hints about the best attitude with which to approach such a phenomenon that is in the most mon­ strous sense interesti ng: namely, in a democratically u pright attitude. that allows us to see anything of it at all. Here the Swede speaks of Wagner's nationalism, of his art as a nationally German one. and he notes that German fol k music is the onlv element not i n cl u d ed in his synthesis. To be sure, for pu rposes of characterization . \\'agne r cou l d from time to time, as in Die Meistersinger and Sil'gfi·ied, st r i k e up the German folk tone, but this tone was neither the basis nor the sta rti ng point for his mu sical com position , never the origin from which it spontaneously gushed fort h , as in Schumann. Schu bert , and B rah m s Pe t e rson-B e r g e r po inted out that it is necessary to d isti ngu ish het ween f(>lk a rt and national a rt ; the fi rst is directed inward, the seco n d outward. Wagner's music was more nationa l than fol k . he said. It ad mitted ly had many cha racterist ics that finl'ignen e.\fJecia/1)' w o u ld l i n d German, but at the same time it had an unmista ka bly cosmopolitan cachet. Well, it is easy to hit the mark when one ma kes li n e distinctions. I ndeed , as an intellect ual mani festat ion . Wagner is so powe rfully .

Soul-Searching

53

German that to me it has always seemed one absolutely had to passionately experience h is work if one were to understand , or at least to d ivine, someth ing of the deep magnificence and painfu l ambivalence of the German character. But besides the fact that this work is an explosive revelation of German character, it is also a theatrical presentation of it, indeed, a presentation whose i ntellectualism and billboardlikc effec­ tiveness reach the point where they become grotesque, where the}' become pa rody a presentation that, to put it very crudely, is at moments not completely above suspicion of h aving connections with the tourist industry, and it seems to be made to bring a curious and awestruck entente-audience to exclaim : "A h, ra c'est bien allemand par exemple!" Thus no matter how powerful and true Wagner's German character may be, it is refracted and broken up in a modern way, decorative, analytical, and i ntellectual , and its power of fascination, its inborn ability for cosmopolitan, planetary effect, comes from t h is. His art is the most sensational self-portrait and self-criticism of the German character one can imagine. It is calculated to make the German character seem interesting even to an ignorant foreigner, and to be passionately occupied with this art is always at the sa me time to be passionately i nvolved with this German character itself, which Wagner's art glorifies in a critical­ decorative way. I n itself alone, Wagner's art would be this portrait of the German character, but it becomes even more intensely so when it is actuated by a critique that, while it seems to be concerned with Wagner's art, is in truth concerned with the German character in general , even if not always quite as explicitly as in that magn i ficent analysis of the prelude to Die Meistersiuger at the beginning of the eighth section of Be_)'ond Good aud E·uil. I n truth, if .1\' ietzsche has rivals abroad as a Wagner critic, he has none, abroad or at home, who rivals h i m as a critic of the German character. He is bv far the one who has said the most malicious and t he best things about it, and the i ngeniousness of the eloquence that grips him, that carries h i m when he begins to speak of German matters, of the problem of German character, is testimony to h is fully passionate involvement with this subject. It is j ust as gross to speak of N ietzschc's hostility to Germany, wh ich one does now and then in Germany-those abroad, thanks to their greater distance, see things more clearly-as it would be to call him an anti-Wagnerian. �e loved France for artistic­ formal reasons, although certainly not for political ones; but show me where h e speaks of Germany with the same contempt that English utilitarianism and English lack of musical talent awakened in h i m ! Truly, those political j udges of morality cannot count o n h i m ; those -

54

Reflrctions of a Nonpolitiwl Man

who presume to chastise their people in a literary way, to censure them in the rattling termi nology of Western democracy, but who ne\'er, ne\'er in their lives, cou ld fi nd a single word of understanding passion that would have sanctioned their right even to join in the lu ti o n ? And was it e ss e n t i ally d i fferent with the polit ical a t t i t ude o f the ot her great b u rghe rs o f that time? T h e y were democra ts, t hey were p o liti c ia n s , * H iir m i r h :-dt:nn a l it's andere ist u·, !-(e­ Kein 1\f a n n !-(ed e i h et ohne \'aterl a n d !

B wgherly Nature

83

betause in their time, the national idea, love of the fatherland, was i nse parably mixed up with that of democracy and of politics. They were national before they were democrats; they were so by being democrats­ but the presen t war, the struggle of Germany against Western democ­ racy, makes it extremely d i fficult for national feeling to be democratic ; and "democracy" i n Germany is another word for "cosmopolitan radicalism . " I\o, these men were not actually radical l iterary men, these German burghers of 1 820-60. I'\evertheless, we must still remember Goethe's words to Eckermann about Uhland: "Watch closely. The politician in U hland will devour the poet. Living in daily irritation and excitement is not for the tender nature of the poet. His song will end ." And perhaps we may also remember Adalbert Stifter, who atoned in liberal lite rary histories for having declared in 1 848 that he was a man of moderation and freedom, saying that both were now imperiled, unfortu nately. A fter all this, no one will want to hold up the young Richard Wagner of 1 848-49 to me and point to what he later, not quite appropriately, called his "stupid pran ks" of the time. Wagner was national, this above all, yes, uniquely so; coming home from Paris, the poor, nameless young artist fell on his knees at the bank of the Rhine, in solemn emotional transport, "swearing eternal loyalty to his German fatherland." H is part icipation in the stormy mo\·ement of the times originated in his German ness, his desire for a unified, majestic empire, not from any cosmopolitan-rad ical sym path ies, and ten times over he confirmed that only police cou rt officials could ha,·e prosecuted him as a political revolutionary, t hat the politics of the times had never really touched him in spite of the tu multuous nature of the situation, and that he had also left it completely u ntouched. One must not deny or forget that this wave of enth usiasm that passed over Germany in '48, carrying everything with it, was, i n spite of its admixture of cosmopolitan ideology-no, precisely because of this German-universal admixture-a national flood, and that every intellectual attitude that devoted itself to it wou ld also have been stirred by Germa ny in August 1 9 1 4 . One should rather emphasize the relationship and the belonging together, the common national stam p of the movements of 1 848 and 1 9 1 4 ; 1 9 1 4 is only the return of 1 848 at another level of h istori �al development. What else is the idea of "Central Europe" than the rebirth of t he pre-B ismarckian idea of Greater Germany? And even the appearance of that Christian professor, disciple of Frantz, and serious dreamer of the return home to the H oly Roman Empire of the German 1'\ation-even his ,·ision and

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teaching show the intellectual bridges t hat bind the present with that time in the past . To be sure, Dr. Foerst er negates not only Bismarck, but also the Reformat ion, and it was right and proper to duel learned ly with the scholar and to refute him, but to cu rse him was boorish and wrong. How could it not happen, in spiritually uprooted and agitated times like ours, that h is universal ideal of the !\Iiddle Ages would not also come to the fore-an ideal that one might call reactio n a ry but t hat has very much to do with the most modern European longing for looking back beyond the proscribed border of the 1 6th century! Su pranational , it seems to me, is somet hing quite different and very much better than internationa l ; supra-German means being excrrding(\' German ; and I like a h u nd red and a t housand times better the resolution of this Catholic German , as he has re,·ealed it, than the u n s peakably anti-German declamations of our halo-French Freemasons. ren>lut ion­ ary epigones and opera singers of progress. �o. at least Foerster is not one of civilization's literary men. As for Wagner, it is certain that as an artist and an intellectual he was a revolutionary all his l i fe. But it is just as certain that t h i s national culture-revolutionary was not in favor of political ren>lution. and that he d id not find the atmosphere of 1 848-49 to be at all his element. I n h is memoirs he speaks of the "terrible shal lowness o f t h e s pokesmen o f that time," of their "rhetoric at meetings and in personal intercou rse in general t hat was made up of the tritest of phrases. " He said that it amazed him to hear and to read "with what u nbel ie,·able t r i v i a l i t y it all happened , and how everyt hing simply ended with t h e d ecla ra t io n t h a t the republic was, to be sure, best , but, one cou ld , if n e ed b e . p u t u p with a well-behaved mona rc h y And i t ce rt a i n l y m u s t rep u lse a n d offend civilization's literary m a n . t h e one who m a k e s a n t i t h eses of power and intellect , not a little when Wagner. s p e a kin g o f t h e Fra n kf u rt Parliament, says that o ne d i d not qu i t e see w h ere a l l t h is pow e r fu l t a l k of t h e most powerless of men was goi n g t o lea d . The m o s t powerl ess! This brutal d rea mer had a w e a k ness, it wo u l d see m , fo r " power. " H e d i d not hesitate to come to terms wit h " power" in 1 8i 0 -n o . e\·en to cheer i t . to cheer i t d ru n ke n l y , a n d t o he more e n t h u si a s t i c for i t t h a n h e c w· r h a d been i n t he d a y s o f t h e fJrwf.,kirrlu' s p i r i t A ccord i n g t o c i v i l i1a t io n 's liter;iry m a n , t he n . he w o u l d h a ve heen " n o l i g h t e r"-oh my God ! l i e . "

.

p ra ised t h e " e n o r m o u s cou rage" of B is m a rc k . cele brated t h e G e r m a n a r m y be fo re P a r i s , t he ,·ict ory over France. t he re-est a bl i s h m e n t

of

the

e m p i re, t h e c ro w n i n g o f a G e n n a n em pero r ; a l l t h i s m·e r w h c l m ed h is a rt is t ic hea rt ; it b ro ke o u t in a

ty pe of

song t h a t went so m et h i ng l i k e :

B wgherl_)' Nature

85

"The rays of hu manity's morning are beaming; now come forth, you day of the gods." I n short, he was more enthusiastic than anyone who approved the war in 1 9 1 4 ; for not one of us was so grand and violent of nature as to match h is anti-intellectual excess. I f one wants to clarify, to the point of amusement, Wagner's attitude toward politics i n general and to the year 1 848 i n particular, one has only to remember that at the time he had only recently finished Lohengrin , and had crowned this most romantically graceful of all existing pieces of music with the prelude. Lohengrin and the year '48-these are two worlds joined at the most by one thing: national fervor. And civilization's literary man is guided by a correct i nstinct when he makes fun of Lohengrin in satirical social novels by treating it politically. Probably Wagner was thinking of the beautifu l bass voice of his K ing Henry, when, in the Dresden "Fatherland's Club," he made that rad ically strange speech in which he declared h imself to be a glowing adherent of the kingdom, a despiser of all constitutionalism, and im plored Germany to send the "foreign , un-German conce pts." namely Western democracy, to the devil, and to restore the only salutary, old-Germanic relationship between the abso­ lute king and the free people. For in the absolu te king, he said , the concept of freedom is elevated to the h ighest, God-fulfilled conscious­ ness, and the people are only free when one man rules, not when man_)' rule. Even Fried rich Wilhelm Foerster does not advocate stranger politics. This i m possible forty-eighter certainly says strange things ! For example, that art, at the time of its blossoming, was conservative, and that it would become so again. Furthermore, the pithy, indestructible sentence : "The German is consen,ative. " Furthermore, the sentence that can only be opposed by Frenchmen and radical world reformers : "The fu ture cannot be conceived in any way other than as determined by the past. " Furthermore, the absolutely ind isputable, the immortal and delivering sentence, " I n Germany, democracy is a completely alien creature. It on ly exists in the press. " Certainly Wagner loved the idea of the brotherhood of nations , but he was very far removed from inter­ nationalist tendencies: otherwise the words "foreign," "translated ," "un­ German," would not have signified a judgment, a condemnation, yes, hatred in his mout h-and they d id signify this. But why d id he hate "democracy"? Because he hated politics itself, and because he recognized the identity of politics and democracy. Why do the nations that pursue politics with eagerness and talent belie,·e in, want, and have democracy? Precisely because they are political nations! r\'othing is clearer. The taste of a people for democracy stands in reverse order to its disgust for

86

Reflections of a Nonpolitiml Man

politics. If Wagner was in any way an expression of his people. if he was in any way Germa n , German-h umane, German-bu rgherly in the highest and purest sense, he was so in his hatred of politics. One may ascribe this to the intellectual disappointment he experienced from his participation in the Dresden May revolt, w hen he in.•l�cdiately afterward swore never to have anything more to do with such things and decla red the field of pol itics to be "com pletely u n prod uct i\·e ." But sentences such as "A political man is repulsive" ( from a letter to Liszt) come from deeper, impersonal reasons; when would an English man, Frenchman, Italian, yes, even a Russian , ever have made such a statement? I t came here from vague and heart felt artistic broodings and h ypot heses of a decay, of an anarchistic-doctrinaire politicization of the h uman race that dates from the breakup of t he Greek state and the destru ction of tragedy: of a "very definitely social movement" t hat had nothing at all to do with poli tical revolution , but that, on the contrary, would create a human condition that would signify "the end of politics"; in which there wou ld be no more politics at all, and in which , thereforr, "art in its t ru t h " would be possible; of a depoliticized , human. and artistic form of life and intellect, then, that would be so very much a German form, a form of life and intellect favorable to everything German, for " \\'e Germans, it seems, will never be great politicians, but perhaps something much greater, if we j udge our talents properly . . . " This spirit. which was mixed with German tradition and artistic genius, was dreaming of a de-politicization and hu manization of the earth , of its becoming Ger­ man i n the word's most h u man and antipolitical sense, when he spoke of that passion that longed for "the only true thing-the h u man being": very much i n contrast to civilization's literary man who dre ams on the contrary of the "humanization" of Germany on the way to her demo­ cratic politicization. B u t of cou rse I have a lre a dy said that ci,·ilization's literary man k nows well why he sati rizes Wagne r : he k nows i t i m t i nc­ ' tively, for he has not read him, and he docs not u nd cJ-stand a note or his m usic. But the new element for h i m . grist for his mill. is that Wa gne r was a n i m pe rralist t ha t, too, em be proved ! As early as UH H . in t ha t sam e rad ically strange speech t hat h e made i n t he democra t ic " Father­ land 's Club" in Dresden, he d emanded t h e est ablish ment of Cerma n colon ies. "We want to do i t better," he said , "than the S pa n is h . for whom the 1\:ew World became a priest -ridden slaughterhouse. d i fl'crent from the English, for whom it beca me a habe rd asher's stal l! We want to make it G e r ma n and magn ificcm ! " The idea o f colonies ne\·er ceased to occupy h i m ; p e r h a p s re m i n iscen ces o f Frederick and Faust played a "

-

"

B wgherly Nature

87

part here. B u t how could civilization's literary man fail to react satirically in the face of an intellect that behaved antipolitically-but nationalist­ ically, antipolitically-but im perialistically: he who argued with prac­ ticed passion t hat one should definitely be political but in no way perceive t hi ngs nationally, and who only spoke of "imperialism" as the most atrocious work of the devil and a crime against the human race? The present war teaches us again that in stormy, turbulent times each finds h is own. T here is no world view, no ideology, no religious doctrine, no fad or fancy that does not find itself con firmed and j ustified by the war and that would not be joyfully convinced that precisely its time and future had come. Wagner fou nd something of h imself in the so-called German revolution; he was you ng and ardent enough to believe t hat it held the realization of his cultural dreams of the "end of politics" and of the dawn of h u manity. It disappointed him most deeply; he d isavowed his participation in it as "stupid pran ks" and praised its mortal enemy, the sly-brutal fou nder of the empire, although B ismarck's solu tion to the German q uestion did not at all sign i fy the "end of politics," but its real beginning for Germany. And although those "stupid pranks" had very serious and burdensome consequences for Wagner's outer circum­ stances, it would still be completely absurd to claim that the political turmoil of '48 was a basic i nner experience for him, his great spiritual experience. He had this quite a bit later, and i t was as unpolitical as possible. I t was a very German experience of a moralistic-metaphysical nature-it came to him d uring the loneliness of his Swiss exile, and it was only a book : it was the p hilosophy of Arthur Schopenhauer, in which he recognized the spiritual salvation of h is real essence, the true homeland of h is soul. Schopenhauer, too, wrote about politics-to be sure, however, politics is a chapter of h is Ethics. I ts aspects are odd : they differ from those of civilization's literary man in essential elements. A pparently his general philosophy places freedom beyond appearance, not to mention beyond human institutions. B u t t h is is a bad beginning; it strikes a basic tone that is resigned , antirhetorical, actually already antipolitical, and it opens the gates wide to every form of skepticism and quietism. What is one to make of the statement that the difference between serfdom and landed property, in general betwe_en serf and tenant, owner, mortgager and the like, is more in form than in substance-for whether the farmer· or the land belongs to me, the bird or its feed, the fruit or the tree , is of essentially little d i fference? Is he approving of slavery? Rousseau did, too, but for political reasons. He recommends it because

88

Reflections of a Nonpolitical ,\Jan

people arc needed to work , craftsmen to produce the necessit ies. These people, he says, must be slaves so that the citizen of the state will ha,·e the leisure to devote himself exclusi,·ely to politics. Schopen hauer, as I understand him, also would ha,·e been capable of such suggestions­ but in no way out of head-o\'er-heels love for democracy. H is concept of the stale is cynical-pessi mistic-it cannot be characte rized in a milder way. The slate, he says, is not at all opposed to egot ism in general and as such ; on the contrary, it is founded on the clearh· u nderstood . methodically proceed ing egotism that goes from the i ndividual to the general , and it therefore arises from the sum mation of the common egotism of everyone and exists merely to serve this egotism-established on the correct assu m ption that pure morality, that is. right act ion based u pon morals, cannot be expected; otherwise the state itself would. of course, be superfluous. This has a certain biting cheerfulness. But it is certainly true that in this way and no other, always and e\·erywhere. the state, the state contract , and the law, mu st ha,·e arisen ; and for Schopen hauer it ma kes no d i fference whether the prior cond ition was anarchy or arbitrary despotism . In both cases no state was there bcfm-c. and the state is perfect or i m perfect accord ing to whether it is more or less unmingled with anarchy or despotism. 'The republics," Schopcn­ hauer says with cyn ical cal m, "tend toward anarchy. the monarch ies to despotism, and the middle path that has been conceived for this reason . . the constitutional monarchy. tends toward domination In· fact ions . . Thought out in an ugly manner, and without dash! But it is tru e . nevertheless. And therefore if th ere i s little hope for a perfect state­ which governmental form does our philosopher declare to be com par­ ati\'ely the best? The monarchy. Ob\'iously ! That had to come. \\"c suspected him from the first word . And why does he ad \ ocate the monarchy? Because his attitude towa rd reason-w hile not exactly antagon istic, is still quite casual. "The arbitrarily and a rt i licialh· selected plant system of Linnacus," h e says. c a n not h e replaced by a 1/rJ/um/ o n e , no m a t t e r h o\\· n 1 1 t r h t h e n;l l u ra l o n e co n fo r m s t o

rt'a.1 o n

a n d h o\\' o ft e n t h e a t t e m p t is made, beca use, you see.

s u c l t a s y s t e m nner p ro v i d e s t he ce rt a i n t y and t l w s o l id i t \· o f d e f i n i t ions t h a t the a rt i lirial a n d a rh i t r a n· o n e h a s . I n t h e sa m e " " ' · t he a rt i licial and a r hi t ra rv basis o f a �-:on� rn m e n t a l const i t u t io n . . . can not he replacnl ll\ o n e t h a t h a s a pu rel\' n at u ra l ba s i s , one t h a t , t h ro w i n g o u t t h e ; t hm t• co n d i t i o n s , seeks to repbrc t h e ri�-:h t s or b i rt h w i t h t h ose ol pcrson;t l m e ri t , t o rl' place t h e n a t io n a l rel i�-:ion w i t h t h e re s u l t s ol rat ioci n a t i o n .

B urgher!)' Nature

89

and so forth : because no matter how all t his conforms to reason , it lacks t hat certainty and solidity of definitions that alone ensure the stability of the common system. A goYernmental const it ution that only embodies abstract j ustice wou ld be an excellent t h ing for creatures other than human beings: for, you see, the great m�jorit\' of human beings are highly egotistical, u njust, i nconsiderate, mendacious, e\·en wicked now and then, and equi pped with \'ery scan t y intelligence to boot ; from this, t herefore, t here arises the necessit y for a completely i ndependent power concentrated in one h u man being who is e\'en above law and j ustice, to whom everyone bows, a nd who is considered to be a superior being, a ruler by di,·ine grace. In the long run, t his is the only way the human race can be bridled and go\'erned .

I f ever one has written with grim h umor about politics, it is here. This man's voice is com pletely lacking in tremolo, h is style in every generous das h ; it senes h i m to speak the exact and melancholy truth. With Rousseau, he shares the equation of nature and reason, but he does not maintain it pedanticall y ; for at any moment he is also ready to use these concepts antithetically. The monarchical form of govern­ ment , he says, is the one t hat is natural for h u man beings, almost as it is for bees and ants, migrating cranes , wandering elephants, wol f packs gathered for raids, and some other animals, as well, all of w h ich place one leader at the top to guide their actions. I n addition, e\'ery dangerous human undertak ing, e\'ery military campaign , e\'ery ship, must obey one supreme commander. E\'en the animal organism is constructed monarchically : the brain, you see, is the leader and the go\'ernor. Even the planetary system is monarchical. Republics, howe\'er, are unnatural, artificially made, and the result of reflection-which is enough for this anti-intellectual in tellect , this antirationalistic reason , to condemn them straight out. But when Schopenhauer talks about and ad\'ocates "mon­ archy," he ob\'iously does not mean constitutional monarchy, just as little as Wagner meant it: he makes fun of it when he says that the constitutional k ings ha\'e an u ndeniable similarity to the gods of Epicurus, who, "without m ixing into h uman affairs, sit up there in heaven in u nd isturbed blessedness and peace of mind." But now they have become the fash ion, he says, and in every tiny German principality a parody of t he English constitution is presented , quite complete, with upper and lower houses, right down to the laws of habeas corpus and the j ury. These forms are natural and proper to the English people because they arise from and presu ppose the English character and English circu mstances. But it is j ust as natural for the Gem1an people

90

Rf'jlf'ctions of a Nonpolitical Man

to be d ivided into many tribes that stand under just as many princes who rf'ally rule, with an emperor above everyone preserving domestic peace and representing the unity of the empire externally, because this arises from the German character and from German circu mstances. He salutes the great understanding of the English as evidenced in t heir steadfast and true retention of their old institutions, morals and customs, even at the risk of carrying this tenacity too far, to the point of ridiculousness; because precisely these things were not hatched out of an idle head but grew slowly from the force of circumstances and the wisdom of l i fe itself, and are therefore appropriate to them as a nation. "On t he other hand," Schopenhauer writes, "the German �l ichel has been persuaded by his schoolmaster that he must strut around in an English d ress coat; t hat there is nothing else to do. So he has i nsolently wrung i t from Papa and now looks quite lau ghable in it with h is gauche man ners and clu msy shape." Here it should be noted that the English dress coat would still be com paratively a m uch more suitable piece of clothing for M ichel t han the French Phrygian cap that people par/out want to put on his pensive head today. Wagner, Lagarde, i\' ietzsche, and other great Germans have had opinions similar to, yes. exactly the same, as those of Schopenhauer on the falsi fication of the German character by the importation of political institutions that are completely foreign and unnatural to it. Yes, Lagarde said that there ne\·er was a German h istory at all unless thf' regularly rontin uing loss o[Gaman character is considered to be German h istory. This regular progress is progress itself. Adm ittedly, Fontane thought that t hose of our democrats who saw England with t heir own eyes rid icu led and opposed the whole English "mess ." Well, if parliamentarianism is a mess, and if ne\·erthcless there is nothing else for a nation that has to politicize itself to do than to take over this mess because there is nothing better and because noth ing pol itically new and original can be invented . then polit ics itsel f is a mess, and with this kind of devout con fidence and e n t h u sias m . t h e German people are enteri ng into their period of democratic world pol itics. I said Schopenhauer's attitude toward reason was a ra ther casual one. His attitude toward ju5lice is no better, no more "passionate." First of all, justice is simply a negat ive thing for him, merely the negation of injustice : whereby, beyond doubt. it alread y loses in fenor. Seco nd. he states that justice i n itself is powerless : it is force that rules by nat u re . To bring force over to the side o f justice so that justice c a n r u l e hy means of force is the problem of st at ecraft-which has always accom-

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91

plished much when as little inj ustice as possible remains in the com­ mu nity; for complete j ustice, with no injustice remaining, is simply an ideal goal t hat can only be approximated . I f, for example, inj ustice is thrown out from one side, it slips in again from the other, for ir�justice is deeply embedded in the h u man character. Also, all experiments here are da ngerous, because one is dealing with the most un manageable material. the h u man race, wh ich is aimost as dangerous to deal with as high explosives. " I n general, however," Schopenhauer contin ues , and now the clo\'en hoof really appears, I n genera l , howe\'er, the hypothesis could he made that justice is analogous in form to certain chemical substances that cannot be produced in a pure, isolated state, but only with a small admixtu re that ser\'es as t heir bearer, or that prm·ides t he necessary consistency . . . so that justice. accordingly, if it is to take hold in t he real worl d . and e\·en pre,·ail, needs a small admixtu re of arbitrariness and force so that in spite of its purely ideal and therefore ethereal nature, it ma�· work and endure in t his real, material world without e\'aporating and fly i ng off to hea\'en . . . Things that may well be considered necessarv for such a chemical basis or alloy might be all birt h rights, all hereditan· pri\'ileges, e\'ery state religion and many other t hings. for only in a really fixed basis of this kind can j ustice make itself felt and be carried out consistently.

Whereupon Schopenhauer spends quite a while mocking the country t hat has attempted to operate completely without such an arbitrary basis, t hat is, to let unalloyed , pure and abstract j ustice rule: the U nited States-whose example is not attractive; for, besides base utilitarianism, ignorance, bigotry, conceit, vu lgarity, and sim ple-minded veneration of women, there is a lso enslavement and mistreatment of negroes, lynch law, u n punished assassination, the most brutal of d uels , open disdain for j ustice and laws, repudiation of public debts, shocking political swindle of neighboring prm·inces , continually increasing mob ru le, and more to boot in everyday occurrence. This testing grou nd, then, for a purely legal constitution hardly speaks well for republics, and it speaks even less well for the imitations of republics in !\Iexico, Guatemala, Colombia, and Peru. I t is d i fficult to make excerpts. But if with the above citations I have succeeded in angering o u r radicals, republicans, dialecticians of justice and power, a nd schoolmasters of re\'olution, I will not regret the effort. For they do not read Schopen hauer, but they do read me, and therefore I had to seize the opportu nity to bring them a few con fusing i tems from h is statements on politics, by way of forced feeding, as it were. I

92

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

have only presented a little bit, and only the most drastic part , by no means the most serious and profound one; but it is certainly enough to severely disconcert them. For where is the sovereignty of the people in such ideas? The sovereignty of the people, Schopenhauer says. is a fact, for no one can have the natural right to rule a people against its will. But he hastens to add : "Kevert heless, the people are like an eternally underage sovereign who therefore must, because of his youth, remain under constant guardianship and can never administer his rights himself withou t bringing about lim itless dangers, because he, like all minors, easily becomes the plaything of treacherous scound rels who therefore are called demagogues." Our theoretician a lso had the opport u nity to realize in a practical way his feelings on people's sm·ereignty , and to express them in a practical way: this was in September 1 84 8 , when, on the Sachsenhauser bridge , d iagonally across from h is house. a barr icade was set u p-and Schopenhauer in '48, that is a sight for the gods, full of i mmortal cheerfu l ness ! "The raswls," he writes to Frauenstidt, "sta nd­ ing right u p by my house, aiming and firing at the sold iers in the st reet . while the soldiers' cou ntering shots sha ke the house : suddenly I hear voices and pounding at my locked door: thinking it is the sovereign rabble, I bar the door with the rod . . . " But they are A ustria n sold iers. and quickly he opens up for "these wort h y friends" so they can "shoot at the sovereign ones" from his window, and he im med iately sends h is "large binoculars" to the officer \,·ho is reconnoitering "the mob beh ind the barricade" from the second lloor of the neighboring house; the binoculars were not enough ! Who does he designate- four years later before a notary public and witnesses-as the sole heir to his estate? T h e fu n d established i n B e rl i n fo r t h e s u p po rt o f t h ose Prussia n sold iers who were c r i ppled in

1 8. about wh ich you, to my knowledge . round not hing to t-e m c m be r : t he Boer War, d u ring which I was immoral enough to he \'l'I'Y Englis h . h cc a u s c I found England to be more i m p or t an t t h a n the Boer RqHt hlic the Abyssinian and the Libyan expeditio n , t he S pa n is h - A merica n . 1 he S i n o­ Japanese, th e R u ss o -J a panes e wars a n d t h e B a l ka n wars: I wo u l d still have wagered my ho u s e a n d h o m e t h at I a n d m y world wo u ld not sec the E u rope a n war. I do not d e n y t h a t a gra i n or CO I I I C II I ) > I a n d sd l"­ contempt w a s co n t ai ned i n t h is u n s h a ka b le con\'ict i o n . i'\o, I and my world would ne\'e r see t h e wa r. The A rc h d u ke's nH t rdcr, w h ich was alarming fo r ma ny. was n o t cn< n tg l t t o c h a n ge t h i s rotl \'ict i o n . The declaration of a state o f war, l'\' I l l' wit h t he i r n at i o n a l fee l i n g . w i t h t h e i r lm-e l < > r t h e Li t h e rla n d ; t hat t h ey were pol i t ic i a n s and democra t s as fa r as t h ey \\'CIT patriots. and t h at t hese t h ree word s : po l i t ics. democ racy, fa t hcrl a n d . signi lied t p ro pr i a t e b t l ! lo rgo l l t.'l l e :x p ressio n ) i s ex pressed i n t he i n d i \' i d u ; t l s : t h a t is-

let

be int rod uced l(>r the second t i m e ; I lon• it much because it s c e n t s to me to ex p ress pcrlect l }· how far pol i t ics

t h i s bea u t i fu l p h rase

very

is at all appropriate and permissible for the people and the artist, the intellectual that is, when the consciousness of a common basic and t ribal nature of all individuals awakens and clearly sees its relationship to great deeds of history. I n wars such as t hose of 1 866 and 1 8 70, the nation speaks even when one only questions the sum of its individual members . . . in indi­ vidual laws and individual administrati,·e regulations, the nation remains quite silent, even if one goes from man to man for his opinion, and receives an answer man for man. As a totality, the nation thinks only about totalit ies . . . Where general su ffrage is the last word of wisdom, one does not weigh the votes. one counts t hem. My pu pils shall recognize t his immoral way of reaching a conclusion to be immoral.

Thus Lagarde. And in all this, he begins u nambiguously with the idea , which is d emocratic, i f you will, that the nation itsel f has a voice in matters that affect it. Nevertheless, one can call him a conservative; for to be German-consen·atively disposed does not mea n : to preserve everything that exists, but it means: to want to keep Germany German, noth ing more. And above all, it is German not to confu se the nation with the mass that is com posed of individ uals-atoms. "The principles of 1 789," Lagarde says, ha,·e been t ra nsplanted to Germany, and one calls their representatives liberals . . . . 1'\ aturally, these principles can be even less successfu lly applied to Germany than to France. For if t hey arise altogether from t heory, not from necessity and tru t h , if, as early as under Louis Philippe, t hey forfeited the most ruthless honesty of their raving, murdering, and dying fat hers, then t hey ha,·e no more right anywhere on earth to be principles: their specific and very original Celtic flamr from the Paris of 1 789 has made t hem neither more agreeable nor more j ustified to Germany, because Germany is basically aristocratic and could only become more un­ German and t herefore more unhappy from all that Celtic egalitarian nonsense.

To be sure, t h is does not sound democratic . B u t the aristocracy and conservatism of the fnaeceptor Gennaniae are combined q uite effortlessly with the most definite affection for his people, and nothing can be more national than this synthesis. When he demands "that one admit openly t hat in present-day Germany the possibility of freedom and self­ gm·ernment does not yet exist, that at present there is only government; that one, h owever, by seriously undertaking the genuine education of

200

Rl'{lertions of a NonjJolitiwl Man

a few, selected 110t acrording to birth but according to their ethiw/ and intel­ lectual wpacity, create a class that , appointed by and ,,·01·kin g for this people, and respected for this vol u m ary work. suppll'menting itself free{_)' from below, can at some time i n the future undertake sel f-government''; when he demands fu rt her "that one increase the wealth of the cou n t rv so that such a class would also ha\·e the external means t h a t ma kes it independent , without w h ich sel f-govern ment is a laughable farce or a martyrdom"; that one "put an end" to the parliament that h as no pr him t h e odor-not so m uch of democracy. but of imperialism. But politics, domestic policy , democratic pol icy, is not im peri a I ism and the misuse o f power, it is morality-and t h e pol itician of civilization is . above all, a moralist, nothing but a mora list -that is, ; 1 polit ica l one. Now it m ust be admitted u nquest ion ingly t hat in foreign poli c y. morality a lmost always gets t h e short st r;l\\' . W hen ;\ ( acaula y savs: "The princi ples of poli tics are so constitlltcd t hat the basest t h ief would he

Politirs

21/

a fraid even to hint at them to his closest accomplice"-he undoubtedly meeate o f n a t i on a l ism . l i e does n o t w a n t i t , he d e n ies i t , h e recogn izes it in no way as a mediator between the i n d i v i d u al a nd the h u m a n race, he i s a n e n t h usiastic. d i rect lover of t h e h u man race i tsel f and of i ts h o m ogen eous c i ,· i l i zat ion : i n a word , h e i s a pol itician o f t h e h u m a n race- w h i l e h i s o p posite t y pe . w h o m w e cal l a l i t tl e fi gu rat i vely b u t o f n ecessity t h e "est h e t e . " is sign i fi ca n t l y cooler toward c i v i l i z a t i o n , a n d . let u s be fra n k . even toward t h e abstrac t i o n , " t h e h u m a n race ," a n d becom es pol i t ical precisel y " w h e n t h e n a tional c h a racte r spea ks i n t h e i nd iv i d u a l s . " B u t seen from t he poi n t o f view o f crit icism a n d sel f-c rit icis m , of c r i t icism as mora l i t y . t h i n gs a re q u i te t h e oppos i t e . A s a c r i t ic a n d sat irist . civil ization's l i t erary man abso l u t e l y needs t he nat ional i n s t ru men t : his c rit icism d ocs not rea l l y pe net ra te t h e general h u ma n level. or it only reaches i t i n i t s special po l i t ical m a n i fcs t a t i o n - plTcisely in t h e national m a n i festat i o n . a n d h is "se l f-cri t icism" consists in t h e l i t e rarv c hast isement o r h is own peo p l e : w h o m h e finds i n princi ple

wnJng

and the ot hers right i n a l l

mat t e rs, bot h i n peace, and i n d eed especia l l y in war- a n d hne o n e m u s t consider t h a t i n o rder to b e pe r m i t t e d t o ca l l someone w rong, o n e m u st b e righ t ; and t h e pol i t ician

is right.

Especia l ! \' in w a r , w e say, d oes

he behave i n t h is way; fo r C\' e l l i f h e is in no way u n wa rl i k e i n ; 1 t t it u d e . his concept o f pol it ics i s s t i l l t o o close t o t h a t o r domestic policy. o f

Politics

215

moral ity, of national self-criticism , for h i m not t o ha\'e t o recognize i n rh•il war the only moral form o f war-and t o consider its manifestation in this form to be highly desirable, highly wort h supporting. The "esthete" is com pletely different. The esthete, as a rritir and why should criticism not be for him, too, a fel t need of and almost the mea ning of language ?-has little inclination to consider the national, the political-social element, as a mediator between the ego and the human race. H is criticism is also self-criticism, not in the political, but in the moral sense; it i s directed inward ly but not toward the political inner part of the nation, but toward his own ind ividual i nner side, and when it meets the ego, it meets the human element itself quite directly. Therefore if the politician appears to be arrogant because he chastises and j udges as a dogmatist and as one whose "intellectualization has raised h i m abo\'e his compatriots," and i ndeed, in the name of the hu man race whose cause he champions, t hen the arrogance of the esthete lies in his insinuating his own ego as a symbol of general human nature , i n h is both loving a nd censuring. a ffirming and denying human nature through his own ego. His criticism , w hen it makes use of the comic, does not actually become satire in doing so-assu m ing, t hat is, that satire means t he ridicu ling of political and social conditions. The esthete is much more a humorist , humanity's tragicomedian ; and by passing O\'er and excluding the national element in his criticism , he is not suggesting that only his own people are miserable and laughable, while the others are happy and noble-an idea that the political critic almost always at least seems to cherish, and a lways runs t he greatest risk of awakening. Finally. it is no wonder that there a re at times reproaches against him because of such a misunderstanding-if it is a misunderstanding. One says that when he scorns and negates his own people he exposes them to the others; that he agrees with everything t he others say, plays into their hands, gi\·es them weapons and argu ments against h is people, rein forces them in their prejudices , in their delusion of being far superior to h is people in happiness and virtue, in matters of tru t h , freedom, a n d justice, a n d it i s said t h a t he h a s t h u s contributed n o t a little to t heir moral courage i n the war of annihilation against his own people. I do not like such accusations. I do not l i ke accusations at all; and this is ad mittedly an a version the politician hardly shares. I reject t he above accusation because I understand that the politician as a cri tical moralist feels h imself nationally bound, that political satire is a form of patriotism, a national function, nothing else, as I have said , than the -

2I6

Rl'f/fCtions of a Xunpolitical ,\I a 11

sel f-criticism of t h e nation t h ro u g h its man of lett e rs w h o m it itsel f has created for t h is very p u r pose - a n d that every misuse, e\·ery interna­ t io n a l ex p l o it a ti o n of this self-criticism, s i g nif i es a d i sl o yal t y that one may despise. This would he well and good , hut Germa ny's case-and it is t he one we are concerned w i t h - is a special case, not constitu ted exactly as the ot hers are, and German self-criticism is a spec i a l one that aga i n a n d again seems to be essemially different from that of other nations. I t may be because this nation's literary-moral organ is part icularly sensiti,·e, or because it really exceeds all others in inner coa rseness, stu pid ity. ugliness, meanness and ridiculousness ; there m a y be other reasons that we have perhaps a l re a d y alluded to : the fact remains t hat German self­ criticism is baser, more malicious, more ra d i c a l a n d spitefu l than that of any other nation, a cuttingly unj ust kind of j u st ice a n u nbrid led degrading without sympathy or love for one's own cou m ry. together wi t h fervent , u ncritical admiration of others, such as. fo r ex a m p l e. noble-no, t h is is not i ronic defense ! -doubtlessly \ ery noble France : an expression o f loathing-of self-loathing, remembe r ! - w h ich m a y signify generosity, freedo m , boldness, depth, every i m a g ina b le moral virtue, but whic h one s i m p l y ca n no t designate as sma rt. as p ed a go g i cal in relation to the others, as political, therefore. P e r h a ps i t would be better to call i t ex cess i v ely esthetic. But this is a w or d too m uch here. It seems to me that one shows one i s n ot on such b a d t e rms w i t h criticism and satire when one confesses one's l i k i n g for R ussian l i t e ra­ ture. \Veil, u ntil 1 9 1 7 , when she rose up to become a d e m oc ra t ic republic, Russ i a was considered genera l l y to he a cou n t ry part i c u la rl y in need of pol i t ical-social self-criticism ; and tell me w h o can me a s u r e the depths of bitterness and sorrow from w h ic h the co mech· of Dtad Souls g re w ! Stra n ge, however; in t h is boo k t h e great w r i t e r' s n a t i o n a l ties a re not s i m ply e x p r e s s ed as des p a i r i n g comech· a n d sa t i re : on a t least two or t h ree occas i o n s t h e y a re e x p ressed a s som et h i n g pos i t i ve and h e a rt fe l t , as l ove- y e s , rel igiou s love lo r grand l i t t le :\ ! ot h e r R u s s i a . reso u n ds m o re t h a n on ce like a h y m n f r o m t he hoo k . i t is t he orig i n a l sou rce o f bi t te r ness a n d sorrow, a n d w e feel st rongly i n s u c h n t o m e n t s t h a t i t is w h a t j u st i f i e s t h e blood i est a n d c r uelest sa t i re . ,·es. w h ; l l s a n ctifi es it. I m ag i n e s u c h l icense o f fee l i n g i n ( ; e r ma n y ! I m a g i ne ,

-

h y m n s r i s i n g u p o u t o f t h e sat i rical novels of a ( ;erman w r i t er - h y m n s to G e r m any ! One ca n n o t . Disgust c h o kes such fan t as y

.

The s i m ple

word , " love," a l ready h a s a n e m ba r rassi ng e no u gh e ffect in t h is con­ nect i o n - i t see ms l i ke t h e most i m possible t ;tst dessness u nd e r t h e s u n .

A German satire m which any emotion other than alien spitefu lness, alien gloating, were even alluded to would not be acceptable from a literary point of view, that m uch is certain. But let us leave Russia as a state, society, or as politics. Let us take a critique of the Russian h u man being in R ussian literature that is in a certain sense a devastating critique. Let us take Goncharov's Oblomov! Truly, what a painfu l , hopeless figu re ! What weariness, clumsi ness, laziness, indolence, what incapacity for l ife, what slovenly melanchol y ! U nhappy Russia, this i s your h u man being! And yet-is it possible not to love I lya Oblomov, this bloated i m possibility of a human being? He has a national opposite n umber, the German , Stolz, a model of intelli­ gence , prudence, conscientiousness, dignity and efficiency. But what amount of pharisaical pedantry would be necessary to read this book and not-as the writer does, too, secretly, but absolu tely beyond all doubt-to pre fer fat I lya to his energetic com rade, and finally not to feel and to admit the deeper beauty, purity a nd lovableness of his h u man nature? Unhappy Russia? Happy, ha ppy Russia-who, in all her m isery and hopelessness, must know that she is so beautiful and lovable i n her innermost being that she, com pelled by her literary conscience to satirical sel f-personification, puts an Oblomov into the world-or rather lays him on a bed of laziness ! As for Germany, the satirical self-criticism she exercises on hersel f through her l iterary men leaves no doubt that she feels herself to be the truly ugly country, the country of ugly people : This is the manifestation of her "intellect"­ which will then never be able to desire "power" with a clear conscience ; this is her morality, her "domestic policy." We real ized earlier that a "coming to the fore of the social novel in t he publ ic i nt e rest would be the exact measu re" of the progress of that process of Germany's literarization, democratization and h umanization, the process that civilization's literary man finds his mission in spurring on. H ere we add the opposite : Democracy, that is, the state that has been humanized and made capable of having a literature, that has become a society-and indeed , an amusing society-democracy, then, is the fertile soil i n which pol itical satire really begins to thrive; the social-critical novel is even an integrating unit, an import a n t part of the inventory of democracy, of the amusing state, that is; even more than that: it is a power in it, a political power, stated quite practically, even a path to political power-so t hat in the amusing state the novelist can at any time become a minister, someth ing he perhaps does not want to become, but still wishes to be able to become; and this is why the political

218

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

moralist, the radical literary domestic politician . demands democracy, the republic of lawyers and literati in the West e rn style: it offers his kind that opt i m u m of conditions of life that every earthly being insti nctively strives for. Gra nted this is a skeptical i nterpretation of his will and essence, instead of a grandiloquent one that may seem u niquely appropriate to it, the reader will at least agree with me that here a beneficial interaction , a m u t ual assistance and promotion, is taking place: Civilization's literary man ed ucates people to democracy by agitation and beautifu l rhetoric, and democracy, for its part, the amusing state, the intellectually thoro ughly politicized society, nourishes and stimulates the organ of social criticism , of social- psychological writing, to the poin t of hypertrophy, so that finally, through such reciprocity on the path of brilliant amusemen t , something extreme. a condition of sco rn fu l anarchy, world despair, and social-cr itical corro­ sion is reached that civilization's literary man is celebrating in advance as the goal, as the condition of true humanity, as a "very beau tifu l , completely serene" con d i tion. B u t the progress toward t his cond ition , which, no one will deny, is boundlessly serene, is progress itself, and there is no other. In t he course of these re flections, I have often expressed the conviction that Germany is on this progressive path. Yes, we will h;l\·e it, democracy , the state for novel ists, and we will be happy, or at least entertained ! That evil , abstract, inhuman, and therefore ,·ery boring form of government that once tried to fool us by claiming to preserve the i nterest of t he whole and to remove administ ration from the tunntlt of party campaigns will lie behind us in an u n real light; that form of government i n which special knowledge, talen t , and professional t rain­ ing were considered i ndispensable for the assu m ption of office. 1\o more of that! Professional civil service has become a myth. Self-go,·ern­ ment ! Rotation in office! To the victor belong the spoils! Whoe,·er has the desire and two strong elbows Gi ll get to the state t rough sooner or later- previous experience u n necessa ry. \\'e have reac hed the stage where every office is open to every citizen, and only the obsolete dogma of the "expert ," this bastard of hum ility and conceit. has pre,·etl ted it from being reached long ago. O h , what a cringingly faint -hea rted stupidity of a dogma that was ! Did it not cause political passivity in the best people-in the a rt ist, for example? The person engaged in artistic activity is most deeply imbued with a regard for ability and mastery . wit h a disgust for bungling: so,·ereign mastery or the sul�ject seems to •

Politirs

219

him the prerequisite o f all art, for to h i m , art i s the absorption o f the material by the form. I s i t surprising t hat he was only too ready to succumb to the German dogma of the "expert" and to fa ll prey to political quietism ? Ne\'ertheless, he is precisely the one who is indis­ pensable to democracy-indispensable in the struggle against that dogma that i n hibits progress, because he does ha,·e certain qualit ies that cou nterbalance his d isgust for bungling. I s he not almost always an a rrangeur by instinct? Does he not u nderstand how to hoodwink people? Does he not know ho\\' to make a lot ou t of a little-like h is foster brother, the journalist, this experienced sauce maker who sets up a lead article of fi,·e columns from t he scantiest bit of information ? An actor's abi lity : is this finally not one of h is basic i nstincts? As a novelist, for exam ple-does he not, if it seems to him to strengthen the composition, write a whole chapter on national economy that looks as if he had never done anything else? Add a little pleasu re in rhetorical intercostal breathing, a little talent for dash and sentimentality-what more is needed for the democratic politician , for the conqueror of the "expert "? Democracy means the dominance of pol itics; politics means a m ini­ mum of objectivity. But the expert is objecti ve, that is, nonpolitical, that is, u ndemocratic. Away with h i m ! H is successors are the lawyer as the owner of a weekly, the journalist, the rhetorically talented artist. They do t hings with a little spirit-and this is w hat democratic tradition wants. " Every French man,'' we read in the memoirs of a con tem porary of the Great Re,·olution, considers h imself capable o f o\'ercoming all d i fficulties with a little spiri t . Never d i d s o m a n y people imagine they were a l l lawmakers, that their task was to correct all the mistakes o f t he past, to remo\'e all delusions of the human mind, to insure the happiness of coming generations. There was no room in their minds for doubt . . .

I s there any condition more horrible than the one in which there is no more room left in the m ind for doubt? An obscurant's question ! We will have it, the nondoubti}lg and belletristic political system . We will have it, democracy-which as such is equality a nd therefore hatred , ineradicable and jealous republican hatred of every su periority, every expert authority. Who will make an industrialist :\f in ister of Commerce? One puts a comedy writer or a cabaret entertainer in the position, and the principle is saved . I t will be thought wrong to fill the ministries of agriculture and cu lture with other than lawyers and scribbling stock­ brokers. And as far as military a ffairs are concerned, it would be a slap

220

Refleclio115 of a .Vonpolitiwl ,\Jan

in democracy's face to make an exception for their sake. I n military matters, ask the military! B u t that would be dominance of the saber! That would be corruption , the m o s t extreme danger to t he radical republic ! For authority is not just hateful when it is of an u n reasonable nat u re , based on tradition, birt h , and privileges; no, it is hateful because the rad ical principle makes it so in general, in e\·ery case, even when it is derived from knowledge, e fficiency, proven-practical s u pe riority. and expert ability. Once more: democracy means the dominance of politics. 1\othing may, nothing w i l l exist-no t hough t , work, or l i fe - i n which polit ics does not play a part , where pol itical feelings and connections are not maintained . Politics as atmosphere, permeating all \'i ta l a i r so t h a t with e\·ery breat h d rawn i t forms the main element of all psychological structure; polit ics as the displacer of m usic. w h ic h up to t h en had usu rped the highest position in t h e social-art istic interest of t he nation-as its displacer, l say, in alliance with literat u re. which is to be understood as the twin sister of politics, if no/ as identical with it. and i t s na t u ra l a l l y i n the fight against t he predominance o f music; pol i t ics. then. together with literature, to the extent that the latter is grega rious, t hat is. rhetorical, psychological and erotic-a mixture of bot h . polit ics per­ fumed with literat u re, literature spiced with polit ics as national a t mos­ phere and life's brea t h : That is democracy, the amusing state. the s t a t e for novelists, and we will have it! Yes , ci,·ilization's literan· man has recognized t h a t Germany's literary m o ra l i t y . the literarization and psychologization of G e r m a n y t h a t was powerfully fu rt hered by ge n i u ses such as Heine and 1\'ietzsche, and whose promotion "·e a l l . l. too, whether consciously and i ntentionally o r not . made it our business to further-that t his literary m or a li t y has progressed t o the poi n t wh e re it m ust change i nto poli tics, where t h e con nection between psychological thin king and f(mnal elega nce steps ou t o pe n l y with pol i t ical freed o m . This is h is hour, the hour of c i v i l izat ion's l i t e ra ry m a n : it i s h e re : it i s giving him t hose national ri g h t s that he has long e njo\'ed i n o t h e r nat ions.

lirst d e m a n d o f t h i s h o u r must be for t h e est a b l i s h m e n t o l ' a German Academy- 1 h ave q u i e t l y p ro moted it for a l o n g t i me. The Germa n Academy, or at least somet h i n g l i ke a coH n t erpart to t h e Ro m a n " D a n t e A l i g h ie re La nguage C l 1 1 h . " w hose c h a i r m a n i s Prime !\l i n is t e r Boselli; t he establish m e n t and yea rly p rese n t a t io n o f a " ( � ra n d P riz e for Rhetoric"-s11ch t h i n gs a rc n ecessa ry co m po m·n t s of t h e The

Politics

22 1

literary-political, parliamentary epoch we are entering. Let literature become official. Let the literar y man become official-that is the demand of the political moment. We will have that h u mbug-dominance of the intellect that will perhaps manifest itself in saloon signs such as "A /'!dee du i\lution , for exam ple. For all times it stands written on the bronze tablet o f history what Le temps once wrote abo u t income tax. "Against it, " it wrote, "our fathers made t hat re\·o­ lution that has the immortal honor of having brought the spirit of freedom to the worl d . " There we realized what "in tellect" mea nt by freedom, a fter it had attained power. Reflections of a SonjJolitical Man? One will only find the word accu rate in the figurati,·e sense. But no matter how m uch appearances speak against it- 1 don't side with any part y ; truly I am not fighting democracy. I was twenty years old when I first read the sentences : I f t h e ol�ject o f a l l pol it ics is to make l i fe bearable for as m a n y as possible, t hen t hese many as possible s h o u l d logica l l y d ecide ''"hat t hey u n dersta n d to

be a bearable l i fe : i f t hey t ru s t i n t e l lect to fi nd t h e r i g h t means to t h i s

goa l . what good w o u l d i t do t o doubt t h e efficacy of t h i s pat h ? T h e fact is, t h e y 11'{1 1// to be t h e ma kers or t h e i r own h a p piness or u n happi ness ; a n d i f t his fee l i n g of s e l f-de t e r m i n a t i o n , t he p r i d e i n t h e fi,·e or six concep t s t he i r m i n d s c o n t a i n a n d bring fo rt h . act u a l l y ma kes l i fe s o p l e a s a n t for t he m t ha t t hey w i l l glad l y bear t he fat a l res u l t s of t h e i r l i m i t a t i o n : t h e n little

em

b e said a gainst i t .

This comes from Human. All Too /Iuman, and at that time t hey were just good . intelligent sentences, not \·cry timely, that one consented to in a schoolboy way because of their gracefu l- noble resignation. 1\o doubt they lived on in me while I was preoccu pied with other things. and when the forty-year-old looks them u p again u nder \"exing circu mstan­ ces, he find that they describe h is relationship to polit ics today, too, in the briefest a nd most com plete man ner. Or perhaps not completely? Can we really only h;n·e a negati\·e. purely resigned attitu de toward what we feel comes from necessity? I s it not positi\'e, does it not at least gain a bit of color and warmth from our disappro\'al of the absurdity

Urjlrrtions of a

240

.\'unf)(Jli/iral ,\Ian

of t h i n ki n g o f t ry i n g t o pre\'(� n t t h e i n e\' i table? A d m i t te d l y . e\'e l l t s s u c h a s t hose o f toda y re i n fo rce f"l 'l'l)' t e n d e n c y . a n d t h e w a r ca n n ot fa i l .

111 /H/

not fa i l . to su p ply t h e consen·a t i ,·e. d e la v i n g fo rces, a n d a l l i rrat iona l i s m , a l l " reac t i o n " as w e l l , ri ch ly "·i t h n e w s p i r i t , n e w blood . B u t

I

k new o n

t he d a y o f i t s o u t br e a k t h a t t h e w a r w o u l d abm·e a l l sign i fy a powerfu l step fo rward fo r G e r m a n y o n t h e p a t h t o d e m ocracy. a n d

I

said so t o

t h e m ost b i t t e r o p po s i t i o n from t h e pol i t ical l i t e rary m a n w h o e x pected o n l y t h e b l ac kest t h i n gs from i t . J us t a s G e r m a n y's p o l i t ical o rder h as u n d e rgone m a n y a n d great c h a n ges s i n ce t he p a t r i a rch ical pol ice and ,·assai state o f the se,·en tee n t h cen t u r y . i t i s cert a i n s h e m u st cont i n u e to g o fo rward accord i n g t o t h e exigencies o f t i m e a n d d e,·elop m e n t . J u st l i k e a n yone else I a m con \ ' i nced t ha t m uc h in o u r s t a t e order h as grad u a l l y becom e disonfn. i s no longer to be t o l e ra ted , but m u st be set r i gh t . t h a t u n a ,·oidable con sel! u ences must be d rawn from so many socia l , economic and world-poli t ical changes, that

righ t s

res u l t

from

the

d e mocratic

educational

i ns t i t u t io n s

o f ge n e ra l obligatory sch oo l i n g a n d m i l i t a ry ser\'ice. r i g h t s o f self­ determi n a t ion a n d co-d et e r m i n a t i o n o f t he people t h a t n eed pol i t ica l . ord e rly e x p ress i o n , a n d t h a t t h e s t a t e t ha t refu sed t o reco g n i t.e rea l i t y wo u ld cert a i n l y fal l .

I

repea t : i t is n o t t h e com i n g d emocracy. w h ich I

hope w i l l a ppea r i n a bea r a b l y G e r m a n a n d n o t a n a ltoge t her too h u m h u g l i k e for m , not t h e rea l i t. ;t t io n o f some k i nd o f c :e r m a n \ 'o/k�.\laat. wh ich , o f cou rse, ca re fu l l y con sid ered . will n e i t h e r h a,·e to he a m o b state n o r a s t a t e of l i t e ra r y m e n , t h a t I rejec t . \ \' h a t i n fu ri a t es n t e i s t h e a p pearance of t h e i n t el lect u a l .Hltisfriil w h o h a s svst e m a t it.ed t h e world l l l td c r t he s i g n of democr a t i c t hough t a n d n o w l i n�s as a dogma t ist o n e w h o is rig h t . \\' h a t ga l l s m e a n d w ! J a t

I

.

as

s t r u ggle a ga i n s t i s t he sec u re

v i rt u e , t h e s e l f- r i g h t eo u s a n d t y ra n n ical t h i c k headed ness o r c i \' i l i t.a t i o n 's l i t erarv m a n w h o has ro u nd t he bot t o m t h a t et e rn a l l Y h o l d s h i s anchor. .

.

and w h o a n no u nces t h a t e\ ery t a l e n t l l l l J S l w i t h e r t h ; J t d oes n o t q u i c k l y po l i t ic i1 e i t s e l f dcm mTa t i ca l l y - h i :-. hol d en t e rp rise . t h a t i s . to co t n n J i t .

i n tel lect a n d a rt t o a d e mocra t ic d oct r i n e o f s a l va t i o n . B n t w h a t not onlv o l"l e n d s m y i n t e l lect u a l n eed fo r freed o m a n d d et-e nn· b u t a l so pa r t i c u la r ! �· C J n h i t t ers I l l \" n a t u ra l kel i n g fo r j u s t ice to i t s n· r y l o u nd a ­ t io n s i s t h e "ob j ect i ,· i t y .

"

t h a t i s : t he i n fa t u a t ed a hsmd i t y w i t h "· h i c h t h is

a l l - t oo-( : c r m a n J l l a l l J ll o ra l l y s u p p o r t s t h e e n e m y ci ,· i l i t.a t i on s aga i nst his co u n t ry a n d peo ple : it i s h is t ru l y s h a J l t d ess d oc n i n e of t h e " h i g h e r . 1 h is doct rine from w h ich h e d ocs not h es i t a t e

m o r a l l e n· ! o f d c moc r; J n t o d ra w t h e h id d e n

o

..

r o p c 1 1 concl usion t h a t C e n n a n v . p r ec i se l y beca u se

she h a s n o t bee n de mocra t ic . hea rs t he g u i l t t'o r t h e w a r . t h a t t h e w a r

Politics

241

and her defeat will break her mania for dominance, her crude advocacy of a ristocracy, that she will be proved wrong, d isciplined , broken, that she m ust and will be brought to the reason and virt ue-of the others. I f he called the war a chastisement, yes, a self-chastisement of all s u ffering nations; if he wanted to see in it an u nconscious and religious attem pt of all of them to purify themselves and to do penance for t he sins and vices of the comfortable peace- I would be silen t, I would even agree with him. Who has not had moments when he has been com pletely unable to regard the nations that a re flaying one another as enemies? When he th inks he understands that all this has to do basically with a com mon Eu ropean action-wit h a common attempt, even though perhaps with h ighly improper means, to renew o u r world and our soul? What Dostoyevs k ; said of his beloved nation : And just recently. when it seemed almost to be decaying from sin, drunken ness and immorality, it rose u p in new spiritual elation and freshness and fought out the last war for t he belief in Christ that the Moslems had t rampled u pon. It accepted the war. it reached oul for il, as il were, as if for a possibility of puri fving itself from its sins and \'ices by sacrifice : and it sent its sons there to fight and if need he to die for t he holy cause, and it d id not lament that the ruhle was sin king and t he price of food was rising . . .

does this not a pply a little. does it not, com pared with other th ings, a pply very m uch to the warlike u prisi ng of every nation, and also to this total u prising that is so thoroughly bewailed by hu manitarians as a d isgracefu l " relapse"? But what does the German radical liter;u·y man mean by "chastise­ ment"? When the German workers ha,·e m·ert hrown the military and J unker party, when t hey have hanged the Kaiser, the von Bern hardis. the nm Tirpitzes and the others in this caste in a long row Unlrr dl'l! Lindnt , when they actually h ave begun to const ruct a democratic republic, then we will assume that t hev have deli,·ered the proof of their wish and their intemion to punish the c ;·iminal perpetrators of this war.

To be exact: it was not our radical literary man. it was t he French social democrat, M. Herve. who wrote that. B u t it comes to the same th ing. Civilization's l i terary man also says exactly the same thing: not only in the same sense , but a lso in the same words, in t he same wild and insipid sanswlotte jargon. The arrogance with which the Celto- Romanic de-

2-12

Rcflcrliun.\ uf a Nonpulitiral ,\Jan

mocracy , i n c l u d i n g t h e A nglo-Saxon o n e . ' j u d ges" C e r m a n co n d i t io n s . w i t h w h ich it i n sists u po n " i m p nn·i n g G e r m a n y i n t ern a l l y , " i s i n fa n t i l e . h a i r- ra is i n g . foolish to t h e poi n t o f g ro t esq u e n ess. T h i s a rrogance h a s ne,·er e\'en recei,·ed s o m u ch as a s m i l e from c i \' i l i za t i o n 's l iterary m a n , let a l o n e d ri\'en t h e blood t o h is t e m p le s . H e e ncou rages i t . h e gi\'es h is asse n t , i n h i s own h ea rt - st i rr i n g t h ieves' L a t i n h e agrees w i t h e\·ery t h i n g t h a t comes from i t s i m p u d e n t m o u t h . F o r d e mocracy h as " t h e h ig h e r mo1·al l e ,·e l . " A n d we, w e h a\'e

"maslrrs. "

Wel l , t h e o t h ers h a \'e m a s t e rs, too, i t seem s . "You h a \'e n o i d ea o f t h e cowardice o f you r m a s t e rs , " Rol l a n d h as h i s C h risto p h e say t o t h e Frenc h . "You l e t you rsel\'es b e o p p resse d , i n s u l t e d , step ped o n b y a h a n d fu l o f rogues . " B u t t h ese rogues a n d masters are d e m oc ra t i c rogues a n d masters, a n d t h e re fo re t h e y m a y s t i l l be rogues- t h ey a re not real l y s u c h ge n u i n e "masters" ; w h i le on t h e o t h e r h a n d t h e G e r m a n s a re possibly more masters t h a n rogues. � l ore exact l y . h owe\'er. t h e re is s t i l l somet h i n g e l se abo u t t h e m : t o w i t , t h a t ci,· i l izat ion's l it e rary m a n i s n o t o n l y a pro ph e t , bu t a l so a n a r t i s t , a n d a s s u c h a decided l y w rong-headed t h i n ke r who has read too m u c h i n 1\ l ichelct's

1/islor:: of the Rt•;•ulution,

j u st as Don Q u ijote d id i n h i s books o f c h i \' a l ry . and w h o is now fig h t i n g aga i n st flocks o f sheep a n d w i n d m i l l s . w h ic h he h a s . for t h e sake o f noble fee l i n g . con \'i n ced h i msel f a re k n i g h t s a n d g i a n ts- c, c n t h o u g h he p roba bly d ocs n o t rea l l y t h i n k t hey a re . \\'c h a \T l on g k n mn t t h a t h e has b e e n l i ,·i n g a n d wor k i n g i n t e l l ect u a l l y i n a n epoch o f o ne h u n d red a n d t h irty years ago. in t h a t o f t he French Rc , · o l u t ion : t h e res u l t is t h a t h e is q u i te p l a y fu l ly t ra n s fe r r i n g- t he c i rc u ms t a n c es ot' t h a t t i m e i n t o p rese n t-day C c rm a n y . d rea m i n g t h e m i n . Since h e h a t es t h e prerc \'C> I u t io n a ry .ll'igncu r.\ w i t h h is w hole h ea r t . h a t e s t h e m a s a of 1 7�)() d id , and

since he docs

not si m pl y wish

.lllll.ll'/1/o//1'

to c o m h a t

t hem

h is t o rica l l y h u t also rh ct o ric t l l y a .� i f t h e y were t r u h c o t l l c t n po ra n . h e t ra n s l a t es t h em i n t o ( :c r m a n a s h e i s wont to d o 1 \' i t h a l l t h i n g s . ; u H I

c a l l s t h e m " t h e mast e rs . " \\'c ha ,·c m a s t e r s : t h e\'. a rc t h e m i l i t a n- , t h e

" po we r" in Ccn n a n \' . \d i O r e p rese n t " po\\-er" ;1s such in con t ra�t t o " i n t e l le ct , " a n d o n e has ahso l u t e h n o i d ea ; 1 1 ; t i l h o w d e p r a \ ' cd t h is master a n d wa rrior caste i s u n t i l o n e h a s lea r n ed a bo u t it fro n t 1 i \ · i l i ta t i o n ' s l i t e r a r y m ; 1 1 1 . To be su re, d u ri n g fo rt \· H'; 1 rs of' peace t h e y ";tt t e m pt ed " n o t h i n g - s t a rt ed no w a r . t h a t i s - a nd sabe r-J u n kers w h o ret a i n

a c c om p l i s h ed not h i n g. but i n s t ead o f t h is t h e\· h a \'e ; d >e l t ed the c l a ss st r u ggle a n d t h e c h ro n i c c i \ ' i l w;u·. a n d t h e \ ' h a n· cwsed i n t e ma t i o n a l

crises, w h e t h e r beca use o f ' in e p t n e s s o r c u n n i n g o n e seldom k n e w . a n d h a n.· d e r i \'l·d b c n d i t l o r t h em se h e s f 'rom t h e d is n n i t \ o f t h e u a t ion a n d

Politics

24 3

from its fears. The nation means nothing to them, it is the raw material of their rule, and only naked self-interest has kept them from d estroying us, the raw material, com pletely. Yes, these are masters-seldom has one seen the like. But if t he German people tolerated them, if they (literally) "su ffered humiliation from them for generations," then t he reason is that (and here t he psychology of the literary man becomes "deep"-it is alwavs "deep" when it has reached t he point of sexuality and presents a mix � ure of 1'\ ietzsche and K rafft- Ebing)-that the m isanthropy of the tyrants ··appeals to all perYerse insti ncts ." One sees that it is quite s i m ply and d isgustingly an alternating game of sadism on the one side and masochism on the other. For perverse reasons the people ha,·e even done well under their "masters," and the "struggle" (l'r{{orl) aga inst the "masters" is really a "struggle" of the nation against itself. as it were. !'\ evert heless, the enormous affairs of Kopenick and Sa,·erne ha,·e, in spite of all their masochism , raised a storm in the German people agains t thei r maste1·s, that storm "that stirs u p the deepest feeli n gs"-and what d oes one call a go,·ei·nment, civil ization's literary man asks. that has the will of the whole nation against it? One calls it foreign domination , he answers quick-wittedly; and the nation wou ld ha,·e gi,·en itself up and desen·ed to collapse if in the face of power it had become silent once and for all. This d ionysian gal i matias-why I call it d ionysian, I will certainly yet explain-was p resented before t he war, bu t it \\'Ould be su perfluous fairness to e m phasize this: one would be wrong in assu ming that the war had changed the litera ry man the least bit in his Yiew of Germany. H e would , he does, speak today as he spoke in May 1 9 1 4 . Foreign nations that seriously belie,·ed the German nation had been t h rust i nto the war by the fists of its "masters," and that it longed to be liberated by the armies of ci,·ilization from these "masters," have been taught better by a few months of war. They have long known, C\·ery single one, that in this war t hey a re deal ing with Germany herself. with the people as an embodi ment, with the nation, and not with any sort of ghostly "masters" of the cou n trv. A Frenchman of a refractorv mood, who was opposed to the dominant spirit of his homeland, said to his bou rgeois com patriots that they did not understand anyth ing of "this heroic people." A nother, the ex- i\ l inister l-l anotaux , spoke in the newspaper of "this terrible people" t hat had "dreamed of world mastery"-and if he was wrong in this, he was still wrong in a more correct way than the German rad ical litera ry man, who belie,·es with all the tire of his talent in an alien dominance of masters in Germany, a rule under which the '

'

2-1-1

Reflrcttolls of a NunjJUiitical ,\ fan

people \'O i u pt uously pa n t and m oa n ; and s i nce h e knows how t o ex press h i s l i t e rary scorn a n d h a t red i n such a passio n a t e r h y t h m , we s h o u l d t h e re fore belie\'e h i m w h e n h e s a y s t hat a n a t io n o f m a soc h is t ic s laYes has perfo r m ed t h e d eed s o f t h is w a r. A real pol i t ician , a po l i t icia n , t h a t i s . w h o p ays a l i t t l e a t te n t i o n t o real i t y a n d w h o does n o t look u po n po l i t ics a s a m e a n s o f i n toxica t i o n a mi a c h e a p opport u n i t y fo r passion , t he de mocra t ic represe n t a t i \'e, Ko n rad H au B ma n n , said i n a d emocrat ic magazi n e :

"No traer,"

he s a i d , " n o t race o f a contradiction exists between

a r m y and peo p le i n t h e s u pposed l y m i l i t a ristic Ger m a n y . T h e field gray has repl aced the 'bi-colo red u n i fo r m ' . . . T h e accom p l i s h m e n t s of t he resen·c, t he m i l i t i a , a n d t h e h om e g u a rd a rc wort h y o f t h ose of t h e officers a n d m e n o f t h e reg u l a rs . " T h i s is w i t h o u t d o u bt p h i l isti n is m . b u t i t is t h e t ru t h ; w h i l e t h e so n gs o f ci\' i l i z a t i on 's litera r y m a n a d m i t ted l y h a\'e t a l e n t a n d passi o n i n t h e i r fa \'(Jr, t h e y s ho w l i t t l e rega rd for t ru t h . w h ic h i n pol i t ical m a t t e rs , i f not i n ex press i o n i s t ic a n , m u s t Ji n a l l y h a ,·e a little

10 do "·i t h

rrality.

1\ o m a u e r how t h e n a t io n may h a n· beh;l\·cd

toward its m a s t e rs , it d ocs

not

real l y seem to h a \ e merited the "col l a pse"

t h a t c i \' i l i za t i o n 's l iterary m a n was not fa r from p ro p h esyi ng. for t od a \· it is p u t t i ng u p a res i s ta n ce for w h i c h no mech a n i s t ic e x p l a n a t i o n s a re su fficien t a n d at w h ic h t h e world h a s n o t yet learned to be properl y a m a zed . O n e d a y i t w i l l becom e aware; a n d h owe,·er t he w a r may now e n d - i t can cert a i n ly n o l o n ge r b ri n g a German d e feat in a m· m o ra l sense. W h a t b a r ker's s piel cou l d h a ,·e argued more powerfu l l y for t h e right o f t h is nation to t a k e pan in a d m i n is t e ri n g t h e e a n h t h a n i t s pres e n t acco m pl i s h m e n t ? B u t i f t h e l a u g h t e r a t t h e Kpe n ic k fa rce . i f o u r b u rgh erl y d i s pleasu re a t t h e Sa\'erne a ffa i r . h a d bee n " t he deepest feel i n gs" t h a t could be " s t i rred u p " in the (�erman peo p l e . t h e n t h ey would h a ve been less d ee p t h a n one bel ie,·ed . I n m y o p i n io n . t h e deepest feel i n gs in t h e

h uman bring Ct r J not he s t i rred u p a t a l l by po l i t ics. n(/fion, howew· r . a re s t i rred u p l l\· ;1 decisi,·e

The deepest fee l i n gs of a

spii-i t u a l and p h )·sical s t ruggle s u c h as the o n e t od a y - : J J H I n ot In a n \· Sa\' e m e a lTa i r.

I

a m as l i t t le t e m pted to m a ke an a pology fo r t h e p o l i t icd lead e rs o f

Cerma n y ; t s i t i s m y joh t o d o so. i\' e,·ert h eless, I hl'lil'\ l' t h at i n t h is poi n t , t oo , I a m on he l l e r terms w i t h j u st ice t h an a re t hose w h o h a n· j ust ice as t h e i r h:tt t l e c r y . I d o not belie\'e t h a t o u r k•; J d c rs ; m d masters h a ve s h o\\'n t h emsel\'es t o be

h twuntl\'

i n fe rior to t h ose o f h ost i le nat ions,

a n d i n c ked . precisely fo r t h e re;J son t ha t , as t he t e r ri h k s i t u a t ion in Cerma n y in the S l l l l l l l l e r of I �� 1 · 1 p ro n·d , t h e \' h ; t n• shown t h cm seh·es to be so \'cry l l l l t c h i n fe r i o r to t h em

Jm!ittcaiiJ.

1\ l o n·on..- it is

a

jJrion

Politirs

24 5

probable to me that this i n feriority actually existed : for i n the end , a people has the leaders it "deserves," that it is ord inarily able to prod uce; and no matter how much these war years have "politicized" the German people-up to 1 9 1 4 they were considered to be a politically umalented people. and they did not object to being considered so. Leaders, I think, are to be looked upon as exponents; basically one criticizes oneself when one criticizes them, and perhaps one would therefore do better to criticize oneself straight out. A fter one has done so, one may, by way of apology. make allowance for the vicious trickiness of foreign pol icy that one has faced so ineptly since one has been an empire-and one may precisely for this reason feel oneself d riven to allow one's inborn sense of efficiency and accomplishment to hold sway, part icularly in questions of leadersh ip, and to think about finding surer met hods of selection for all national offices. This would be well and good . But I detest the accusing. ban ishing i nto the desert , and the angry pol itical squabbling with those "responsible"-the Roman gu tter politics of "Pioi'l'? Abbasso il ROI'l'r110.1" Germany's leaders may have conducted the empire's business very bad l y ; they may have lacked all tact in the treatment of foreigners, used harmful words, made harmfu l gestures, and above all awakened the disastrous idea that Germany had become fat and cowardly and would, if she only saw herself opposed to a strong cou nteralliance, u nder no circumstances accept the war: one says all t h is, and it may well be true. I n the essential thing, however, in the main thing that has to do with direction and goal, they ha,·e led Germany as she wanted to be led , namely on the i111jJrrial path-which, if a new and greater Bismarck did not show the way. and perhaps even then, had to lead to a collision with those who had "older rights." It would be silly to be deceived at the measure of aggressiveness that lay in the will of the nation to be led in this way. One should not deny this aggressiveness, not act as if the German people had not wished for anything better for themselves than to raise their cabbage in contented limitation , and not write-as I have read verbatim: that the predominant feeling of this German people at the outbreak of the war was "dread of the coming horror. " We know different. \\'hat happened after the disaster of Echterdingen* was a strong portent. And the indescr i bable uprising in the s u m mer of 1 9 1 4 was an uprising of belief. of bou ndless read iness. r\'eed? Oh. yes, it was the passion of the moment. But need *

In 1 908 in Echterdingen one ol' Count Zeppelin's lighter-! han-air· sh ips crashed and burned.

246

Rrjl('(/ions of a NonjJolitiwl ,\Jail

is, as we have already ex plai ned to � 1 . Rolland , neither mere "nhrssitr" nor desperado boldness ; need is the solemn name for a creatit•r emotion in which elements of defense are strongly mixed with t hose of a t tack. A nation does not 1·ise up in t h is way. mill ions of its you t h do not take up a rms in this way, before t hey a re cal led , if t hat nation wants nothing. not hing at all but peace. and i f it is being seduced into lawbreaking and misdeeds by cunning "masters." The world nation of the spirit. strengt h­ ened to exuberant physical power, had taken a long drink at the fou ntain of ambition ; it wanted to become a world nation as Cod had called it to be, thr world nation of reality-if necessary (and ol)\·iously it was necessary) by means of a ,·iolent breakthrough . Had not Spain . France, and England had t heir moments of grandeu r and honor? \\"hen the war broke out , Germany belie,·ed fervently that her own t ime had come. the moment of trial and of greatness. \\'hoever does not admit this today, whoever pra tt les about the "dread of the coming horror . " is lying. The German people, as a people. completely heroically attuned. prepared to take gu ilt u pon t hemselves and not inclined to mora l pussyfooting, have not whined about what t h e radical ly merci less enem ic-s have done to them in t u r n , but in an emergency t he y ha,·e not doubted their right to revolutionary measures. eit her: t hey ha,·e ap­ proved of such measu res, and more than apprm·ed . They a pproved of the march into Belgi u m , and found not h i ng to criticize in it ot her than the words of t he Chancellor about t he w rong one was commit t i ng. They appro\·ed of the dest ruct ion of that impudent symbol of Engl ish mastery of the sea and of a still comfort able ci\'ilization. the sinking ol the gigantic pleasure ship. the "Lusitania," and t hey defied the world­ resound ing h u l labaloo that h u manitarian hypocrisy ra ised . A nd t hey have not only approved of unlimi ted submari ne warbre. they han.· cried for it and were bitter with their leaders al most to t he point of rebdlion when they hesita t ed t o allow it to go on. I t suits t he democrat ic ort hodoxy of t he enemies, ror whom "the people nat u rally must be "good ," j ust as it suits thei1· polit ical cle\'erness . to d i f lc re nt i ; 1 te bet ween t he fine German people and t heir detestable "masters": not us. :\ nd no matter how t he war may now end : let us take t he Ccrman share of the "guilt" u pon us, each ind i,·id ual . with 1 he except ion, perhaps . or a handful of pacifists and litera l'\' saint s-and llOt make SOIIlt' cha nce fu nct iona ries into scapegoat s I n spite of its est hetic at t ranion, the ghastl\' pic t u re ci,·ilization's literary man d raws of t he psychology or t he Cerman "masters" l'l'\'eals undeniable obscurit ies and con t rad ict ions. For fort y years t hey at"

.

Politics

2.J 7

tem pted nothing, these cra fty ones; that is, they did not go to war. hut only, as they brewed international crises. threatened war and frightened the people in order to be able to hold them down more easily, the cunning ones. This is how \\'e read it before the war. i\o sooner had it broken o u t than we heard that they had contri\'ed it, and indeed , for the same purpose. For i t is certain that masters of t heir type, executioners of democracy, that is , are ne,·er d rawn into a war that they ha\'e not contri\'ed fi rst of all fo1· the suppression of their own people. What, cont rived ? And at the' most u n fa\'orable momen t, under the most d i fficult circumstances? A fter they had let pass one opportu nity after another for decades to condu ct it u nder much easier circumstances as a rea l "pre,·enti\'e \\'ar"? They t h rew themseh·es into the risky \·en ture only after it had become giga ntic-while they had shunned it when its success had seemed as good as certain ? I f it then failed , what would become of them and t heir tyranny? And what would become of it if Germany were \'ictorious? Did they belie,·e t hey would be better able to suppress the people more certainly with the help of a \'ictorious war? Which social class would be the one to gain the main ad\·antage from Germany's \·ictory, anyway-which one other than the one that is called t he "people" in the narrower sense . the German workers? Does one suppress the people by raising t hem up. enriching them, giving them an interest in the state? What e\'en the likes of me \\'ith a politically untrained eye saw : that a people's war such as this one had to lead irrefutably, u nconditionally. and e\'en independently of its conclusion , to democracy- had not the ''masters" seen t his? But then, they were not only rascals, t hey were clearly so stu pid , so stupid it cannot be expressed ! B u t stupid or sly or both-why should the masters not ha\'e contri\'ed t he war, since they. of cou rse, and only they, were so disgustingly prepared for the m u rderous work? A t least ci,·ilization's literary man has sho\\'n us the French enemy. who concerns him so much, in that had condition "that all Germany's enemies were in at the beginning of the war and that German newspapers were aware of': the tattered peacetime u n iform, the pack cord from which the sidearm hung, the cracked patent-leather shoes. And as he, the politician . suddenly shoves the indi,·idual-human element before the political one. he has the ghost of the peacefu l J ean Bonhomme from the rustic Cafe Voltaire whisper melod ramatically to his murderer: " I hated you and you r cou ntrymen much less than I did the fellow w ho wanted to take my girl friend away from me." He could just as well have had the ghost of a German farmer

2.J8

Rrflt'CIIo/IS of a .\'onj}()/itical Man

who was sl l-etched out in the mud speak to the "enem y." He prefers the opposite, in hono1· of the Cafe Voltai re. Is it proper 10 m isuse indi,·idual innocence with such tea rful bliss, and t he i nn ocence of the "enemy . " at that, when the lives of nations are at stake? "It has been fi rmly established," the Dutch A ttorney General said in h is argu ment agai nst the edito r of the Trlegraaf, "that the mlente's expenditu res for armamems before the war e xc eeded t hose of the Cent ra l Powers." If this is true, what happened 10 these e x penditu res that J ean Bonhomme mu st wear such p i ti fu l l y cracked patent-leather shoes? What about the "arcl11pri;(· that was megaphoned o\·er the Rhine at every o pport unity from the great Cafe Voltaire? What abou t t h e warlike rejoicing o\' er France's headstart in air power "that the French newspapers were aware of," about the newly rekindled offensi,·e spirit in genera l ? Did Au stria find hersel f at the beginning of the war faci n g a terrible Russian su perior force o1· not ? Did Germany ha\'e to su ffer the invasion of East Prussia or not? I f she prepared hersel f well-the tasks that would come 10 her i n the wa r had given her good reason to do so. In the t heaters o f "·ar at the end of 1 9 1 6 her armies had a front of one thousand. eight hundred kilometers ; the French six h u n d red . the English two hundred and fi fty. Preparatio n ! I f it is French to say : "On n 'est pas pri'l et 011 Sl' bat tout de mi'me"-is it our fau l t ? I t was the same in I S 7 0 . too ; but this time you were given time, lots of time to meet the height of the req u i re­ ments-wh ich everyone had very old-bsh ioned ideas abou t . \\'as per­ haps the German preparation adequ ate h>r i t ? Did it reach ;ts far as the colonies? Did it not fail more than once in Eu rope itsel f? En.Tyone was pre pared for a war, indeed ab u n d a n t l y so. B u t no one was prepared for this w ar, that is the point, and the reason it could come is that C\'eryone ne\'ertheless believed t hat he was prepared for it. In I H75, Theodor Mom msen . a highly li beral ;tcadem icia n . a noble representati\·e of German int el lect uality, said the following words as Rector o f the U n ivers i t y of Berlin i n a s p e ech at the com mcmor;l l i o n of its fo 1 1 ndation : o r C O I I J'Se 1\'l' ; t lso k i l O \\' ! h a l l h e K a i s e r abo\'e ;ti l , h u l l'\'l'r\ ( ; c r l l l a l l S t a l e S I I I l u t ionary eleme n t i n a n i n the least . Who was the fi rst to h a ,·e performed in Paris? A d es pot . The sa me despot wh ose

Ta nnhii user coujJ d'etat forced

the immortal desperate sigh from the gen tlemen . Bouvard and Pecuchet :

"1/ein, If prol,rres, qufllf blague! Et Ia jJolitiquf, 1me bflle salete.' "-t his ex pres­ sion of a psychological mood that is the infalliblf lllfa/15 of producing gmnal politicization. On t h e other h a n d , French rom a n t icis m . which was t h e n e w , p rogressi v e eleme n t , developed u n der the protect ion o f the monarc h y , w h i l e t h e li berals and re p u bl icans stubbornly a n d conser­ vativel y d e fended cl assic i s m - i t i s clear w h y : beca use of ,·irt u e . you see. And Ceza n n e ? A bold i n noYator beyond doubt ! B u t he thoroughly d espised E m il e Zola , t h e wo rsh i p pe r o f the masses, t he prophet and servlution . :'\or should one t ry to con fuse h im with a t rick. by sa ying th at t h e Russian re\' l u t ion mll l ld not ha\'e heen possible i f one had enabled t he Tsa r to en ter B erli n h\' denying ap propriat ions for national defense! I l ow could such a pureh· logica l argu m e l l ! accom plish anything agai nst the indcscrihahk disgust that necessarily arises in h i m when he hears words such as t hose of a

On

\'irtue

281

comrade named Alwin Saenger about the \\' estern front, dated 1'\m·em­ ber 1 9 1 5 , long past the first excitement of the war: Today there can no longer be a Social Democrat who could ever be brought hy m istakes of his own coun t ry to prefer to be a n Englishmau or a Frenchman. Today, there is no longer a Social Democrat who would not rise wit h the st rongest words against e\'cry foreign criticism of us, of people. statesman, and pri nce. Today. there can be no Social Democrat who would not belie\'e in an m·erwhelming i n fluence of his g1·eat father­ land on t h e fut u re histor\' of mankind. \\'hoe\'er does not feel his heart beating faster today when he hears the word, "German," is a poor. sick man!

B y he;n·en . no, the politician of the int ellect is not a Social Democrat. H e would be one, possibly. if our anarchist-socialists and international re\'olutionaries of the most extreme type, to whom he is close intellec­ tually, i f not formally, were to be included in the left wing of the party-someth in g that in my opin ion would be a mistake, since t hese gen tlemen are to be e\·aluated as pure geniuses. but hardly also as party politicians. B u t it is not really t heir language he speaks, either. H is language , I hardly need mention, is not spoken at all in Germany; it is spo ken in France. I t is the jargon of a French part y : of the radical one, of t hose "fils de ia Rh•olution," who inherited their political mcabulary, a chau\'in istic-hu manitarian phraseology, from the Jacobins; with them, the radicals of t he Parisian parliamen t. civilization's literary man is the bearer and preser\'er of the immortal pri nciples that official France, the France of the rhetorical bourgeois, proclaims. H is is the mcabulary of the bou rgeois re\'Olution. Far from belie\'ing that political dilettan t is m , polit ical bungling, can exist at all (this would be an assum ption incompatible with democracy) he is replacing, as the Jacobin did, the study and serious understanding of li\'ing reality with "reason." bel esprit, and l iterary bra\'ur a . The human being. human rights, freedom, equality, reason, the people, the tyrants: he deals with these concepts with the same bewildering certainty that the J acobin did, and like the J acobin, he formulates a radical dogma from them whose radicalism certainly seems to a more conscientious mind to be frightful s u perficiality. Proudhon called J. J. Rousseau a person m qui Ia consci('llce n 'f>tait pas en dominantf" ; and as is proper. the new Jacobin is a Rousseauean of the first water. Thus. for example. he does not pay the slightest res pectful concern for the highly differentiated nature of our troubled continen t . "Today there are no French men , Germans, "

282

Reflections of a Xonpolitiral ,\Ian

Spaniard s , English m e n a n y more, no m a t l er what one t h i n ks abo u t t h i s : t here are o n l y E u ropeans w h o a l l ha\'e t h e s a m e taste. t he same passions. t he same customs, beca use none h as recei \'ed a national stamp from part icular i nstit u t ions." This is what Rousseau said, a nd t he neo-J aco b i n bel i e \'es i t . too. H e goes fart her, a s h i s predecessor also went fa rt her: he fi nds that t here a re only h u m an bei n gs . h u man beings i n genera l . t ha t i s , to s a y i t i n h i s l a n guage , t h e lan guage o r the eigh t ee n t h c e nt u ry : " feeli ng, reasonable beings. w h o , a s s u c h , ;n·oid pa i n , see k pleasure and t herefo re h a p p iness, w h o stri\'e, that i s , for a condit ion i n "· h ich one percei \'es more pleasure than pai n . ' ' \'e ry s i m p l e . Too s i m pl e . in fac t , t o be f1atteri n g t o "t he h u m a n bei n g.'' i\ evert heless, o u r democrat mea n s it to be f1atteri n g . He has t he J a cobi n 's o p t i m ism : his preconceiYed idyllic i deas o f reason a n d o f t h e bea u t i fu l heart of t he h u m a n bei ng. his t e n d ency toward d e magoguery i n t h e gra n dest style, toward Hattery of m a n k i n d - t he tende n cy to speak i n an i ties t o t h e h u m an race . H e h as t h e J acobi n 's b e n t to a narchy and to despotism , to se n t i mental ity and to doctri nairism , t e rroris m , f�maticis m . t o rad ical dogm a, t o t he guil loti ne . H e has h i s terrible naivete. Like t he J acobi n . a st ickler for t h e princi ples of h u ma n i t y , h e h as a pred ilection fo r t h e scaffold. H e a lso h a s t h e o peratic gest u res o f t h e J acobi n , t h e eternally magnanimous pose-one h a n d on h i s h eart a n d t h e other i n t h e a i r. A bm·e a l l . he has his i nsti nct to pay excl u s i \'e a t t e n tion to t h e pol i t ical side of t h i n gs. not t heir m o ra l side, to be i ncom parably more i nterested in rights t h a n in d u ties ; to neglect conscience, b u t to gi,·e "pride i n bei ng a member of the h u ma n race" a wicked O\'erno u rish me n t . The o u t lawing and ex­ pulsio n o f t hose who d isagree is com pl e t e l y co nsonant wit h h i s concept of freedom , j ust as i t is with the J a cob i n . H e has the J acobi n 's self­ righteo usness, h i s cert a i my a n d h is sense of psych o logical secu ri t y . which is i n tellect u a l callousn ess. Si nce h e bel ie,·es he possesses t he t ru t h . "the b l i n d - i n g- l y clear t r u t h , " h i s lo\'e o f t r u t h i s i n a bad way: fo r whoever is, so to spea k . m arried t o t he t ru t h , n a t u rally has h is role as lover a n d wooer fa r beh i n d h i m . B u t h i s t ru t h , t his syst e m of ideas t hat he has concocted fo r h i m sel f, that he is i n fi n i t e l y proud of. a n d t hat he never, n o t fo r a mo m e n t , abandons. so t h a t he will not ca t c h an i n tellectual cold-let o n e not believe t h at t here is a n y t h i ng special about i t ; i t is com posed of rad ica l i s m . m a u d l i n i s m . and h u m a n i tarian se n t i­ mentalism o f a rat h e r i nsipid k i n d , b u t p u t toget her in such a way t ha t i t is righ t , s o t h a t w i t h it o n e can be

riKht i n t h e end : a n d dogmat i s m .

egot ist ical self- p reserva t io n , is t h e basic i n st i nct of t h is i n t el le c t . A l l hy h i m se l f he has worked o u t an i n t e l lect u a l -polit ical world view t h;tt has

On Virtur

283

long been k no w n and long been na med : it is called t he cosmopolitan­ rad ical view, d emocra t ic internat ional i s m . But si nce he worked his t h i n k i n g t h ro u g h to this well- known cosmopolitan rad icalism alone. i n dependently. a nd al most w i t h o u t a n y read ing. i t seems to him so u n iquely a n d OYerpoweri ngly true. so much t h e truth and the light, that he considers eYei·yo ne to be an idiot or a sco u n d rel who refuses or eYen hesi tates to pro fess it as \\·ell. He d i d not come u po n and join t his party a n d world vie,,· �s som e t h i n g established , known , and in its way legi t i mate. he personally concei\'ed of it and thought it out anew. it came oYer h i m as

a

grad ual i l l u m i nation and took hold of h i m to t h e

poi n t of delusion, o f fa naticis m . I f h e h a d c o m e to k n o w it as a world view among other world \· iews. as one party among others, he wou ld be more tolera n t . Thus t h e c h i ld ish man sees in the u nconditional accep­ tance of t h i s idea the criterion of all decency. all intellectual honesty . i n tegri t y . a n d Y i rt u e ; he i m agines h i msel f j u s t i fied. yes. mrt•, ljlllllld j l' dall.\1', Comml'lll t'a

111011 cutillo11 ?

Oh, their civic l a m e n t was lou d , and t h e i r concern fo r t h e peasant in bondage was acute. And still. it was less a concern about the slavery o f the Russia n peasa nt than the t'l'l)' ab.,tmrt co nce rn abo u t t h e se rfdom of the human race in genera l : " I t s h o u ld d c l i n i t e l y not exist a n y m o re. i t is backwa rd, it docs n o t agree with the e nlighten me n t ! Ubntt'. i'galiti' et

On Belif'f

385

fra tern ite ! they thought only of this. But Dostoyevsky finds that one can livf' quite well, )'f'S, evm extremf'ly wf' ll, with such concern, especially when in the process one can nourish oneself spiritually with tlzf' thought of mu's owu moral bf'a Ut)' and sublimity that one had developed i n the flight of one's civic ideas , and bodily-well , bod ily still from the rent money of these same peasants. As far as the peasant and the Russian people themselves were concerned, however, the Russians in Paris were not only deeply com·inced of the hopeless vulgarity of the peasants, this conviction had already tu rned into feeling: "A physical jJf'rception of disgust already betrayed itself there-o h , naturally only an involuntary, almost unconscious feeling that they themselves perhaps did not notice at all . . . Does not all this seem somehow well kn(JIVn and familiar to us? Do we not know them from home, these lovers of the human race who gravitate to Paris-abstract, but "resolute" lovers and prophets of libate, egalite et fratanite, with their civic lamentations and their great concern? Do they not also l ive quite well, yes, even extremely well in the process, glorious and spoiled, as they nourish themselves spiritually with the thought of their own civic-moral beauty. but bodily, perhaps, with the help of a smart impresario from the capitalistic world system that they cu rse as they receive the greatest benefit from it? But above all: do we not know that deep conviction of the vulgarity of the German people, combined with the most stupid adoration of foreign things. especially of "ou r dear little Paris"-a conviction that has already become feeling, so that already a ph ysical perception of disgust for everything German is betrayed , a literal not-being-able-to-stand-them that made it so easy for us. so very easy and obvious, to take sides in this war against German y and for 'j ustice"? But let us continue! With h umorous passion Dostoyevsky combats the scholar's view that "personal perfection in the spirit of Ch ristian love" is not much use in national affairs, and that the social perfection of the individual depends upon the perfection of social institutions. He talks about serfdom . Wherever, he says, true and perfect Christianity would rule on an estate, serfdom would certainly cease to exist, therefore there would be nothing to worry about any more, even if all the official documents and bills of sale were ignored. "What would it matter thf'n to ' Koroboch ka,' the truf' Ch ristian woman, whether her peasants were slaves or not? She would be 'mother' to them, a real mother, and the 'mother' in her would have si mply eliminated the previous 'mistress ,' and this would have happened quite automatically. The previous "-

"

386

Reflections of a Nonpolit ical Man

relationship-that of mistress to slave-would m this case have disap­ peared likf mist before the sun, and the old people would ha\·e been supplanted by others who stood in a completely new relationshi p to one another that would have been unthinkable before . . . I assure you . � l r. Gradovsky, t h a t Koroboch ka's peasants would t hen \·olu ntarily have stayed with her, indeed, for the simple reason that everyone sees where he is best off. Or do you think that the peasants would bt' better off rcith your institutions than with the female landowner who loves them and cares for them like their real mother . . . I n Ch ristia nity, i n true C h ri s ti a n i ty . there will be mas ters and servants, but a slave is unimaginable. I am speaking of the true, perfect Christianity. Servants are not sl;n·es. The disci ple Timothy served the A postle Pau l when they tr;n·eled together, but j ust read the letters of Paul to Timothy: is he writing to a sla,·e. or even to a servan t at all? Certainly not ! These are clearly letters to h is 'son, Timothy'-to his 'beloved son'!" And Dostoye,·sky's voice rises u p to the passage, to the i mmortal and universally valid axiom : "You must realize, my dear professor, that purely social ideals that ha,·e no organic connection with ethical ideals, that stand rat her by themseh'es, ideals that are t herefore separated from the whole as you imagine you can separate things with your learned little knife, social ideals. fu rt hermore. that could be takr11 over from outside a nd tmnspla nlfd to an_Y dfsirrd place and that could blossom there as 'i nstitutions,' as you call t hem-t hat such ideals, I say, do not exist at all, ha,·e ne,·er existed and also ne,·er em exist! And a fter all, what is a social ideal, anyway. how is one to understand this phrase at all ? " Dostoyevsky teaches the religious origin o f national ideas a nd the resultant national dependence of t he social ideal. For ages. he says. people have sought to fi n d a form ula for t heir social orga n izat ion . a formula that would be as p erfec t as possible, one that wou ld do just ice to all ; people have sought this form u la for t housands of years , si nce t he beginning of their historical developmen t . and ha,·e not been able to fi nd it. "The ant knows the formula of its hill. the bee of its hi ve. but the h u m a n being docs not know his form u la . " B u t t hen how did t h e ideal of a social organ ization come i nt o h u man s oc ie ty ? I t i s pu rdy a n d simply t h e p rod uct o r t h e moral perfeu ion of individ ual h u m a n beings : it begi n s with this and it has al wa y s been t h is way and will al ways remain so. The moral idea has always and e\·crywhcre preceded the appearance of a n a ti on , fo r it is jJn'risl'ly u•lwt j(mns thf spi'Cial national cha m rtcr; it first creates the nat ion . B u t the moral idea has emerged from t ranscendental co n v i c ti o n s that have always and e\· e ryw h c re become rcl i �i o u s con fe s -

On Belief

387

sion, and then always, scarcely a fter the new religion has come into being, a new nation has been formed . To presen•e the spiritual treasure that has been receillf(/, people immediately begin to join together, and only then do they begin in eager cooperation to look for ways to organize themselves so that nothing of the received treasu re will be lost ; then they look for a social formula of communal life, for a gm•enunental form best suited for them. They seek to develop the moral t reasu re they have acqu ired over the whole world if possible, to its fullest splendor and to raise it to its greatest glol)'·

Here, in the clearest, simplest , and most heartfelt words, we have not only the moral perfection of the individual, the personal ethos as the primary one that precedes the social idea , we also have here the origin of nationality from the religious element, the national idea as religion ; we u nderstand national war, in which self-assertion and expansion merge and cannot be differentiated , as religious war. "And mark my words," Dostoyevsky continues, As soon as the spiritual ideal in a nation has begun to deca_y in the cou rse of time and years, the nation has also begun to decay at the same time, and with it, too, its whole governmental structure, and the social ideal, which was formed in it in the meantime has also died . . . When in the nation the need for general individual perfection, in the spirit that has n•oked this need, is extinKuished, then all "civic institutions" gradually also disappear, because then there is nothing left to presen•e.

Therefore one can not possibly agree with the professor's doctrine that the social perfection of the h uman being is dependent u pon the perfection of social i nstitutions that imbue in people "if not Christian, then at least ci\·ic values." "A nation," George's voice resoundsA nation is dead when its gods are dead .

But the Russian continues: When the moral-religious idea in the nation has had its day, there has always begu n a panicky. anxious need for u n ion in order "to save one's neck" if something should happen-civic u nity then knows no other goals . . . And what could then the institution, as such, taken for itsel f alone, still save, anyway? I r there were brothers, there would also be brotherhood . B u t i f there are no brothers, brotherhood cannot be achie\·ed through any "institution" at all. \\'hat sense is there in creating an "institution ,"

388

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

and in providing it with t he inscription, "liber/r, rgalilf, [ralrrnitf"? }'ou will drfinilrl)' 110/ arhil'vr anJihing ll•ith s uch an imlilulion, and one would therefore probably-or rather inevitably-have to add somet hing else to the three words as a fourt h element, namely: "ou fa mort . " "Fmlrrnilr ou fa mor/"­ and the brothers will cut their brothers' heads off in order to establish brotherhood t hrough a "ci,·ic inst itution" . . . You , l\ l r. Gradovsky, are seeking salvation in externals. You t h i n k : Even if here in Russia there are mainly only idiots and rascals among us-one only has to transplant some kind of European "institution'" from Europe to Russia, and everyt hing would be saved. The mechanical taking over of European forms ( forms that may well collapse there tomorrow) that are alien to our nation and not attuned to its nat u re, is as is generally known, the main idea of the Russian \\'esterner. "For the present," they say, "we cannot e\·en lind our way in those questions and contradictions that Europe has long ago answered and overcome." What , Europe� And already overcome? Who could have hoodwin ked you so�

And here Dostoyevsky becomes the prophet , the herald of the j udgment he feels to be so close and about whose appearance he is m istaken m detail, but in the essential part pro\'es h imself to be a true seer. "This Europe,'' he cries ( 1 880!), h a s defin itely al ready reached the n e of i t s fa l l . of a fall that will be general and terrible without exception. This anthill, with its moral principle that has been shaken to the core, that has forf"e ited e \·e nt h in g in common and everything absolute, is, I claim, ah·ead�· as good as destroyed. The Fourth Estate has begun to rise, a h·ead�· i t is knoc.: king at the door and demanding e n t ry . and i f entry i s n o t g ra n te d . it will brea k the door to bits. I t does not want the former ideals, it casts e\·erv law aside that has been in effect u p to now. It no longer agrees to COili JH"P I I I i ses and concessions. A rq uirscr n rr in small th ings onl_l inflaml's . a n d the Fou rt h Es ta t e wants to have e\·erythi ng. Somet hing ,,·ill be g in that n o one h a s considered possible up to nm,·. All t hese p a rl ia me n t a r v gove rn m e n t a l s v s t e m s . a l l p re s ently d o m i n a n t social theories, all acc u m u la t ed fo rt u n e s . all t h e ba n ks . sciences, and J e ws all t hese t h i n gs will d isappear in a t r ice-except t h e J e w s , n a t u ra l l y , w h o even then will not lose t h e i r heads a n d ,,·ill rise to t he top again so that t he u p roa r e\·en becomes profit able f"or th em . :\ 1 1 t his i s s t a n ding right a t t h e door. ' " Do vou wish to la u g h ? B lessed a re t h o�e w h o laugh ! l\lay C od g r a n t t h c 1 1 1 long lifc s o t h e y 1 1 1 a v set' nen t h i n g w i t h t heir o w n eyes . . . T h e s y m p t o 1 1 1 s a re t e rr i bl e . T h e t t n n a ll � old . u n natural p o li t i c al situation of t h e E u ro pea n s t a tes could � u fl ire in itsel f to form a be gin n i n g . . . T h is u n 1 1 a t u ra l ness, a 1 1 d t h ese in so l u b l e po li r i c a l p ro b l e ms (which a re , by t he wa y . kn ow 1 1 to a l l ) I II ll S ! i ne v i t a b l y lead to t he g rea t , f i 1 1 a l , a rco u 1 1 t s e t tli 1 1 g po liti cal wa r i n t o w h i c h t·,·er � ·ont' will be d ra w n , a n d w h ich will h re ak o u t i 1 1 t h is ten t l l f"\" ve t, p e r h a ps nen in this dnade. What d o y o u t h i n k : Ca n tlu· .1oril'ly lhnl' .1/ill ll'llhslawl a long fJoliliwl .

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O n Belief

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war? The factory owner is fearful and easy to frighten, and the Jew, too. As soon as the war becomes protracted, or even th reatens to become protracted , they will im mediately close all their factories and banks, and the millions of hungry, discharged proletarians will be put out in the street. Or do you perhaps put your hope in the wisdom of the statesmen, that they will not allow a war to come? But when has one ever been able to trust in this w isdom? Or do you perhaps place hope in the parliaments?­ that they will not grant the means for the war because they might perhaps foresee the consequences? Yes, but when have parliaments ever foreseen any kind of consequences and refused the means to a statesman who was only a little energetic, or at least persistent? And thus the war puts the proletarian in the street. What do you think, will he still wait patiently now and starve as he used to?-r\ow, after the victories of political socialism, a fter the " I n ternationale," the congresses of the socialists, and the Parisian Commune? No, now it will be different: The proletarian will throw himself upon Europe and destroy all the old things forever. Only on our Russian shore will the waves shatter, for then i t will be revealed for the first time clearly to all how much our national organism is different from those of Europe . . . And t hese people, you say, had long ago solved their problems at home? With twenty constitutions in less than a century, and after almost ten revolutions? . . .

The European catastrophe, the great, account-settling political war into which everyone was drawn, came just about two decades later than Dostoyevsky predicted . The statesmen have not hindered it, and the parliaments have granted the means . The factory owners and the J ews in the meantime have not fai led , and the war has not yet put the proletarian in the street, but has given him twenty to fifty marks a day in wages. In a different way from what Dostoyevsky thought, it has been s hown that the national organism of Russia is different from those of Europe, for the revolu tion has broken out in Russia, and not yet in the West. Professor Gradovsky and his "institutions" came to power in the person of 1\l r. 1\l ilykov. The burgher president was followed by an ingenious d ictator who politicized against a peasant-and-soldier council that, for its part, knows more of Tolstoy than of Dostoyevsky. "Dostoy­ evsky is forgotten in Russia." But his question of whether European society cou ld withstand a long political war has found only an unclear answer up to now. We stop at the end of October, 1 9 1 7 . Gorz has been retaken, Austrian­ German divisions have broken open the Al pine passes and descended into the Venetian plain . What happened in Russia and in Rumania can be repeated in I taly. It will be repeated-is there anyone at all who did

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not know that this country is not seriously equal to this wa r? \\'hat a joy the news of these days is! What liberation, salvation, and refreshment the "power," the clear and majestic act of war, brings, after the rotten­ choking gloom and con fusion of domestic affairs, of Germany's psy­ chological anarchy, of her self-treacherous f1irting with submission to "democracy," her "political" attempts to conform, to "reach an under­ stand ing" by stooping i n her diplomatic notes to the language of Wilson! Once again one can breathe joyfully. Italy's defeat would he the defeat of Mazzini and of d'Annunzio, of the democrat ic-republ ican incend iary orator and of the esthetic-political clown, bot h of whom I hate from the bottom of my h eart. But still, I no longer believe, if I ever did, that the problems, Europe's insoluble political problems, can be solved by the force of arms. Germa ny has been victorious too often to still believe in victories. The war is incalculable, "peace" farther away than e\'er. It becomes daily more improbable that the present "democratic" and "absolutist" go\'ern ments will end it; the representatives of the revolut ionary nations will do it when the time is ripe. The proletarian will scarcely lind it necessary "to throw h i mself u pon Europe" in order to seize power for h imself; it will fall to him of itself. The socialist tyranny that bega n before the war and gained strength in the war will be limitless and crushing a fter the war; all opposing spirit, all satirical fu ry, will have to arm itself agai nst it and against noth ing else. I n any case, the 1·adical ren>lut iona ry ideology will see good days. The wave of blissful political hopefulness that has. as we said , been sti rred u p by this war will swell up immeasurably. the exuberant enthusiasm of the end of the eighteenth century will e\·en be exceeded in ardor by the "new belief.·· "Toward the Beginni ng" is the title that a poet of strong literary mannerisms, Walter I l asencle,·er. gin.:s to a lyrical-dramatic fragment he has just published in a pamphlet for you ng people. Here a re a few verses from it : Palaces a re t re m bl i n g . /'ou•n i.1 at an l'lul. \V hoe\'er was grea t , p l u n ges i n to t h e a byss, The gates crash sh u t .

H e w h o had e\'eryt h i n g . h a s lost e\·eryt h i n g : T h e s l a \'e hy d i n t o f h i s work Is ric h e r t h a u he. Follow m e ! I s ha I I lead you.

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The wind is rising from the ruins, The new world is dawning.*

T h e people of the peace conference will "believe." They w i l l believe they have found, or are close to finding, the formula for the social organization of the human race, the form ula of the h uman anthill, of the human beehive, the faultless formula that does justice to all, that they have been seeking for millennia. Liberte, egalite,fraternite ou Ia mort­ and the brothers will cut off their brothers' heads to establish broth­ erhood th rough "civic i nstitutions." The kingdom of God will appear on eart h , j ustice, eternal peace and happi ness in the form of the republique dhnocratique, sociale et universelle. Thereupon the course of th ings will take a turn that will scarcely come up to the great expectations; and not just for external reasons will the momentarily raised idols fall, but especially because of their inner bankru ptcy they always bore within themselves. Deeply disappointed in their hopeful bel ief, people will throw themselves i n to the arms of Weltscltmerz, of a new "Byronism ." Scorn, bitterness, and despair will be the dominant moods on earth­ and once more : would someone who is not a malicious devil, not a sneering enemy of mankind, someone who can say of himself that he is still open to enthusiasm for adventure, for beauty born of loneliness, someone who almost sees life itself in admiration, belief, and dedication , and who does not have to pursue love and sympathy for all creatu res either in a n esthetic or in a political way-would such a person have to h ide it if he looked forward to this probable and unavoidable turn of events with anticipatory satisfaction? I must confess that I am such a person. For I hate politics and the belief in politics because it makes one arrogant, doctrinaire, stubborn and inhuman. I do not believe in the formula for the hu man anthill, the human beehive, do not believe in the republique democ ra tique sociale et wziverselle, do not believe that the h u man race is destined for "happiness," or even that it wa nts happiness­ do not believe in "belief," but rather more in despair, because it is ,

*

PaHiste wa n ken. Die .\lacht i.11 zu Ell(/e. Wer groB war, stlirzt in den Abgru n d , D i e Tore d o n n e r n zu. Wer alles besaB, hat alles ,·erloren; Der Knecht i m SchweiB seiner ! I ande lst reicher als er. Folgt mir! lch will curh fli h re n . D e r W i n d stcigt a u s den Trii m m e rn ,

Die neue Welt brichl a n .

3 92

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

despair that frees the path to salvation; l bel ieve in humility and in work-work on onesel f, which, in its h ighest and most moral, its strictest and most cheerful form. seems to me to be art. And this l also believe , that a politically resolute lover of the human race who wants art to be political , and who, as a man of the hour, calls me a ru thless person and a parasi te because l do not want this-that such a person commits a crime against a human soul , a cri me that invalidates, gives the lie to, and forever destroys all his chatter about love. l heard that Dostoyevsky was forgotten in Russia. A pparently so. As far as Germany is concerned , one can see that even to day young writers cling to the great prophet of the soul as they scarcely do to a n y other, but that everyone who embodies literature, radicalism , and politics swears much more by Tolstoy-not by Tolstoy the artist: he seems quite outmoded to them, and Dostoyevsky's apocalyptic, grotesque psychology stands decidedly nearer to their "expressionism" than Tolstoy's plast ic art ; but they get along well with the old Tolstoy who is no longer an artist, with the social prophet and Christian-anarch ic utopian, the pacifist, antimilitarist and enemy of the state: and quite rightly so. For in contrast to Dostoyevsky, who was not one, this Tolstoy is i ndeed a politician-1 insist u pon this because it is \·ery important to me to bri ng out quite clearly the idea of the politician and his o ppo s ite . l say: Dostoyevsky, even though the power and t h e poli t ical m iss ion of Russia were dear to h i m , and even though-or r at her : bf'ca usl' he scourged revolutionary intrigues, was no p ol itici a n. Tolstoy, who did not at all hold dear the power and political m is s io n of R ussia. who was an antinationalist and pacifist and would have 1-ead . o1· did read Dostoyevsky's essay in favor of war with the greatest d isg u s t -h e. for his part , was one. Why? Beca use in h im Chri st i an ity is com pletely socialized ; because in him social life is raised to a religio n . "Tolsto y's religion," Emil Hammacher says, "falls ma i n ly in the social sp h e re . This means : it serves the p romo tio n o f social wcl f;tre: its ideal result is h a p pines s . But here To l sto y is a d emocra t . he is a po li t i c i a n Tolstoy is enlightenmf'nl, t h at is: a mora l ist of happiness . a philosopher of wel fare. Tols toy is-pardon the word , there is t od a y none more characteristic­ he is f'lttf'll l f', he is, even without ex a c t ly be in g a "West erner," the re pre se ntati ve of R u ssian democrat:y, the West- East a l liance of t oda y is spi ritu a lly j u s t i fied in him-it is not j us t il ied i n Dost oy evsk y Five da ys be fore his last, Dosto y e v sky recei\Td a few lei t ers from Tolstoy to read in wh ich the bi ter had developed his ideas in t h e often "

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O n Belief

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confused , touching, and struggling way t hat we know. Dostoyevsky held h is head and cried out in despair: "Not that! Above all , not that ! " He sympathized , it is said, with none of Tolstoy's t houghts . N evertheless, he picked up everything t hat lay on the table , originals and copies of the letters, and took t hem along. He intended to combat Tolstoy's ideas; but he d ied, and Russia bu ried a patriot and a conservative-a "political fighter," but only as far as he scourged "revol utionary i ntrigues," only as far as one becomes a politician by fighting politics. At the sam e time, Tolstoy was corresponding with an A merican pastor who addressed him as " M y dear brother." I n my opinion, this was not more and not l ess than a world h istorical scandal; and it was Tolstoy's fault that things could go so far, the fault of his degeneration from the great Slavic novelist to the prophet of a democratic, worldwide welfare state. H is success in the Anglo-Saxon world was extraordinary-and this says something of his level. Who in America would u nderstand anything of Dostoyevsky ? I t was left to a cosmopolitan Dane, Johannes V. J ensen, to create a sensational synthesis of Dostoyevsky and America. B u t the fate of being addressed by a reverend with "My dear brother," was spared the author of the " Karamazovs." Dostoyevsky wrote to a mother: "Teach your child to believe i n God, and indeed , strictly according to tradition. Otherwise you cannot make your child into a good person, but at best only into a sufferer, and at worst- into an indifferent, fat one, and this is much worse." I cannot say that I believe in God-it would take a long time, I think, before I wou ld say so, even i f I did. Doubt has not made me fat; I even tend to think t hat it is bel ief (and not doubt) that makes one fat , and it may be more courageous, more moral , and more truthful to l ive in a resigned and in a d ignified way in a god less world than to escape the deep and empty look of the sphinx with a blind faith such as that in democracy. I called such an attempt at escape the betrayal of the cross-may it make him who commits i t fat and blessed ! Meanwhile, I know two things. First, I know that it would be comparati\·ely easier for me to believe in God t han in "mankind"; and second I know that mankind needs belief i n God more than in democracy. For putting aside t he question of whether the individ ual person can be good without God , it is absolutely certain t hat the masses of people will never find the slightest reason to be good without the belief in God , without religion . Religion ! I have heard civilization's literary man talk about religion ! A poet had died, a son of man who was, with all the scintillating cunning of his intellect, still infinitely naive and demoni l u t i o n a ries. a n d dilettante patriots . . . A n d , a s a d is a s t r o u s echo of' t h e a bo\' C: exam ple. t he re ca me the destructive work !'rom below : t ea c h e rs w h o t a u g h t co nt e m pt for authority and rebell ion a gain s t one's n a t i H' la n d ; post al o l'fi c i a l s who b u r n e d let t e rs a n d t elegra m s ; l'anory workers "· ho t h re w sa n d o r e m e ry into the gea rs of t h e m a c h i n e s ; a rse n a l workers w h o destroyed the arsenals, the b u r n i n g o f s h i ps , a monst ro u s dc,· a l u a t i o n of work by I h e workers I h e m scl\'CS - 1 h e d e s t r uc t i o n not o n l y 0 f I he r ic h but o f t h e r i c h es o f t he worl d . And t o c ro w n t h e w o r k . an int e ll ect u a l elite saw fit t o j u st ify such n a t i o n a l s u i c i d e w i t h reason ;md jus t ic e by p ro c l a i m i n g t/11' sarrl'd right of thl' h u m a n bl'ing to lwjJjJilll'.\.\. :\ p at h o l og ica l e n t h u s i as m for h u ma n i t a ria n i sm u n d n m i n ed t h e abi l i t y to d is t i n g u i s h between good and e v i l and bewa iled w i t h s e n i l e se n t i ­ m e n t a l i t y t h e i rre s p o n s i bl e a n d s a n c t i fied pe rso n ' o f' t he c r i m i na l : ­ ,

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one l a i d down o n e's weapons he f'ore c r i m e a n d h a n ded society m·e r t o it."

The Politics of Estheticism

413

I promised too much , I have not been able t o resist. These scathing pages are all too ful l of reminiscences of the basic motifs of this book, with references to its opposition. Freedom , equality, brotherhood ! How do they look, according to Rolland, in the blessed country of their birth? "Courtly customs ruled in this republ ic without republicans; t here were socialistic newspapers, socialistic representatives, who lay on their stomachs before passing kings, servile souls who stood at attention before titles, braid, and medals; to keep them on the leash, one only had to throw them a few bones to chew on, or the Legion of Honor. I f the kings had ennobled a l l the citizens of France, all the citizens of France would have remained loyal to the kings . . . " Oh, yes , democracy! Here we have the national festival with its bustle of people, its amuse­ ment "that is so painful to the ones who are not mirthful and who have need of quiet." Shots resounded, steam-driven merry-go-rounds snorted, and barrel organs whined from noon to midnight. The silly noise lasted a week. Then the President of the Republic, in order to maintain his popularity, allowed the revelers an addit ional half week. I t cost him nothing; he did not hear the noise . . .

Delightful. M . Romain Rolland scolded me severely, but this is delight­ ful . I t is also charming the way h e speaks of the republican transportation system, of seating arrangements i n second-class trains "where one could not even lean back to sleep; for this belongs to the privileges that the French rai lroad companies, which are, of course, extremely democratic, try as much as possible to deny the poorer passengers in order to leave the rich ones the pleasan t consciousness of being the only ones to enjoy sleeping." And then brotherhood. What the foreigner particularly notices in the French landscape is the extreme division of real estate into lots. Every person had his garden ; and every garden, every speck of earth, was separated from the others by walls, by fences of all kinds. At the most one found here and there a few common fields and forests, or one saw that the occupants of a river bank of necessity found themselves closer to one another than to the occupants of the other ban k. Each person locked himself in his house; and it seemed as if these jealous solitary ways, instead of becoming weaker after so many centuries of closeness, were now stronger than e\·er. Christophe though t : "How lonely they are!"

I n the capital they are the same a s in the country: cold, lonely, sullen, isolated from one another. B rotherhood ? Warm-hearted togetherness?

414

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Ma n

This would require a m utual tolerance and a force of affection that only can be born of inner happiness, of the happiness of a healthy, normal, harmonious l i fe . . . This would require a nation to be content , it would require one's native land to be in an epoch of greatness, or, what is e\·en better, to be on the way to greatness. And besides this, there would also have to be-both belong together-a pmN'r that could set all the driving forces of the nation in motion, a wise and strong power that stood above the factions. But there cannot be any other power over the factions than one that draws its strength from itself and not from the great mass, one that does not try to lean on the anarchical m�ority, as is the case today when it lays itself at the feet of the average people, but one that forces itself on all through services rendered : a victorious general , a wel fare dictatorship, a supremacy of intelli gence . . . How do I know? . . .

How does h e know, Rolland's little Olivier, who says this? He only knows that France is a reality that is not content, not more so than other realities, probably less so; and t hat one should not scorn her by tendentiously glori fying her as the country of the "lightest pressu re" and of blessed h umanity. But this is what the Germau belles-lettres-politician is doing. 1/e is careful not to take notice of French reality, either through l i tera t u re or even personal observation, t h rough personal compassion , wh ich is really the path of love. For him, France is not a reali ty, but an idea. \ e ry good ! But he measures this idea by German r eali t y ! This is absurd . Everything would be all right i f he wou ld measure German real i t y by the German ideal-and then be shocked . But to measure one's nat i\· e reality by a foreign ideal, this is insane. This is exotic estheticism . I n Germany there lives a man, a write•·, whose beha,·ior in t h is w a r has been exposed to quite contradictory evaluation. Born in Engla n d . raised in France, Houston Stewart Chamberla in was from an early age a passionate student and prom ulgator of (;erman cult u re. He d id not come to us by chance, l i ke Chamisso, but hy con v ince d choice ; he set t led down and beca me totally Germ a n ; h e celebrated Ka n t , Goet he. and Wagner in great works; yes, h is German charact er had , p e r h a ps because he was an English man , a st rong po li t ica l coloring, he seemed like a German na t io na list , a pan-German, and in the war he took a n int ellect ual and passionate part in the st ruggle of ' his chosen f;u herland-agai nst the cou ntry of his fathers. One has cr i t i c i zed t h is. One found t hat at this time a pain ful silence would have stood him in bet ter stead. As far as I am concerned , I admit t hat to me his behavior s ee m s romJJ(Irath •t'l)' excusable, yes , just i fied. I se c the similarity of t h i s rema rkable case '

The Politics of Estheticism

4 15

of estrangement to the ease of ou r literary-political Frenchman by choice-the similarity and the difference between them. Chamberlain has really become a German to the same extent that our radical literary man has become a Frenchman. The- difference is: he lives in Germany, personally, bodily. The difference is: he thinks himself capable, and i ndeed he is, of maintaining h is belief and his love in spite of the highly imperfect reality that he sees before his eyes and that he is co-enduring. Civilization's literary man, on the other hand, shuns Paris. Yes, just as Heinrich H eine went there to be able to love Germany in a romantic way-from a d istance-our hero does not go t here, ever, not for a week, for he wants to save his abstract, exotic love for France. For he knows deep down that French reality would sober him up within forty-eight hours. What is t h is? If it deserves a milder name than that of cowardice, then it is: estheticism. One more thing! -and that will be enough . The assertion that politicized art is the exact opposi te of estheticized art must accordingly be considered by us as finally refu ted. We know the political moralist, the man of domestic policy and of national self-criticism, as a satirist. Satire, "scourging" satire, is obviously the most important instrument of h is political-social-critical pedagogy. But satire, since it is art, is always to a certain extent an end in itself: it gives pleasure, it pleases the one who exercises it as well as the one who receives it-regardless of its pedagogical value. From a crassly artistic point of view, one could say that the former Russian "conditions" were justified by two or three works of brilliant satire they gave rise to, and that these works would necessarily have been weaker if the "conditions" had been less strong. To a certain extent, then, the satirist likes the object of satire, the "conditions," for they are what make his effects possible. But our political satirist does not really like the German "conditions"-one must understand t h is. 1'\ot only does he not like them from a moral point of view, he does not really like them from the artistic point of view of political satire, either. Let us admit that the socio-political conditions in Germany do not, by far, have the direct literary adaptiveness, the satirical charm, of those of the "genuinely political nations." Therefore the satirist feels the need to stylize them, to perfect them according LO his taste, that is: to Westernize them, to democratize them: The perfect and artistically desirable object of satire is first the thoroughly politicized , democratized society-and the satirist anticipates it for Germany. Therefore he does not satiri ze a real Germany, but an ideal, amusing

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one, one that is as he wishes it already were, a Germany with "pol itical atmosphere." He anticipates democracy, and to this extent, he is creative ; his satire "gives you an example of what you a r e to become." An example-harmless and u npretentious. I still remember a modern comedy scene in which a politician, legislator, or let us say more correctly: a deputy, makes a rhetorical-patriotic cam paign speech be fore some citizens, his constituents, naturally, or the ones who are su pposed to send him to the chamber, I mean to the senate or the house. "I ndustry! " he cries, and every word is a pompous-pat riotic pledge. "Business! Agriculture ! The army ! " This is all I remember. :\ow it would be wrong to believe that our satirist had no ear for the completely un-German, the thoroughly alien accent of this scene. He has an ear for it-b u t this ear is delighted by it. B ut a sat ire that, bored with the national reality, "whips" a foreign theme u ntil it becomes national­ such a satire may well be called esthetic. This i s the cheerfu l side of the matter. But it has a serious one-and now it is necessary to say a word about social-critical expressionism. Expressionism, to put it quite generally a nd ,·ery brie fly. is that artistic direction that, in strong contrast to the passivit y, to the humble manner of reception and presentation of im pressionism , most deeply despises the imitation of reality, that resol utely dismisses a ll obligat ion to realit\· and replaces it with the so,·ereign, explosive, rut h les s ly creatin· decree or the intellect. Oh, excellent-e,·en if naturally not completely ne"·· Art was never an imitation or real ity ; copies of n a t u re ha,·e nen�r been considered art. :'\or has art ever been sim ple passi,·ity; pa ssi \ e an is not conceivable, it has always been acti\'e, it has been the desire for spiri t . for beauty, its inner essence has a lw a y s been st yle . limn a n d select ion . rei nforcement, elevatio n. a rising above t he material . and e\·ery a rt i s t s life work, whether small or l arge has been a cosmos, rest ing in itsel f. stam ped with t he mark of its c rea to r . I m p ression and expression h;I\'C always been necessa ry elements of a n , one "'i t hout t h e ot her has been he lpl e ss. Even if their p ro portions changed . i l' in one case delight . E• i t h fu l n css a n d power or nat u ral perce pt ion. in t h e ot her t he inst inct for the grotesq ue, predom i nate and form the psychologica l law of art is tic c rea tio n . The ant i t hcsis of impressionistic and ex pressionist ir an is t h a t of rea lism a nd gro t esqueness. Tolstoy and Dostoye\·sky: t he realistic, plastic wri te r, and 1 h e visionary a rt ist ol' t he grotesq ue. stand t here opposite one anot her in all t h ei r grandeur in one n a t ion and epoch. I t would be idle to ask who was t he greater. It would he i m p u den t to claim t h a t t h e will i n the ex pression ist , D osto y c,· s k y . was st rongcr. '

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The Politics of Estheticism

417

Nothing exceeds the ethical will, the moral strength, that speaks from Tolstoy's serious, gigantic work. B u t if we accept the principle that the expressionistic artistic tendency contains more of an intellectual impetus to do violence to life, then one will definitely have to set certain limits to the "artistic freedom" under discussion here-art will have to set them for itself. The grotesque is the supratrue and the exceedingly real, not the arbitrary, false, antireal, and absurd . And an artist who would deny all obligation to life, who would carry disgust for the impression so far that he practically divests h imself of all obligation to real forms of life, and who only allows the dictatorial emanations of some kind of absolute art demon to hold sway: such an artist may well be called the greatest of all radical fools. Here lie the dangers of satire. I t seems to me that satire's inner conflict is that it is of necessity grotesque art, that is: expressionism , and that therefore its receptivity to love a nd suffering is more weakly developed , its bonds to nature exposed to loosening-while a t the same time there is no type of art that must remain more responsible and intimately bound to life and to reality than satire, since it clearly wants to accuse, judge, and castigate life and reality. This conflict and this danger-the danger, that is, of degeneration into mischief (for a distorted picture without basis i n reality that is nothing other than an "emanation" is neither d istortion nor image, but mischief)-this danger, then, appears strangely enough less often and is probably to a lesser extent present so long as it is a matter of satire on a grand scale, satire of the world and of mankind. I t becomes a burning issue, however, when the satire descends to political and to social criticism, with the appearance, in short, of the expressionistic-satirical social novel . At this point it becomes a political, an international danger. For a social-critical expressionism without impression, responsibility, and conscience, that described en­ trepreneurs who do not exist, workers who do not exist, "social conditions" that may have existed perhaps in England around 1 850, and that brewed its inflammatory stories of love and murder from such ingredients-such a social satire would be mischief, and if it deser\'ed a more noble name, more noble than that of international defamation and national slander, then it is: ruthless estheticism . What I have said here-as with everything I say-is the expression of my anger against the shamelessness with which the i ntellectual politician decrees the identity of politics and morality; against the arrogance with which h e denies and slanders every morality that seeks to answer the question of h uman nature in another, more psychological

4 18

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

way than that of politics-that unculti\'ated . I mea n : un-Germanly cultivated arrogance that reviles e\'erything that is not politics as estheticism, and that presumes to schoolmaster the German way of life with a hostile, foreign spirit. I ha\'e gi\·en three or four examples of what his antiestheticism, h is "responsibility," his high moral combination of lite rature and politics, are like : his unscru pulous "passion," his fornication with \'irtue, his bellezza radicalism. t he artist's irresponsibility behind wh ich he retreats as soon as it seems necessary. h is expressionism. that is, h is inability to )0\·e the close and the real, his childish cult of what is foreign and at the same time the caution with which he a\·oids the experience of foreign reality, and fi nally, the alien, playful, and irresponsibly false element in h is satire-all this is estheticism of the first water, and with h is boastingly proclaimed , optimistic-re\·o)utionary bel ief in "mankind," "progress," and "happiness,'' "the cross is betrayed" and denied i n the same way as it was with some kind of beautiful ruthlessness of the past. But h is false apostasy has the intolerance of the genuine one, for his hostility to l i fe has forgotten shame. self-doubt. and irony, it takes itself completely seriously now, it is aggressi\·e to the poin t of insanity, and its self-righteousness cries aloud to hea\·en. Truly. the " hysterical renaissance" "·as morally better than the h ysterical democracy.

C HAPTER 1 2

Irony and Radicali sm

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his i s a n antithesis and a n either-or. The intellectual human being has the choice (as fa r as he has the choice) of being either an ironist or a rad ical; a third choice is not decently possible. What he proves to be is a question of fi nal argumentation. I t is decided by which argument is for him the final, decisive, and absolute one: life or intellect (intellect as truth or as justice or as purity). For the radical, life is no argument. Fiat justitia or