{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_53620/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_53620","id":"gutenberg_53620","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53620","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, 1844-1900"],"text":"THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE\n\nBY\n\nDANIEL HAL\u00c9VY\n\nTRANSLATED BY J. M. MONE\n\nWITH AN INTRODUCTION BY\n\nT. M. KETTLE, M.P.\n\n\nT. FISCHER UNWIN\n\nLONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE\nLEIPSIC: INSELSTRASSE 20\n\n1911\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nCHAPTER I\nCHILDHOOD\n\nCHAPTER II\nYEARS OF YOUTH\n\nCHAPTER III\nFRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE AND RICHARD WAGNER--TRIEBSCHEN\n\nCHAPTER IV\nFRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE AND RICHARD WAGNER--BAYREUTH\n\nCHAPTER V\nCRISIS AND CONVALESCENCE\n\nCHAPTER VI\nTHE LABOUR OF ZARATHUSTRA\n\nCHAPTER VII\nTHE FINAL SOLITUDE\n\nINDEX\n\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe duel between Nietzsche and civilisation is long since over;\nand that high poet and calamitous philosopher is now to be judged\nas he appears in the serene atmosphere of history, which--need it\nbe said?--he infinitely despised. The crowd, the common herd, the\nmultitude--which he also despised--has recorded its verdict with its\nusual generosity to the dead, and that verdict happens to be an ample\nrevenge. It has dismissed Nietzsche's ideas in order to praise his\nimages. It has conceded him in literature a brilliant success, and\nhas treated his philosophy as fundamental nonsense of the sort that\ncalls for no response except a shrug of the shoulders. The immoralist\nwho sought to shatter all the Tables of all the Laws, and to achieve\na Transvaluation of all Values, ends by filling a page in _Die Ernte_\nand other Anthologies for the Young. And in certifying his style to\nbe that of a rare and real master the \"crowd\" has followed a true\ninstinct. More than Schopenhauer, more even than Goethe, Nietzsche is\naccounted by the critics of his country to have taught German prose\nto speak, as Falstaff says, like a man o' this world. The ungainly\nsentences, many-jointed as a dragon's tail, became short, definite,\narrowy. \"We must 'Mediterraneanise' German music,\" he wrote to Peter\nGast, and in fact he did indisputably \"Mediterraneanise\" the style of\nGerman literature. That edged and glittering speech of his owed much to\nhis acknowledged masters, La Rochefoucauld, Voltaire, and Stendhal,\nthe lapidaries of French. But it was something very intimately his\nown; he was abundantly dowered with the insight of malice, and malice\nalways writes briefly and well. It has not the time to be obscure.\nNietzsche had this perfection of utterance, but a far richer range and\nvolume. He was a poet by grace divine, and a true Romantic for all the\nacid he dropped on Romanticism; the life of his soul was an incessant\ncreative surge of images, metaphors, symbolisms, mythologies. These two\ntendencies produced as their natural issue that gnomic and aphoristic\ntongue which sneers, preaches, prophesies, chants, intoxicates and\ndances through the pages of _Also Sprach Zarathustra._ German critics\nhave applied to Nietzsche, and with even greater fitness, Heine's\ncharacterisation of Schiller: \"With him thought celebrates its orgies.\nAbstract ideas, crowned with vine-leaves, brandish the thyrsus and\ndance like bacchantes; they are drunken reflections.\" Of many aspects\nof his own personality Nietzsche may have thought not wisely but too\nwell; but in this regard it appears that he did not exaggerate himself.\n\"After Luther and Goethe,\" he wrote to Rohde, \"a third step remained\nto be taken.... I have the idea that with _Zarathustra_ I have brought\nthe German language to its point of perfection.\" The German world of\nletters has not said No! to a claim so proud as to seem mere vanity.\nFriedrich Nietzsche holds a safe, and even a supreme position in the\nhistory of literature.\n\nWhat is to be said of his place in the history of philosophy? H\u00f6ffding\nallows him a high \"symptomatic value,\" but only that. His work has\nthe merit of a drama, in which the contradictions of modern thought,\nvibrant with passion, clash and crash together in a tumultuous\nconflict which, unhappily, has no issue. M. Alfred Fouill\u00e9e, who has\ncontrasted him with Guyau--that noblest of \"modern\" thinkers--in his\nbook _Nietzsche et l'immoralisme,_ draws out a table of antitheses,\nand cancelling denials against affirmations, arrives at a result that\nlooks remarkably like zero. Nietzsche in truth was a man of ecstasies\nand intuitions, rather than of consequent thought. He troubled little\nto purge himself of self-contradictions, as became a writer whose first\nword had been a vehement assault on that Socratic rationalism which,\nas he believed, had withered up the vital abundance of Greece. His\ninstincts were those of an oracle, a mystagogue; and mystagogues do\nnot argue. Heinrich von Stein, in styling his first book an _Essay in\nLyrical Philosophy,_ spoke in terms of his master's mind.\n\nWith Nietzsche reason deliberately abdicates, bearing with it into\nexile its categories of good and evil, cause and end. Schopenhauer\nhad suggested to him that the true key to the riddle of existence was\nnot intellect but will; behind the mask of phenomena the illuminated\nspirit discerned not a Contriving but a Striving, a monstrous Will,\nblind as old \u0152dipus, yearning like him through blood and anguish\nto a possible redemption. But in time he cast off Schopenhauer and\npessimism. The Will to Live he \"construed in an optimistic sense,\" and\nit darkened into that other mystery, at once vaguer and more malign,\nthe Will to Power. The problem remained to find a ground for optimism,\nand a clue to the harmony, to the recurring rhythms and patterns of\nreality as we know it. So was born what is perhaps the characteristic\nidea of Nietzsche. The universe is not a phenomenon of Will, it is a\nphenomenon of Art. \"In my preface to the book on Wagner I had already,\"\nwrote Nietzsche in 1886, \"presented art, and not morality, as the\nessentially metaphysical activity of man: in the course of the present\nbook I reproduce in many forms the singular proposition that the world\nis only to be justified as an artistic phenomenon.\" For the optimist\n_quand-m\u00eame_ this interpretation has many advantages. Cruelty, sorrow\nand disaster need no longer dismay him; since a world may at the same\ntime be a very bad world and a very good tragedy. \"It may be,\" the\nlyricist, turned philosopher, wrote later, \"that my _Zarathustra_ ought\nto be classified under the rubric Music.\" These two passages, with a\nhundred others, determine the atmosphere into which we are introduced.\nWe have to deal not with a thinker who expounds a system, but with a\nprophet who dispenses a Revelation: Nietzsche is not the apologist but\nthe mystic of Neo-Paganism.\n\nComing to closer range, we may dismiss at once a great part of his\npolemical writings. They were a sort of perpetual bonfire in which\nfrom time to time Nietzsche burned what he had once adored, and much\nmore beside. They bear witness to that proud independence, one may\nalmost say that savage isolation, which was the native climate of his\nsoul. _Niemandem war er Untertan,_ \"he was no man's man,\" he wrote\nof Schopenhauer, and that iron phrase expressed his own ideal and\npractice. His brochures of abuse he regarded as a mode, though an\nunhappy mode, of liberation. He had little love of them himself in his\ncreative moments: he desired with a fierce desire to rid his soul of\nhatreds and negatives and rise to a golden affirmation. \"I have been\na fighter,\" declares Zarathustra, \"only that I might one day have my\nhands free to bless.\" \"In dying I would offer men the richest of my\ngifts. It was from the sun I learned that, from the sun who when he\nsets is so rich; out of his inexhaustible riches he flings gold into\nthe sea, so that the poorest fishermen row with golden oars.\" It is\nnot the Will to Power that speaks here, but that older and more sacred\nfountain of civilisation, the Will to Love. But if Nietzsche had\nthat inspiration one is tempted to say of him what he said of Renan:\nHe is never so dangerous as when he loves. The truth is that he had\nthe genius of belittlement. It was the other side of his vanity, a\nvanity so monstrous that it seems from the first to have eaten of the\ninsane root. There is no humour, no integral view of things, behind\nhis critical work. It is sick with subjectivity. And yet Zarathustra\nin a temper is, by times, far more amusing than sinister. What could\nbe better than some of the characterisations in _A Psychologist's\nHedge-School,_ \"Seneca, the Toreador of virtue ... Rousseau, or the\nreturn to nature _in impuris naturalibus._ ... John Stuart Mill; or\nwounding lucidity\"? But when, in this mood, he gnaws and nibbles about\nthe sanctuaries of life; when he tells us that the true Fall of Man\nwas the Redemption, that the two most noxious corruptions known to\nhistory are Christianity and alcohol; when he presses his anti-Feminism\nto a point that goes beyond even the gross German tradition of which\nLuther's _Table Talk_ is a monument, the best that one can do for him\nis to remember that he often took too much chloral. It may be that\nto the circles in these countries to whom the cult of Nietzscheanism\nappeals, this strain of his thought also appeals. This particular\nmusic is not played on many trumpets, but every Superman ought to know\nit. And he ought to know further that Zarathustra, being brave, gibes\nnot only at St. Paul, but even at Herbert Spencer, and has no more\ntoleration for the gospel according to Marx than for that according to\nMatthew.\n\nWhat is the gospel of this ambiguous prophet? It is, he himself\ndeclares, a long \"Memento vivere.\" His own experience taught him\nthat the characteristic of life, in its highest moments, is to\nbe unimaginably alive. From a mere process it becomes a sudden\nintoxication, and on the psychology of that intoxication, which is the\npsychology of the artist and also that of the lover and the saint,\nhe has written pages which are a wonder of pure light. From this\nstandpoint he criticises justly the mechanical theory of adjustments\nin which there is nothing to adjust, of adaptations in which there\nis nothing to adapt, the whole _ab extra_ interpretation of life\npopularised by Darwin, Spencer, and the English school in general. The\nliving unit is more than a mere node or knot in a tangle of natural\nselection; it is a fountain of force, of spontaneity, constantly\noverflowing. \"The general aspect of life is not indigence and famine,\nbut on the contrary richness, opulence, even an absurd prodigality.\"\nTo live is for Nietzsche, as for the Scholastics, to be a centre of\nself-movement. With the Pragmatists he asserts the primacy of life over\nthought. But this tension of consciousness, this Dionysiac drunkenness,\nis only a foundation, it is not yet a philosophy. Philosophy, or at all\nevents moral philosophy, begins with the discovery that there are other\npeople in the world. Your ego, thus drunken and expansive, collides\nsharply with another ego, equally drunken and expansive, and it becomes\nat once necessary to frame a code of relations, a rule of the road. Is\nthis force and spontaneity of the individual to flow out towards others\nthrough the channel of domination or through that of love?\n\nZarathustra had marched with the Germans over prostrate France, he had\nsaid in his Gargantuan egoism: \"If there were Gods, how could I bear\nnot to be a God? _Consequently_ there are no Gods.\" If the Goths and\nthe Vandals had read Hegelian metaphysics, observes Fouill\u00e9e, they\nwould have answered this question as Nietzsche answered it. The living\nunit accumulates a superabundance of force in order to impose its power\non others ... _an andern Macht auslassen._ The Will to Power is the\nsole source of human activity. The strong must live as warriors and\nconquerors, adopting as their three cardinal virtues pride, pleasure,\nand the love of domination. Pity is the deepest of corruptions; it but\ndoubles pain, adding to the pain of him who suffers the pain of him\nwho pities. If you have helped any one, you must wash the hands that\nhelped him, for they are unclean. The Crusaders brought home but one\ntreasure, the formula, namely, of the Assassins, \"Nothing is true,\neverything is permitted.\" Science is mere illusionism; but the warrior,\nknowing how to be hard--for that is the new law--will impose his own\narbitrary values on all things, and will make life so good that he will\ndesire it to be indefinitely repeated. The earth, thus disciplined,\nwill bring forth the Superman, who, having danced out his day, will\ndisappear to be recreated by the Eternal Return. Thus spake Zarathustra.\n\nThe greatest difficulty that one experiences before such a doctrine\nas this is the difficulty of taking it seriously. Nietzsche, who had\na tendency to believe that every reminiscence was an inspiration,\nis by no means as original as he thought. After all, there were\nsceptics, optimists, tyrants and poets before Zarathustra. The \"common\nherd\" may not be given to discussing ethical dualism, but it knows\nthat since society began there have been two laws, one for the rich\nand another for the poor. Scepticism as to the objectivity of human\nvalues, moral and intellectual, is no new heresy, but a tradition as\nold as science, and almost as old as faith. The notion of an Eternal\nReturn, crystallised by Plato from a mist of earlier speculation, had\nexercised many modern thinkers; one has only to name Heine, Blanqui,\nvon Naegeli, Guyau, Dostoievsky. The Romantics had, at the beginning\nof Nietzsche's century, as Schlegel wrote, \"transcended all the ends\nof life,\" and, fascinated with the idea of mere power, had filled the\nimagination of Europe with seas and storms that raged for the sole\nsake of raging. There was no Scholastic compiler of a text-book on\nEthics but had \"posed morality as a problem,\" and asked in his first\n_qu\u00e6stio_ whether there was a science of good and evil. The Superman\nso passionately announced by Nietzsche had already been created by\nthe enigmatic and dilettante fancy of Renan. The name itself was\nas old as Goethe, though it is to be recalled that not Goethe but\nMephistopheles applies it to Faust as a sneer and a temptation.\nZarathustra is not a prophet nor even a pioneer; he brings but a new\nmode of speech, his triumphant and dancing phrase sweeps into its\nwhirl a thousand ghosts and phantoms. And what is to be said of the\ndoctrine itself? Perhaps the most adequate answer to Nietzsche, on the\nplane of his own ideas, is that of Guyau. Both were poets, strayed\ninto philosophy, both seize upon life as the key to all reality. But\nGuyau finds in the spontaneous outflow of individual life, itself the\nspring of sociability, fraternity, love. An organism is more perfect\nas it is more sociable, there can be no full intensity without wide\nexpansion. \"There is a certain generosity inseparable from existence,\nwithout which one withers up interiorly and dies. The mind must flower;\nmorality, altruism are the flower of human life.\" The reduction of\nall consciousness to one mode--in Nietzsche the Will to Power--is\nneither new nor difficult. La Rochefoucauld tracked down behind all\nmotives the motive of self-interest, and modern simplifiers have amused\nthemselves by analysing passion into unconscious thought. The soul,\nas St. Augustine tells us, is all in every part; and since the same\nself is always present, it is obviously possible in some fashion or\nanother to translate any one mood of its life into any other. But such\nsuppression of the finer details, while interesting as a tour de force,\nis not scientific psychology. The Will to Power is not sufficiently\ndefinite to serve the turn of a moralist or even an immoralist. Power\nis of many kinds. Love hath its victories not less renowned than\nhate. Had Cleopatra's nose been shorter, history would, says Pascal,\nhave been different, and in the phrase of the French _chanson_ there\nare often more conquests ambushed in the hair of Delilah than in\nthat of Samson. Nietzsche himself perceived that it was necessary to\nestablish a hierarchy of values as between different manifestations\nof \"power,\" but this _Umwerthung aller Werthe_ was never either\nachieved or achievable. The evangel of Zarathustra dissolves into mere\nsound and fury for lack of what the Court of Equity calls reasonable\nparticularity. Most notable is this in regard to the two laws. Am I a\nSuperman--or rather a potential ancestor of the Superman, for in this\ncase hereditary privilege runs backwards--with the right to found my\nlife on pride, pleasure, and the love of power, or am I a slave with no\nright except to remain a slave? The test is astral, and even nebulous.\nIf you can compel the stars to circle about you as their centre, if you\nhave a chaos in you and are about to beget a dancing star, then you\nare of the seed of the Superman. Unhappily, the only people who could\nseriously entertain such an estimate of themselves are the very wealthy\nand the very mad. Zarathustra derides the mob in order to flatter the\nsnob; he is _malgr\u00e9 lui_ the casuist of the idle rich, the courtier of\ninternational finance.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche was an optimist. It was a paradox of courage. There\nis nothing nobler or more valiant in the history of thought than his\nrefusal to let the sun be dimmed by the mist of his own suffering. \"No\ninvalid has the right to be a pessimist.\" \"Let them beware: the years\nin which my vitality sank to its minimum were those in which I ceased\nto be a pessimist.\" That is magnificent, but it is not philosophy. If\nNietzsche by his insomnia and his wounded eyes is pledged on the point\nof honour to optimism, is not Schopenhauer by his fixed income and\nexcellent digestion similarly pledged to pessimism? But Zarathustra's\noptimism is not merely positive, it is ecstatic: to express its fulness\nhe creates the formula of the Eternal Return. He claps his hands and\ncries \"Encore!\" to life. He is drunken with joy as men are in the\ntaverns with corn and the grape, and he shouts \"The same again!\"\n\nThis Eternal Return is presented to us as a conclusion of mathematical\nphysics and spectrum analysis. St. Thomas Aquinas taught, following\nAristotle, that the stars were composed of a substance nobler than\nthat of earth, not subject to birth or death, and so immune from\ncorruption. But Fraunhofer and his successors have, with their prisms\nand telescopes, discovered in the stars the same eighty-one or\neighty-two elements which constitute the earth. Since then we have\nbut a finite number of indestructible elements and forces, and an\ninfinite space and time--or at least a space and time to which we can\nconceive no limits--it must follow that the same combinations will\nrepeat themselves incessantly both in space and time. There is not only\nan Eternal Return, but an Infinite Reduplication. And if thought, as\nNietzsche assumed, is only the phosphorescence accompanying certain\narrangements of matter, the same conscious life must also repeat\nitself. One does not stay to discuss this phantasy of mathematics\nexcept to say that whoever was entitled to entertain it Zarathustra\nwas not. If science is, as he held, a mere linked illusionism, how can\nit give so absolute a prophecy? To Nietzsche it was no conclusion, but\na reminiscence from Greek speculation which came to him, disguised in\nthe flame of an inspiration, under that pyramidal rock near Sorlei,\n\"six thousand feet above men and time.\" He accepted it because it\nseemed to him the supreme formula of optimism. His mind was incited\nto it perhaps by that sombre passage in which his rejected master,\nSchopenhauer, declares that if you were to knock on the graves, with\npower to summon forth the dead to rise up and live their lives again,\nnone would answer to your call. Christianity agrees with Schopenhauer;\nfor though Christianity is an optimism, it is founded on pessimism. It\nis an optimism poised on a centre that does not lie within the walls\nof space and time. Christianity called a new world into existence to\nredress the balance of the old; and were this old world all--a closed\ncircuit, a rounded whole--Zarathustra might dance and chant through all\nits Campo Santos without finding more than a very few to rise up and\nfollow him.\n\nThe practical consequences to which Nietzsche was led were in his own\nphrase inactual, out of time and out of season. Zarathustra is, by a\nnatural kinship, a prophet of the Anarchists, but he hated Anarchism;\nby a strange transformation, the genius of a certain school of\nSocialists, but he despised Socialism. German officials in Poland may\nfind in him a veritable Oppressors' Handbook; he danced through the\nstreets at the victory over France, but he derided the German State\nand Empire as a new idol. He contemned women, but praised indissoluble\nmarriage. He preached pleasure, but celebrated chastity in a noble\nhymn. He was all for authority and inequality, \"a Joseph de Maistre,\"\nsays Fouill\u00e9e, \"who believes in the hangman without believing in the\nPope\"; but when he looked at a criminal on trial he acquitted everybody\nexcept only the judge. He denounced Bismarck and the Kaiser for being\ntoo democratic; he regarded Science, too, as disastrously democratic,\nbecause it subjected all phenomena, great and small, to the same\nuniform laws. Will was his god, but he saw the world under the aspect\nof a Mahometan determinism, and submitted himself to a resignation,\nan adoption of the hostile ways of existence, an _amor fati_ which a\nStoic might think extravagant. A German proletarian, full of German\nprejudices, he thought himself Polish and noble, and boasted of being a\n_sans-patrie_ and a \"good European.\" Pity, generosity, self-immolation,\nthe whole ritual of civilisation, were condemned by Zarathustra and\npractised by him. In brief, Nietzsche never rose above a sort of\nphilosophical cinematograph; he had the glitter but never the hard\ndefiniteness of the diamond which he chose as his symbol.\n\nBut it would be very superficial to suppose that a thought so\npassionate could be altogether unreal. Zarathustra is a counter-poison\nto sentimentalism, that worst ailment of our day. He brings a sort of\nethical strychnine which taken in large doses is fatal, but in small\ndoses is an incomparable tonic. He disturbed many who were woefully at\nease in Zion, and was a poet of the heroic life. Germany, so apt to\nlose herself in the jungle of scholarship, needed to be reminded that\nerudition exists for the sake of life and not life for the sake of\nerudition. To literature, when he wrote in conformity with its settled\nand common tradition, he gave great chants of courage, loneliness\nand friendship. In M. Hal\u00e9vy's book, founded on that of Madame\nF\u00f6rster-Nietzsche, we have in English for the first time a portrait\nof him in the intimacies of his life and thought. It exhibits him as\nbetter than his gospel, a hundred times better than most of those\ndisturbers of civilisation who call themselves his disciples.\n\nT. M. KETTLE\n\n\n\n\nThe Life of Friedrich Nietzsche\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nCHILDHOOD\n\n\nKarl-Ludwig Nietzsche, a young clergyman of the Lutheran Church,\ncame of an ecclesiastical family. His father and his grandfather had\ntaught theology. His wife was the daughter and the granddaughter of\nclergy-men. Ignoring modern thought and all the agitations and desires\nof his time, he followed the safe path of the double tradition,\nwhich had at once been revealed by God to the faithful and indicated\nby Princes to their subjects. His superiors thought highly of him.\nFrederick William IV., King of Prussia, condescended to take him under\nhis wing, and he might have hoped for a fine career had he not suffered\nfrom headaches and nerves. As it was, rest became essential.\n\nHe asked for a country parish, and that of R\u00f6cken was confided to\nhim. The situation of this poor village, whose little houses uprear\nthemselves in a vast plain on the confines of Prussia and Saxony, was\nmelancholy; but Karl-Ludwig Nietzsche liked the place, for solitude was\nacceptable to him. He was a great musician, and often, at the fall of\nday, would shut himself up in his church and improvise upon the rustic\norgan whilst the good folk of his parish stood without and listened in\nadmiration.\n\nThe pastor and his young wife waited four years for their first child,\nwho was born on October 15,1844, the King's birthday. The coincidence\nincreased the father's joy. \"O month of October, blessed month,\" he\nwrote in his church register, \"ever have you overwhelmed me with joy.\nBut of all the joys that you have brought me, this is the deepest,\nthe most magnificent: I baptize my first child.... My son, Friedrich\nWilhelm, such shall be your name on earth in remembrance of the royal\nbenefactor whose birthday is yours.\"\n\nThe child soon had a brother, then a sister. There are women who\nremember Friedrich's infancy, and those quickly passing days of joy\nround the Nietzsches' hearth. Friedrich was slow in learning to speak.\nHe looked at everything with grave eyes, and kept silent. At the age\nof two and a half he spoke his first word. The pastor liked his silent\nboy, and was glad to have him as a companion of his walks. Never did\nFriedrich Nietzsche forget the sound of distant bells ringing over the\nimmense pool-strewn plain as he wandered with his father, his hand\nnestled in that strong hand.\n\nMisfortune came very quickly. In August, 1848, Nietzsche's father fell\nfrom the top of the stone steps leading up to his door, and struck his\nhead violently against the edge of one of them. The shock brought on a\nterrible attack, or, perhaps, for one cannot be certain, only hastened\nits approach: Karl-Ludwig Nietzsche lost his reason, and, after a year\nof aberration and decline, died. Friedrich Nietzsche was then four\nyears old. The incidents of this tragic time made a deep impression\nupon his mind: night-alarms, the weeping in the house, the terrors of\nthe closed chamber, the silence, the utter abandonment to woe; the\ntolling bells, the hymns, the funeral sermons; the coffin engulfed\nbeneath the flagstones of the church. His understanding of such things\nhad come too early, and he was shaken by it. His nights were troubled\nwith visions, and he had a presentiment of some early disaster. He had\ndreams--here is the na\u00efve recital that he makes in his fourteenth year:\n\n\"When one despoils a tree of its crown it withers and the birds desert\nits branches. Our family had been despoiled of its crown; joy departed\nfrom our hearts, and a profound sadness entered into possession of us.\nAnd our wounds were but closing when they were painfully reopened.\nAbout this time I had a dream in which I heard mournful organ music,\nas if at a burial. And as I was trying to discover the cause of this\nplaying, a tomb opened sharply and my father appeared, clad in his\nshroud. He crossed the church, and returned with a little child in his\narms. The tomb opened again, my father disappeared into it, and the\nstone swung back to its place. At once the wail of the organ ceased,\nand I awoke. The next morning I told the dream to my dear mother. A\nshort while after, my little brother Joseph fell ill, and after a\nnervous crisis of a few hours, he died. Our grief was terrible. My\ndream was exactly fulfilled, for the little body was placed in the arms\nof its father. After this double calamity the Lord in heaven was our\nsole consolation. It was towards the end of January, 1850.\"\n\nIn the spring of this year the pastor's widow left the parochial house\nand went to reside in the neighbouring town of Naumburg-zur-Saale,\nwhere she was near her own people. Relations of hers lived in the\nneighbouring countryside. Her husband's mother and his sister came to\nstay with her in the small house, to which the children, who at first\nhad been disconsolate, gradually grew accustomed.\n\nNaumburg was a royal city, favoured by the Hohenzollerns and devoted\nto their dynasty. A bourgeois society of officials and pastors, with\nsome officers' families and a few country squires, lived within the\ngrass-grown ramparts, pierced with five gates, which were closed every\nevening. Their existence was grave and measured. The bell of the\nmetropolitan church, flinging its chimes across the little town, awoke\nit, sent it to sleep, assembled it to State and religious festivals.\nAs a small boy Nietzsche was himself grave and measured. His instincts\nwere in accord with the customs of Naumburg, and his active soul was\nquick to discover the beauties of his new life. He admired the military\nparades, the religious services with organ and choir, the majestic\nanniversary celebrations. He found himself deeply moved every year by\nthe return of Christmas. His birthday stirred him less deeply, but was\na source of great joy.\n\n\"My birthday being also that of our beloved King,\" he wrote, \"I am\nawakened that day by military music. I receive my presents: the\nceremony is quickly over, and we go together to the church. Although\nthe sermon is not directed to my special benefit, I choose the best of\nit and apply it to myself. Afterwards we all assemble at the school to\ncelebrate the great festival.... Before the break-up a fine patriotic\nchorus is sung, and the director _concilium dimisit._ Then comes for\nme the best moment of all; my friends arrive and we spend a happy day\ntogether.\"\n\nFriedrich did not forget his father, and wished to follow his example\nand to become, like all the men of his race, a pastor, one of the\nelect who live near God and speak in His name. He could conceive no\nhigher vocation, nor any more congenial to himself. Young as he was,\nhe had an exacting and meticulous conscience. The slightest scolding\npained him, and he liked to take his own line, unaided. Whenever he\nfelt a scruple he would retire to some obscure hiding-place and examine\nhis conscience, nor would he resume his play with his sister until\nhe had deliberately arrived at a condemnation or a justification of\nhis conduct. One day, when it was raining in torrents, his mother saw\nhim coming back from school with slow, regular steps, although he\nwas without umbrella or cloak. She called him, and he came sedately\nup to her. \"We have always been told not to run in the streets,\" he\nexplained. His companions nicknamed him \"the little pastor,\" and\nlistened, in respectful silence, when he read them aloud a chapter from\nthe Bible.\n\nHe was careful of his prestige. \"When one is master of oneself,\" he\ngravely taught his sister, \"then one is master of the whole world.\" He\nwas proud, and believed in the nobility of the Nietzsches. This was\na family legend which his grandmother loved to relate, and of which\nhe and his sister Lisbeth used to dream. Remote ancestors of theirs,\nCounts, Nietzski by name, had lived in Poland. During the Reformation\nthey defied persecution, and broke with the Catholic Church. Thereafter\nthey wandered wretchedly for three years, outcasts, pursued from\nvillage to village. With them was their son, who had been born on\nthe eve of their flight. The mother nursed this child with devoted\nconstancy, and he thus acquired, in spite of all ordeals, wonderful\nhealth, lived to a great age, and transmitted to his line the double\nvirtue of strength and longevity.\n\nFriedrich was never tired of listening to so fine an adventure. Often\nalso he asked to be told the history of the Poles. The election of the\nKing by the Nobles, gathered together on horseback in the midst of a\ngreat plain, and the right which the meanest of them had to oppose his\nveto to the will of all the rest, struck him with admiration: he had no\ndoubt that this race was the greatest in the world. \"A Count Nietzski\nmust not lie,\" he declared to his sister. Indeed, the passions and the\npowerful desires which, thirty or forty years later, were to inspire\nhis work, already animated this child with the bulging forehead and the\nbig eyes, whom unhappy women loved to fold in their tender caresses.\nWhen he was nine years old his tastes widened, and music was revealed\nto him by a chorus from Handel, heard at church. He studied the piano.\nHe improvised, he accompanied himself in chanting the Bible, and his\nmother, remembering her husband's fate, was troubled, for he, too, like\nthe child, used to play and improvise on the organ at R\u00f6cken.\n\nThe instinct of creation--an instinct that was already\ntyrannical--seized hold of him; he composed melodies, fantasies, a\nsuccession of mazurkas, dedicated to his Polish ancestors. He wrote\nverses, and mother, grandmother, aunts, sister, received, every\nanniversary, a poem with his music. Games themselves became the\npretext for work. He drew up didactic treatises, containing rules\nand advice, which he handed over to his comrades. First he taught\nthem architecture; then, in 1854, during the siege of Sebastopol,\nthe capture of which made him weep--for he loved all Slavs and hated\nthe revolutionary French--he studied ballistics and the defence of\nfortified places. At the same time, he and two friends founded a\ntheatre of arts, in which they played dramas of antiquity and of\nprimitive civilisations, of which he was the author: _The Gods of\nOlympus_ and an _Orkadal._\n\nHe left school to enter college at Naumburg. There he showed from the\nfirst such conspicuous ability that his professors advised his mother\nto send him to study in a superior institute. The poor woman hesitated.\nShe would have liked to keep her child near her.\n\nThis was in 1858. Nietzsche's vacation was of rather a serious\ncharacter. He spent it as usual in the village of Pobles, under the\nshadow of wooded hills, on the banks of the fresh and lazy Saale, in\nwhich each morning he bathed. His maternal grandparents had him and his\nsister Lisbeth to stay with them. He was happy, with a heaped abundance\nof life; but his mind was preoccupied with the uncertainty of his\nfuture.\n\nAdolescence was coming; and perhaps he was about to leave his own\npeople and change his friends and his home. With some anxiety he\nforesaw the new course which his life was going to follow. He called\nto mind his boyish past, all the long years of childhood, at which one\nshould not smile--thirteen years filled with the earliest affections\nand the earliest sorrows, with the first proud hopes of an ambitious\nsoul, with the splendid discovery of music and poetry. Memories came,\nnumerous, vivid, and touching: Nietzsche, who had a lyric soul,\nsuddenly became, as it were, intoxicated with himself.\n\nHe took up his pen, and in twelve days the history of his childhood was\nwritten. He was happy when he had finished.\n\n\"Now I have brought my first notebook to a proper end,\" he writes, \"and\nI am content with my work. I have written with the greatest pleasure\nand without a moment's fatigue. It is a grand thing to pass in review\nbefore one the course of one's first years, and to follow there the\ndevelopment of one's soul. I have sincerely recounted all the truth\nwithout poetry, without literary ornamentation. That I may write many\nmore like it!\"\n\nFour little verses followed:\n\n\n    \"Ein Spiegel ist das Leben\n    In ihm sich zu erkennen,\n    M\u00f6cht' ich das erste nennen\n    Wonach wir nur auch streben.\"[1]\n\n\n\n[1] \"Life is a mirror. I might say that the recognition of ourselves in\nit is the first object to which we all strive.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe school of Pforta is situated five miles from Naumburg, on the bank\nof the Saale. Ever since a Germany has existed there have been teachers\nand scholars in Pforta. Some Cistercian monks, come in the twelfth\ncentury from the Latin West to convert the Slavs, obtained possession\nof this property, which lies along both banks of the river. They built\nthe high walls which surround it, the houses, the church, and founded\na tradition which is not extinct. In the sixteenth century they were\nexpelled by the Saxon princes, but their school was continued, and\ntheir methods conserved by the Lutherans who were installed in their\nplace.\n\n\"The children shall be brought up to the religious life,\" says an\ninstruction of 1540. \"For six years they shall exercise themselves\nin the knowledge of letters, and in the disciplines of virtue.\" The\npupils were kept separated from their families, cloistered with their\nteachers. The school had its fixed rules and customs: anything in the\nshape of easy manners was forbidden. There was a certain, established\nhierarchy: the oldest scholars had charge of the youngest and each\nmaster was the tutor of twenty pupils. Religion, Hebrew, Greek, and\nLatin were taught. In this old monastery German rigour, the spirit\nof humanism, and the ethic of Protestantism formed a singular and\ndeep-rooted alliance, a fruitful type of life and sentiment. Many\ndistinguished men owed their education to Pforta: Novalis, the\nSchlegels, Fichte--Fichte, philosopher, educator, patriot, and chief\nglory of the school. Nietzsche had long desired to study at Pforta, and\nin October, 1858, a scholarship being awarded him, he left his family\nto enter the school.\n\nHe now disappears for a time from our ken. An heroic and boyish\nanecdote is the sole memory of his first year. The story of Mucius\nSc\u00e6vola seemed an improbable one to some of his comrades; they denied\nit: \"No man would have the courage to put his hand in fire,\" opined\nthese young critics. Nietzsche did not deign to answer, but seized from\nthe stove a flaming coal and placed it in the palm of his hand. He\nalways carried the mark of this burn, the more visible because he had\ntaken care to keep in repair and enlarge so glorious a wound by letting\nmelted wax run over it.\n\nAssuredly, he did not easily endure this new life of his. He played\nlittle, not caring to attach himself to unfamiliar people; moreover,\nthe tender customs of the maternal hearth had ill prepared him for\nthe disciplines of Pforta. He only went out once a week, on Sunday\nafternoon. Then his mother, his sister, and two Naumburg friends of his\ncame to meet him at the school door, and spent the day with him in a\nneighbouring inn.\n\nIn July, 1859, Nietzsche had a month's liberty. The holidays of pupils\nat Pforta were never longer. He revisited the people and places that he\nliked, and made a rapid voyage to Jena and Weimar. For a year he had\nwritten only what he had to write as a task, but now the inspiration\nand delight of the pen returned to him, and he composed out of his\nimpressions of summer a sentimental fantasy which is not barren of\npathos.\n\n\"The sun has already set,\" he writes, \"when we leave the dark\nenclosure. Behind us, the sky is bathed in gold; above us, there is\na glow of rosy clouds: before us, we see the town, lying at rest\nunder the gentle breeze of evening. Ah, Wilhelm, I say to my friend,\nis there any joy greater than that of wandering together across the\nworld? Oh, pleasure of friendship, faithful friendship: oh, breath\nof this magnificent summer night, perfume of flowers, and redness of\nevening! Do you not feel your thoughts soar upward, to perch like the\njubilant lark on a throne of golden clouds? The wonder of these evening\nlandscapes! It is my own life that unveils itself to me. So are my\nown days arranged: some shut within the dark penumbra, others lifted\nup in the air of liberty! At this moment our ears are pierced by a\nshrill cry: it comes from the madhouse which stands near our path. Our\nhands join in a tighter clasp, as if some evil genius had touched us\nwith a sweep of menacing wings. Go from us, ye powers of Evil! Even\nin this beautiful world there are unhappy souls! But what, then, is\nunhappiness?\"\n\nAt the beginning of August he returned to Pforta, as sadly as he had\ngone there in the first instance. He could not accept the brusque\nconstraint of the place, and, being unable to cease thinking of\nhimself, he kept for some weeks an intimate diary which shows us how he\nemployed his time and what his humours were from one day to another.\nWe find, to begin with, certain courageous maxims against ennui, given\nhim by his professor and transcribed; then a recital of his studies,\nhis distractions, his readings, and the crises which depress him.\nThe poetic soul of the child now resists, now resigns itself to its\nimpressions and bows painfully beneath a discipline. When emotion\nurges him he abandons prose, which is not musical enough to express\nhis melancholy. Rhythm and rhyme appear; under an inspiration he makes\na few verses, a quatrain, a sextain; but he does not seek after the\nlyrical impulse, nor hold to it; he merely follows it when it rises\nwithin him; and, as soon as it weakens, prose takes its place, as in a\nShakesperean dialogue.\n\nLife at Pforta was, however, brightened by hours of simple and youthful\njoy. The pupils went out for walks, sang in chorus, bathed. Nietzsche\ntook part in these delights, and related them. When the heat was too\nheavy, the life of the water replaced the life of study. The two\nhundred scholars would go down to the river, timing their steps to the\ntunes they had struck up. They would throw themselves into the water,\nfollowing the current without upsetting the order of their ranks,\naccomplish a swim long enough to try, and yet elate, the youngest\nmembers of the party, then clamber up the bank at their master's\nwhistle, put on their uniforms, which a ferry boat had convoyed in\ntheir wake; then, still singing, still in good order, would march back\nto their work and to the old school. \"It is absolutely stunning,\" says\nNietzsche in effect.\n\nSo time went by, and the end of August came. The Journal is silent for\neight days, then for six, then for a whole month. When he reopens his\nnotebook, it is to bring it to an end.\n\n\"Since the day on which I began this Journal my state of mind has\ncompletely changed. Then we were in the green abundance of the\nlate summer: now, alas! we are in the late autumn. Then I was an\n_unter-tertianer_ (a lower form boy); now I am in a higher form.... My\nbirthday has come and gone, and I am older--time passes like the rose\nof spring, and pleasure like the foam of the brook.\n\n\"At this moment I feel myself seized by an extraordinary desire for\nknowledge, for universal culture. That impulse comes to me from\nHumboldt, whom I have just read. May it prove as lasting as my love for\npoetry!\"\n\nHe now mapped out a vast programme of study in which geology, botany,\nand astronomy were combined with readings in the Latin stylists,\nHebrew, military science, and all the techniques. \"And above all\nthings,\" said he, \"Religion, the foundation of all knowledge. Great is\nthe domain of knowledge, _infinite_ the search after truth.\"\n\nA winter and spring-time sped away while the boy worked on. But now\ncame his second holidays, then the third return to school; it was when\nautumn had denuded the great oaks on the estate of Pforta. Friedrich\nNietzsche is seventeen years of age, and he is sad. Too long had\nhe imposed upon himself a painful obedience; he had read Schiller,\nH\u00f6lderlin, Byron; he dreams of the Gods of Greece, and of the sombre\nManfred, that all-powerful magician who, weary of his omnipotence,\nvainly sought repose in the death which his art had conquered. What\ncares Nietzsche for the lessons of his professors? He meditates on the\nlines of the romantic poet:\n\n\n    \"Sorrow is knowledge; they who know the most\n    Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth,\n    The tree of knowledge is not that of life.\"\n\n\nHe grows weary at last. He longs to escape from the routine of classes,\nfrom tasks which absorb his whole life. He would listen to his soul\nalone, and thus come to understand the dreams with which his mind\noverflows. He confides in his mother and his sister, and declares that\nhis projects for the future have changed. The thought of the University\nbores him; he now wants to be not a professor, but a musician. His\nmother reasons with him, and succeeds in appeasing him a little. But\nher success is not for long. The death of a master to whom he had\nbeen attached completes his confusion of mind. He neglects his work,\nisolates himself, and meditates.\n\nHe writes. From his earliest childhood he had had the instinct of\nthe phrase and the word, the instinct of visible thought. He writes\nincessantly, and not one shade of his unrest has remained hidden\nfrom us. He surveys the vast universe of romanticism and of science,\nsombre, restless, and loveless. This monstrous vision fascinates and\nfrightens him. The pious ways of his boyhood still hold him under their\ninfluence; he reproaches himself for his inclinations towards audacity\nand negation, as if for sins. He strives to retain his religious faith,\nwhich is dwindling day by day. He does not break with it sharply in the\nFrench and Catholic manner, but slowly and fearfully detaches himself;\nslowly, because he venerates those dogmas or symbols which stand for\nall his past, for his memories of his home and his father; fearfully,\nbecause he knows that in renouncing the old security he will find not\na new security to take its place, but a surging throng of problems.\nWeighing the supreme gravity of the choice imposed on him, he meditates:\n\n\"Such an enterprise,\" he writes, \"is the work not of a few weeks but\nof a life-time: can it be that, armed solely with the results of a\nboy's reflections, any one will venture to destroy the authority of two\nthousand years, guaranteed as it is by the deepest thinkers of all the\ncenturies? Can it be that with his own mere fancies and rudiments of\nthought any one will venture to thrust aside from him all that anguish\nand benediction of religion with which history is profoundly penetrated?\n\n\"To decide at a stroke those philosophical problems about which human\nthought has maintained an unending war for many thousands of years;\nto revolutionise beliefs which, accepted by men of the weightiest\nauthority, first lifted man up to the level of true humanity; to link\nup Philosophy with the natural sciences, without as much as knowing the\ngeneral results of the one or the others; and finally to derive from\nthose natural sciences a system of reality, when the mind has not yet\ngrasped either the unity of universal history, or the most essential\nprinciples--it is a masterpiece of rashness....\n\n\"What then is humanity? We hardly know: one stage in a whole, one\nperiod in a process of Becoming, an arbitrary production of God? Is\nman aught else than a stone evolved through the intermediary worlds of\nflora and fauna? Is he from this time forward a completed being, or\nwhat has history in reserve for him? Is this eternal Becoming to have\nno end? What are the springs of this great clock? They are hidden; but\nhowever long be the duration of that vast hour which we call history,\nthey are at every moment the same. The crises are inscribed on the\ndial-face: the hand moves on, and when it has reached the twelfth hour,\nit begins another series: it inaugurates a period in the history of\nhumanity.\n\n\"To risk oneself, without guide or compass, on the ocean of doubt is\nfor a young brain loss and madness; most adventurers on it are broken\nby the storms, few indeed are the discoverers of new lands.... All our\nphilosophy has very often appeared to me a very Tower of Babel....\nIt has as its desolating result an infinite disturbance of popular\nthought; we must expect a vast upheaval when the multitude discovers\nthat all Christianity is founded on gratuitous affirmations. The\nexistence of God, immortality, the authority of the Bible, Revelation,\nwill for ever be problems. I have attempted to deny everything: ah, to\ndestroy is easy, but to construct!\"\n\nWhat a marvellous instinct appears in this page! Friedrich Nietzsche\nposes the precise questions which are later to occupy his thought and\ngives a foretaste of the energetic answers with which he is to trouble\nmen's souls: humanity is a nothing, an arbitrary production of God;\nan absurd Becoming impels it towards recommencements without a term,\ntowards eternal returns; all sovereignty is referable in the last\ninstance to force, and force is blind, following only chance....\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche affirms nothing: he disapproves of rapid\nconclusions on grave subjects, and, so long as he is hesitant, likes\nto abstain from them. But when he commits himself, it will be with a\nwhole heart. Meanwhile he stays his thought. But, despite himself, it\noverflows at times in its effort towards expression. \"Very often,\" he\nwrites, \"submission to the will of God and humility are but a mantle\nthrown over the cowardice and pusillanimity which we experience at\nthe moment when we ought to face our destiny with courage.\" All the\nNietzschean ethics, all the Nietzschean heroism are included in these\nfew words.\n\nWe have named the authors who were Nietzsche's favourites at this\ntime: Schiller, Byron, H\u00f6lderlin--of these he preferred H\u00f6lderlin,\nthen so little known. He had discovered him, as one discovers, at a\nglance, a friend in a crowd. It was a singular encounter. The life of\nthis child, now scarcely begun, was to resemble the life of the poet\nwho had just died. H\u00f6lderlin, the son of a clergyman, had wished to\nfollow his father's vocation. In 1780 he is studying theology at the\nUniversity of T\u00fcbingen with comrades whose names are Hegel, Sendling.\nHe ceases to believe. He comes to know Rousseau, Goethe, Schiller, and\nthe intoxication of romanticism. He loves the mystery of nature, and\nthe lucid mind of Greece; he loves them together, and dreams of uniting\ntheir beauties in a German work. He is poor, and has to live the hard\nlife of a needy poet. As a teacher, he endures the ennui of wealthy\nhouses in which he is despised generally, and once is loved too much--a\nbrief rapture that ends in distress. He returns to his native village,\nfor its air and its people are pleasant to him. He works, writes at\nhis leisure, but as it pains him to live at the expense of his own\nfamily, he goes away again. He has some of his verses published; but\nthe public shows no taste for those fine poems in which the genius\nof an unknown German calls up the Gods of Olympus to people the deep\nforests of Suabia and the Rhineland. The unhappy H\u00f6lderlin dreams of\nvaster creations, but goes no farther than a dream: Germany is a world\nin itself, and Greece is another; the inspiration of a Goethe is needed\nto unite them, and to fix in eternal words the triumph of Faust, the\nravisher of Helen. H\u00f6lderlin writes fragments of a poem in prose: his\nhero is a young Greek, who laments over the ruin of his race and,\nfrail forerunner of Zarathustra, calls for the rebirth of a valorous\nhumanity. He composes three scenes of a tragedy, taking for his hero\nEmpedocles, tyrant of Agrigentum, poet, philosopher, haughty inspirer\nof the multitude, a Greek isolated among the Greeks by reason of his\nvery greatness, a magician, who, possessing all nature, wearies of the\nsatisfactions which one life can offer, retires to the summit of Etna,\nsends away his family, his friends, his appealing people, and flings\nhimself, one evening, at sunset, into the crater.\n\nThe work is full of power; but H\u00f6lderlin abandons it. His melancholy\nenfeebles and exalts him. He wishes to leave Germany where he has\nsuffered so much, and to free his relatives from the inconvenience of\nhis presence. Employment is offered to him in France, at Bordeaux, and\nhe disappears. Six months later he returns home sunburnt and in rags.\nHe is questioned, but he does not reply. Enquiries are made and it is,\nwith great difficulty, discovered that he had crossed France on foot\nunder the August sun. His mind is gone, swallowed up in a torpor which\nis to last for forty years. He dies in 1843, a few months before the\nbirth of Nietzsche. It might please a Platonist to think that the same\ngenius passed from one body to the other. Surely the same German soul,\nromantic by nature, and classic in aspiration, broken at length by its\ndesires, animated these two men, and predestined them to the same end.\nOne seems to surprise across the tenor of their lives the blind labour\nof the race, which, pursuing its monotonous bent, sends into the world,\nfrom century to century, like children for like ordeals.\n\nThat year, at the approach of summer, Nietzsche suffered severely from\nhis head and eyes. The malady was uncertain in its nature, but possibly\nhad its origin in the nerves. His holidays were spoilt. But he arranged\nto be able to stay at Naumburg until the end of August, and the joys of\na prolonged leisure compensated him for previous vexations.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe returned to Pforta in a wholesome frame of mind. He had not\nresolved his doubts but he had explored them, and could without\nwronging himself become once more a laborious student. He was careful\nnot to interrupt his reading, which was immense. From month to month\nhe sent punctually to his two friends at Naumburg, poems, pieces of\ndance and song music, essays in criticism and philosophy. But these\noccupations were not allowed to interrupt his work as a student. Under\nthe direction of excellent masters, he studied the languages and the\nliteratures of antiquity.\n\nHe would have been happy, had not the pressing questions of the future\nand of a profession begun to torment him.\n\n\"I am much preoccupied with the problem of my future,\" he wrote to his\nmother in May, 1862. \"Many reasons, external and internal, make it\nappear to me troubled and uncertain. Doubtless I believe myself to be\ncapable of success in whatever province I select. But strength fails\nme to put aside so many of the diverse objects which interest me. What\nshall I study? No idea of a decision presents itself to my mind, and\nyet with myself alone it lies to reflect and to make my choice. What\nis certain is that whatever I study I shall be eager to probe to its\ndepths. But this fact only renders the choice more difficult, since\nthe question is to discover the pursuit to which one can give one's\nwhole self. And how often they deceive us, these hopes of ours! How\nquickly one is put on the wrong track by a momentary predilection,\na family tradition, a desire! To choose one's profession is to make\none in a game of _lotto,_ in which there are many blanks, but only\nvery few prizes! At this moment my position is uncomfortable. I have\ndispersed my interest over so many provinces that if I were to satisfy\nmy tastes I would certainly become a very learned man, but only with\ngreat difficulty a professional animal. My task is to destroy many of\nmy present tastes, that is clear, and, by the same process, to acquire\nnew ones. But which are the unfortunates that I am to throw overboard?\nPrecisely my dearest children, maybe! ...\"\n\nHis last holidays slipped by into the beginning of his last year.\nNietzsche returned without vexation to the old school which he was soon\nto leave. The rules had grown lighter, and he had a room to himself,\nand certain liberties. He went out to dine on the invitation of this or\nthat professor, and thus, even in the monastery, he had his first taste\nof the pleasures of the world. At the house of one of his tutors he met\na charming girl; he saw her again, and, for the first time in his life,\nfell in love. For some days his dreams were all of the books which he\nwished to lend her, of the music which he wished to play with her. His\nemotion was delicious. But the girl left Pforta, and Nietzsche returned\nto his work. The _Banquet_ of Plato, the tragedies of \u00c6schylus, were\nhis last diversions before he gave himself up to the ordinary round\nof tasks. Sometimes he sat down to the piano just before the supper\nhour; two comrades who were to remain his friends, Gersdorff and Paul\nDeussen, listening while he played them Beethoven or Schumann, or\nimprovised.\n\nPoetry is always by him. If he has the slightest leisure, if there is\na delay of some hours in his work, the lyricist reappears. On Easter\nmorning he leaves school, returns home, goes straight to his room,\nwhere he is alone, dreams for a moment; then finds himself assailed by\na multitude of impressions. He writes with intense pleasure after his\nlong privation. And is not the page, which we transcribe here, worthy\nof Zarathustra?\n\n\"Here I am on the evening of Easter Day, seated at my fire, enveloped\nin a dressing-gown. Outside a fine rain is falling. All about me\nis solitude. A sheet of white paper lies on my table; I look at it\nin a muse, rolling my pen between my fingers, embarrassed by the\ninextricable multitude of subjects, feelings, thoughts which press\nforward and ask to be written. Some of them clamour and make a great\ntumult: they are young and eager for life. Others gesture and struggle\nthere also: they are old thoughts, well matured, well clarified;\nlike elderly gentlemen they regard with displeasure the m\u00eal\u00e9e of\nyoung bloods. This struggle between an old world and a new it is that\ndetermines our mood; and the state of combat, the victory of these,\nthe weakness of those, we call at any moment our state of mind, our\n_Stimmung...._ Often when I play the spy on my thoughts and feelings,\nand study them in religious silence, I am impressed as with the hum and\nferment of savage factions, the air shudders and is torn across as if a\nthought or an eagle had shot up towards the sun.\n\n\"Combat is the food which gives strength to the soul. The soul has\nskill to pluck out of battle sweet and glorious fruits. Impelled by the\ndesire for fresh nutriment, it destroys; it struggles fiercely--but\nhow gentle it can be when it allures the adversary, gathers it close\nagainst itself, and wholly assimilates it.\n\n\"That impression, which at this moment makes all your pleasure or all\nyour pain, will, it may be, slip off in an instant, being the mere\ndrapery of an impression still more profound, will disappear before\nsomething older and higher. Thus our impressions grave themselves\ndeeper and deeper on our souls, being ever unique, incomparable,\nunspeakably young, swift as the instant that brought them.\n\n\"At this moment I am thinking of certain people whom I have loved;\ntheir names, their faces pass before my mind. I do not mean that\nin fact their natures become continually more profound and more\nbeautiful; but it is at least true that each of these reminiscences,\nwhen I recover it, leads me on to some acuter impression, for\nthe mind cannot endure to return to a level which it has already\npassed; it has a need of constant expansion. I salute you, dear\nimpressions, marvellous undulations of an agitated soul. You are as\nnumerous as Nature, but more grandiose, for you increase and strive\nperpetually--the plant, on the contrary, gives out to-day the same\nperfume that it gave out on the day of creation. I no longer love\nnow as I loved a few weeks ago, and I find myself in a different\ndisposition at this moment from that in which I was when I took up this\npen.\"\n\nNietzsche returned to Pforta to undergo his last examinations. He all\nbut failed to pass; and, indeed, in mathematics he did not obtain\nthe required number of marks. But the professors, overlooking this\ninadequacy, granted him his diploma. He left his old school, and left\nit with pain. His mind easily adjusted itself to the places where it\nlived, and clung with equal force to happy memories and to melancholy\nimpressions.\n\nThe break-up of the school was a prescribed ceremony. The assembled\nstudents prayed together for the last time; then those who were about\nto leave presented their masters with a written testimony of gratitude.\nFriedrich Nietzsche's letter moves one by its pathetic and solemn\naccent. First he addresses himself to God: \"To Him who has given\nme all, my first thanks. What offering should I bring Him, if not\nthe warm gratitude of my heart, confident of His love? It is He who\nhas permitted me to live this glorious hour of my life. May He, the\nAll-Bountiful, continue to watch over me.\" Then he thanks the King,\n\"through whose goodness I entered this school...; him and my country\nI hope one day to honour. Such is my resolve.\" Then he speaks to his\nvenerated masters, to his dear comrades, \"and particularly to you, my\ndear friends: what shall I say to you at the instant of parting? I\nunderstand how it is that the plant when torn from the soil which has\nnourished it can only take root slowly and with difficulty in a foreign\nsoil. Shall I be able to disaccustom myself to you? Shall I be able to\naccustom myself to another environment? Adieu!\"\n\nThese long effusions were not enough, and he wrote, for himself alone,\ncertain lines in which they are repeated:\n\n\n    \"So be it--it is the way of the world:\n    Let life deal with me as with so many others:\n    They set forth, their frail skiff is shattered,\n    And no man can tell us the spot where it sank.\n\n    Adieu, adieu! the ship's bell calls me,\n    And as I linger the shipmaster urges me on.\n    And now to confront bravely waves, storms, reefs.\n    Adieu, adieu!...\"\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n\nYEARS OF YOUTH\n\n\n\nIn the middle of October, 1862, Nietzsche left Naumburg for the\nUniversity of Bonn, accompanied by Paul Deussen, his comrade, and a\ncousin of the latter. The young people did not hurry. They made a\nhalt on the banks of the Rhine. They were gay, a little irresponsible\neven, in their sudden enjoyment of complete liberty. Paul Deussen,\nto-day a professor at the University of Kiel, tells us of those days of\nexuberant laughter with all the satisfaction of a very good bourgeois\nwho brightens up at the memory of his far-off pranks.\n\nThe three friends rode on horseback about the country-side.\nNietzsche--perhaps he had appreciated too highly the beer supplied\nat the neighbouring inn--was less interested in the beauty of the\nlandscape than in the long ears of his mount. He measured them\ncarefully. \"It's a donkey,\" he affirmed. \"No,\" replied Deussen and the\nother friend, \"it's a horse.\" Nietzsche measured again and maintained,\nwith praiseworthy firmness: \"It's a donkey.\" They came back at the\nfall of day. They shouted, perorated, and generally scandalised the\nlittle town. Nietzsche warbled love songs, and girls, drawn by the\nnoise to their windows and half-hidden behind curtains, peeped out at\nthe cavalcade. Finally an honest citizen, who had left his house for\nthe express purpose, cried shame on the roisterers, and, not without\nthreats, put them back on the road to their inn.\n\nThe three friends installed themselves at Bonn. The Universities\nenjoyed at that time an uncommon prestige. They alone had remained\nfree, and maintained in a divided Germany a powerful life in a weakly\nbody. They had their history, which was glorious, and their legends,\nwhich were more glorious still. Every one knew how the young scholars\nof Leipsic, of Berlin, of Jena, of Heidelberg, and of Bonn, kindled\nby the exhortations of their teachers, had armed themselves against\nNapoleon for the salvation of the German race; every one also knew that\nthese valiant fellows had fought, and were still fighting, against\ndespots and priests to lay the foundations of German liberty; and\nthe nation loved these grave professors, these tumultuous youths who\nrepresented the Fatherland in its most noble aspect, the laborious\nFatherland, armed for labour. There was not a small boy but dreamt\nof his student years as the finest time of his life; there was not a\ntender girl but dreamt of some pure and noble student; and among all\nthe dreams of dreamy Germany there was none more alluring than that\nof the Universities. She was infinitely proud of those illustrious\nschools of knowledge, bravery, virtue, and joy. Their arrival at Bonn\nmoved Nietzsche and his comrades very deeply. \"I arrived at Bonn,\"\nsays one of the numerous essays in which Nietzsche recounts his own\nlife to himself, \"with the proud sense of an inexhaustibly rich future\nbefore me.\" He was conscious of his power, and impatient to make\nthe acquaintance of his contemporaries, with whom, and on whom, his\nthoughts were to work.\n\nMost of the students at Bonn lived grouped together in associations.\nNietzsche hesitated a little before following this custom. But from\nfear of too unsociable a withdrawal should he not impose upon himself\nsome obligation of comradeship, he joined one of these Vereine. \"It\nwas only after ripe reflection that I took this step, which, given\nmy character, seemed to me an almost necessary one,\" he wrote to his\nfriend Gersdorff.\n\nDuring the next few weeks he allowed himself to be absorbed by the\ncourse of his new life. No doubt he never touched either beer or\ntobacco. But learned discussions; boatings upon the river; hours of\nlight-headedness in the riverside inns, and, at evening on the way\nhome, improvised choruses--Nietzsche made the best of these simple\npleasures. He even wished to fight a duel so that he might become a\n\"finished\" student, and, lacking an enemy, chose for his adversary an\nagreeable comrade. \"I am new this year,\" said he to him, \"and I want to\nfight a duel. I rather like you. Let us fight.\" \"Willingly,\" said the\nother. Nietzsche received a rapier thrust.\n\nIt was impossible that such a life should content him for long. The\nmood of infantile gaiety soon passed away. At the beginning of December\nhe withdrew a little from this life. Disquiet was again gaining on him.\nThe festival of Christmas and that of the New Year, passed far from\nhis own people, were causes of sadness. A letter to his mother lets us\ndivine his emotion:\n\n\"I like anniversaries, the feast of St. Sylvester or birthdays. To them\nwe owe those hours in which the soul, brought to a pause, discovers\na fragment of its own existence. No doubt it is in our own power to\nexperience such moments more frequently; but we allow ourselves too\nfew. They favour the birth of decisive resolutions. At such moments it\nis my custom to take up again the manuscripts, the letters, of the year\nthat has just gone by, and to write for myself alone the reflections\nwhich come to me. During an hour or two, one is, as it were, raised\nabove time, drawn out of one's own existence. One acquires a view of\nthe past that is brief and certain, one resolves with a more valiant\nand a firmer heart to strike forward on the road once more. And when\ngood wishes and family benedictions fall like soft rain on the soul's\nintents--Ah! that is fine!\"\n\nOf the reflections written by the young student \"for himself alone\"\nwe possess some traces. He reproaches himself for wasted hours, and\ndecides upon a more austere and concentrated life. Nevertheless, when\nthe time came for him to break with his companions, he hesitated.\nThey were somewhat coarse, it is true, but yet young and brave, like\nhimself. Should he keep in with them? A delicate fear troubled him;\nhe might, as the result of long indulgence, accustom himself to their\nlow way of living, and so come to feel it less acutely. \"Habit is a\npowerful force,\" he wrote to his friend Gersdorff. \"One has already\nlost much when one has lost one's instinctive distrust of the evil\nthings which present themselves in daily life.\" He took a third course,\na very difficult course, and decided that he would talk frankly to his\nfriends, that he would try to exercise an influence on them, to ennoble\ntheir lives. Thus he would commence the apostolate which he dreamed of\nextending one day over the whole of Germany. He proposed therefore a\nreform of the rules of the association; he called for the suppression,\nor at least for a reduction, of those smoking and drinking parties\nwhich provoked his disgust.\n\nThe proposal met with no success. The preacher was silenced, and set\naside. Nietzsche, prompt with sarcasm, avenged himself with words which\ndid not win him any love. Then he knew the worst of solitudes, the\nsolitude of the vanquished. He had not retired from the world; he had\nbeen asked to leave it. He was proud, and his stay at Bonn became a\nmisery. He worked energetically and joylessly. He studied philology,\nwhich did not interest him. It was an exercise which he had taken up\nto discipline his mind, to correct his tendencies towards a vague\nmysticism and dispersion of thought. But it pleased him in no way,\nthis minute analysis of Greek texts the sudden beauty of which he felt\nby instinct. Ritschl, his master in philology, dissuaded him from any\nother study. \"If you wish to become a strong man,\" he said, \"acquire\na speciality.\" Nietzsche obeyed. He renounced the idea, which he had\nentertained, of making a deep study of theology. In December he had\ncomposed some melodies: now he decided that he would not, for a whole\nyear, allow himself the enjoyment of so vain a pleasure; he wished to\nsubmit, and to break himself in to ennui. He was recompensed for his\npains, and was able to write a work which Ritschl commended for its\nrigour and sagacity.\n\nA poor pleasure! It was thought that Nietzsche needed. He listened\nto the talk of the students. Some repeated without any ardour of\nconviction the formulas of Hegel, of Fichte, of Schelling: those great\nsystems had lost all their power to stimulate. Others, preferring\nthe positive sciences, read the materialistic treatises of Vogt and\nB\u00fcchner. Nietzsche read these treatises, but did not re-read them.\nHe was a poet and had need of lyricism, intuition, and mystery; he\ncould not be contented with the clear and cold world of science. Those\nsame young people, who called themselves materialists, also called\nthemselves democrats; they vaunted the humanitarian philosophy of\nFeuerbach; but Nietzsche was again too much of a poet and, by education\nor by temperament, too much of an aristocrat to interest himself in\nthe politics of the masses. He conceived beauty, virtue, force,\nheroism, as desirable ends, and he desired them for himself. But he had\nnever desired a happy life, a smooth and comfortable life: therefore\nhe could not interest himself in men's happiness, in the poor ideal of\nmoderate joy and moderate suffering.\n\nLittle satisfied as he was by all the tendencies of his contemporaries,\nwhat joy could he experience? Repelled by a base politics, a nerveless\nmetaphysics, a narrow science, whither could he direct his mind?\nCertainly he had his clear and well-marked preferences. He was certain\nof his tastes. He loved the Greek poets, he loved Bach, Beethoven,\nByron. But what was the drift of his own thought?\n\nHe had no answer to the problems of life, and now in his twenty-first,\nas formerly in his seventeenth year, preferring silence to uncertain\nspeech, he kept himself under a discipline of silence. In his writings,\nhis letters, his conversation, he was always on his guard. His friend\nDeussen suggested that prayer has no real virtue, and only gives to\nthe mind an illusory confidence. \"That is one of the asininities of\nFeuerbach,\" Nietzsche replied tartly. The same Deussen was speaking\non another occasion of the _Life of Jesus_ which Strauss had just\npublished in a new edition, and expressing approval of the sense\nof the book. Nietzsche refused to pronounce upon the subject. \"The\nquestion is important,\" said he. \"If you sacrifice Jesus, you must also\nsacrifice God.\" These words would seem to show that Nietzsche was still\nattached to Christianity. A letter addressed to his sister removes this\nimpression. The young girl, who had remained a believer, wrote to him:\n\"One must always seek truth at the most painful side of things. Now\none does not believe in the Christian mysteries without difficulty.\nTherefore the Christian mysteries are true.\" She at once received from\nher brother a reply which betrays, by the harshness of its language,\nthe unhappy condition of his soul.\n\n\"Do you think that it is really so difficult to receive and accept all\nthe beliefs in which we have been brought up, which little by little\nhave struck deep roots into our lives, which are held as true by all\nour own kith and kin, and a vast multitude of other excellent people,\nand which, whether they be true or not, do assuredly console and\nelevate humanity? Do you think that such acceptance is more difficult\nthan a struggle against the whole mass of one's habits, waged in doubt\nand loneliness, and darkened by every kind of spiritual depression, nay\nmore, by remorse; a struggle which leaves a man often in despair, but\nalways loyal to his eternal quest, the discovery of the new paths that\nlead to the True, the Beautiful, and the Good?\n\n\"What will be the end of it all? Shall we recover those ideas of God,\nthe world, and redemption which are familiar to us? To the genuine\nseeker must not the result of his labours appear as something wholly\nindifferent? What is it we are seeking? Rest and happiness? No, nothing\nbut Truth, however evil and terrible it may be.\n\n\"... So are the ways of men marked out; if you desire peace of soul and\nhappiness, believe; if you would be a disciple of Truth, enquire ...\"\n\nNietzsche tried to endure this painful life. He walked in the country.\nAlone in his room he studied the history of art and the life of\nBeethoven. They were vain efforts; he could not forget the people of\nBonn. Twice he went to listen to the musical festivals at Cologne. But\neach return added to his malaise. In the end he left the town.\n\n\"I left Bonn like a fugitive. At midnight I was on the quay of the\nRhine accompanied by my friend M. I was waiting for the steamship which\ncomes from Cologne, and I did not experience the slightest impression\nof pain at the moment of leaving a country-side so flourishing, a\nplace so beautiful, and a band of young comrades. On the contrary, I\nwas actually flying from them. I do not wish to begin again to judge\nthem unjustly, as I have often done. But my nature could find no\nsatisfaction among them. I was still too timidly wrapt up in myself,\nand I had not the strength to stick to my r\u00f4le amid so many influences\nwhich were exercising themselves on me. Everything obtruded on me, and\nI could not succeed in dominating my surroundings.... I felt in an\noppressive manner that I had done nothing for science, and little for\nlife, and that I had only clogged myself with faults. The steamer came,\nand took me off. I stayed on the bridge in the damp wet night, and as\nI watched the little lights which marked the river bank at Bonn slowly\ndisappear, everything conspired to give me the impression of flight.\"\n\nHe went to spend a fortnight at Berlin with a comrade whose father was\na rich bourgeois, ready with his censure and his regrets. \"Prussia is\nlost,\" this old man affirmed; \"the Liberals and the Jews have destroyed\neverything with their babblings ... they have destroyed tradition,\nconfidence, thought itself.\" Young Nietzsche welcomed these bitter\nwords. He judged Germany from the students of Bonn and saw his own\nsick discomfort everywhere. At the concert he suffered from being in\ncommunity of impressions with a low public. In the caf\u00e9s whither his\nhosts took him he would neither drink nor smoke, nor did he address a\nword to the people who were introduced to him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe was determined not to see Bonn again, and decided to go to Leipsic\nto complete his studies. He arrived in the unknown town and at once\ninscribed himself on the roll of the University. The day was a\nfestival. A Rector harangued the students and told them that on that\nsame date a hundred years before Goethe had come to inscribe himself\namong their elders. \"Genius has its own ways,\" the prudent official\nwas quick to add, \"and it is dangerous to follow them. Goethe was not\na good student; do not take him for model during your years of study.\"\n\"Hou, hou!\" roared the laughing young men; and Friedrich Nietzsche,\nlost in the crowd, was glad at the chance that had brought him thither\nat the moment of such an anniversary.\n\nHe resumed work, burnt some verses which had remained among his papers,\nand disciplined himself by studying philology according to the most\nrigorous methods. Alas, weariness at once laid hold of him again. He\nfeared a year similar to that at Bonn, and one long complaint filled\nhis letters and notebooks. Soon there was an end, and this is the event\nwhich delivered his soul. On a bookstall he picked up and turned over\nthe pages of a work by an author then unknown to him: it was Arthur\nSchopenhauer's _The World as Will and Idea._ The vigour of a phrase,\nthe precision and flair of a word struck him. \"I do not know,\" he\nwrote, \"what demon whispered to me, 'Go home and take that book with\nyou.' Hardly had I entered my room when I opened the treasure which I\nhad thus acquired, and began to submit myself to the influence of that\nenergetic and sombre genius.\"\n\nThe introduction to the book is grandiose: it consists of the three\nprefaces which the neglected author wrote at long intervals, for each\nof the three editions of 1818, 1844, and 1859. They are haughty and\nbitter, but in no way unquiet; rich in profound thoughts, and in the\nsharpest sarcasm; the lyricism of a Goethe shows itself in union with\nthe cutting realism of a Bismarck. They are beautiful with that classic\nand measured beauty which is rare in German literature. Friedrich\nNietzsche was conquered by their loftiness, their artistic feeling,\ntheir entire liberty. \"I think,\" wrote Schopenhauer, \"that the truth\nwhich a man has discovered, or the light which he has projected on some\nobscure point, may, one day, strike another thinking being, may move,\nrejoice, and console him; and it is to this man one speaks, as other\nspirits like to ours have spoken to us and consoled us in this desert\nof life.\" Nietzsche was moved: it seemed to him that a strayed genius\nwas addressing him alone.\n\nThe world which Schopenhauer describes is formidable. No Providence\nguides it, no God inhabits it, inflexible laws draw it in chains\nthrough time and space; but its eternal essence is indifferent to\nlaws, a stranger to reason: it is that blind Will which urges us into\nlife. All the phenomena of the universe are rays from that Will, just\nas all the days of the year are rays from a single sun. That Will is\ninvariable, it is infinite; divided, compressed in space. \"It nourishes\nitself upon itself, since outside of it there is nothing, and since\nit is a famishing Will.\" Therefore, it tortures itself and suffers.\nLife is a desire, desire is an unending torment. The good souls of the\nnineteenth century believe in the dignity of man, in Progress. They are\nthe dupes of a superstition. The Will ignores men, the \"last comers on\nthe earth who live on an average thirty years.\" Progress is a stupid\ninvention of the philosophers, under the inspiration of the crowd:\nWill, an offence to reason, has neither origin nor end; it is absurd,\nand the universe which it animates is without sense....\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche read greedily the two thousand pages of this\nmetaphysical pamphlet, which had struck at all the na\u00efve beliefs of\nthe nineteenth century with terrible force, and had struck from the\nhead of puerile humanity all its crown of dreams. He experienced a\nstrange and almost startling emotion. Schopenhauer condemns life, but\nso vehement an energy is in him that in his accusing work it is yet\nlife that one finds and admires. For fourteen days Nietzsche scarcely\nslept; he went to bed at two o'clock, rose at six, spent his days\nbetween his book and the piano, meditated, and, in the intervals of\nhis meditations, composed a _Kyrie._ His soul was full to the brim: it\nhad found its truth. That truth was hard, but what matter? For a long\ntime his instinct had warned and prepared him for this. \"What do we\nseek?\" he had written to his sister. \"Is it repose or happiness? No,\ntruth alone, however terrible and evil it may be.\" He recognised the\nsombre universe of Schopenhauer. He had had a presentiment of it in\nthe reveries of his boyhood, in his readings of \u00c6schylus, of Byron,\nand of Goethe; he had caught a glimpse of it across the symbolism\nof Christianity. What was this evil Will, the slave of its desires,\nbut under another name, that fallen nature pictured by the Apostle,\nyet more tragic, now that it was deprived of the divine ray which a\nRedeemer had left to it? The young man, in alarm at his inexperience\nand his temerity, had recoiled before so formidable a vision. Now\nhe dared to look it in the face. He no longer feared, for he was no\nlonger alone. By trusting in Schopenhauer's wisdom he satisfied at\nlast one of the profoundest of his desires--he had a master. He struck\neven a graver note in giving to Schopenhauer the supreme name in\nwhich his orphaned childhood had enshrined a mystery of strength and\ntenderness--he called him his father. He was exalted; then, suddenly\nswept by a desolating regret. Six years earlier Schopenhauer still\nlived; he might have approached him, listened to him, told him of his\nveneration. Destiny had separated them! Intense joy mixed with intense\nsorrow overwhelmed him; and he was shattered by a nervous excitement.\nHe grew alarmed, and it needed an energetic effort on his part to bring\nhim back to human life, to the work of the day, to the sleep of the\nnight.\n\nYoung people experience a need to admire, it is a form of love. When\nthey admire, when they love, all the servitudes of life become easy to\nbear. It was as Schopenhauer's disciple that Friedrich Nietzsche knew\nhis first happiness. Philology caused him less weariness. Some pupils\nof Ritschl, his comrades, founded a society of studies. He joined\nwith them, and, on the 18th of January, 1866, some weeks after his\ngreat reading of Schopenhauer, he expounded to them the result of his\nresearches on the manuscripts and the _vari\u00e6 lectiones_ of Theognis.\nHe spoke with vigour and freedom, and was applauded. Nietzsche liked\nsuccess and tasted it with the simple vanity which he always avowed. He\nwas happy. When he brought his memoir to Ritschl and was congratulated\nvery warmly upon it, he was happier yet. He wished to become, and in\nfact did become, his master's favourite pupil.\n\nNo doubt he had not ceased to consider philology as an inferior duty,\nas a mere intellectual exercise and means of livelihood, and his soul\nwas hardly satisfied; but what vast soul is ever satisfied? Often,\nafter a day of parching labour, he was melancholy, but what young and\nardent soul is ignorant of melancholy? At least his sadness had ceased\nto be mournful, and a fragment of a letter like the following, which\nopens with a complaint and ends in enthusiastic emotion, suggests an\nexcessive plenitude rather than pain.\n\n\"Three things are my consolations,\" he wrote in April, 1866. \"Rare\nconsolations! My Schopenhauer, the music of Schumann, and lastly\nsolitary walks. Yesterday a heavy storm gathered in the sky; I hastened\ntowards a neighbouring hill (it is called Leusch, can you explain the\nword to me?), I climbed it; at the summit I found a hut and a man, who,\nwatched by his children, was cutting the throats of two lambs. The\nstorm broke in all its power, discharging thunder and hail, and I felt\ninexpressibly well, full of strength and _\u00e9lan,_ and I realised with a\nwonderful clearness that to understand Nature one must, as I had just\ndone, go to her to be saved, far from all worries and all our heavy\nconstraints. What mattered to me, then, man and his troubled Will! What\nmattered to me then the Eternal _Thou Shalt_ and _Thou Shalt Not!_ How\ndifferent are lightning, storm, and hail, free powers without ethics!\nHow happy they are, how strong they are, those pure wills which the\nmind has not troubled!\"\n\nAt the beginning of the summer of 1866 Nietzsche was spending all\nhis days in the library of Leipsic, engaged in deciphering difficult\nByzantine manuscripts. Suddenly he allowed his attention to be\ndistracted by a spectacle of a grandiose kind; Prussia, discreetly\nactive for fifty years, reappeared in a warlike r\u00f4le. Frederick the\nGreat's kingdom once more found a chief: Bismarck, the passionate,\nirascible, and crafty aristocrat who wished to realise at last the\ndream of all Germans and to found an empire above all the little\nStates. He quarrelled with Austria, whom Moltke humiliated after twenty\ndays of fighting. \"I am finishing my _Theognidea_ for the _Rheinisches\nMuseum_ during the week of Sadowa,\" we read in a memorandum made by\nNietzsche. He did not stop his work, but political preoccupations\nentered into his thoughts. He felt the pride of national victory; he\nrecognised himself as a Prussian patriot, and a little astonishment\nwas mixed with his pleasure: \"For me this is a wholly new and rare\nenjoyment,\" he writes. Then he reflected on this victory, and discerned\nits consequences, which he enunciated with lucidity.\n\n\"We hold the cards; but as long as Paris remains the centre of Europe,\nthings will remain in the old condition. It is inevitable that we\nshould make an effort to upset this equilibrium, or at least to try to\nupset it. If we fail, then let us hope to fall, each of us, on a field\nof battle, struck by some French shell.\"\n\nHe is not troubled by this view of the future, which satisfies his\ntaste for the sombre and the pathetic. On the contrary, he grows\nanimated and is ready to admire.\n\n\"At certain moments,\" he writes, \"I make an effort to free my opinions\nfrom the turn which my momentary passion and my natural sympathies for\nPrussia give them, and then what I see is this: an action conducted\nwith grandeur by a State, by a chief; an action carved out of the true\nsubstance of which history is really made; assuredly by no means moral;\nbut, for him who contemplates it, sufficiently edifying and beautiful.\"\n\nWas it not a similar sentiment which he had experienced on that hill\nwith the queer name, Leusch, on a stormy day, by the side of that\npeasant who was cutting the throats of two lambs with such calm\nsimplicity? _\"Free powers, without ethics! How happy they are, how\nstrong, those pure Wills which the mind has not troubled!\"_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe second year which he passed at Leipsic was perhaps the happiest\nof his life. He enjoyed to the full that intellectual security which\nhis adhesion to his master Schopenhauer assured him. \"You ask me for\na vindication of Schopenhauer,\" he wrote to his friend Deussen; \"I\nwill simply say this to you: I look life in the face, with courage and\nliberty, since my feet have found firm soil. The waters of trouble, to\nexpress myself in images, do not sweep me out of my road, because they\ncome no higher than my head; I am at home in those obscure regions.\"\n\nIt was a year of composure and of comradeship. He did not worry\nhimself about public affairs. Prussia, on the morrow of her victory,\nfell back to the low level of everyday life. The babblings of\nthe tribune and the press succeeded the action of great men, and\nNietzsche turned away from it all. \"What a multitude of mediocre\nbrains are occupied with things of real importance and real effect!\"\nhe writes. \"It is an alarming thought.\" Perhaps he regretted having\nallowed himself to be seduced by a dramatic incident. Nevertheless\nhe knew--Schopenhauer had taught him--that history and politics are\nillusory games. He had not forgotten; he wrote in order to affirm\nhis thought, and to define the mediocre meaning and value of human\nagitations.\n\n\"What is history but the endless struggle for existence of innumerable\nand diverse interests? The great 'ideas' in which many people believe\nthat they find the directing forces of this combat are but reflections\nwhich pass across the surface of the swelling sea. They have no action\non the sea; but it often happens that they embellish the waves and\nthus deceive him who contemplates them. It matters little whether this\nlight emanates from a moon, a sun, or a lighthouse; the waves will be a\nlittle more or a little less lit up--that is all.\"\n\nHis enthusiasm had no other object but art and thought, the study of\nthe genius of antiquity. He conceived a passion for his master Ritschl:\n\"That man is my scientific conscience,\" said he. He took part in the\nfriendly soir\u00e9es of the Verein, spoke, and discussed. He planned more\nundertakings than he had time for, and then proposed them to his\nfriends. He elected to study the sources of Diogenes Laertius--that\ncompiler who has preserved for us such precious information with regard\nto the philosophers of Greece. He dreamed of composing a memoir which\nshould be sagacious and rigorous, but also beautiful: \"All important\nwork,\" he wrote to Deussen, \"you must have felt it yourself, exercises\na moral influence. The effort to concentrate a given material, and to\nfind a harmonious form for it, I compare to a stone thrown into our\ninner life: the first circle is narrow, but it multiplies itself, and\nother more ample circles disengage themselves from it.\"\n\nIn April Nietzsche collected and systematised his notes, wholly\npreoccupied with this concern for beauty. He did not wish to write\nin the manner of scholars who misunderstand the savour of words, the\nequilibrium of phrases. He wished to _write,_ in the difficult and\nclassical sense of the word.\n\n\"The scales fall from my eyes,\" he wrote; \"I have lived too long in\na state of innocence as regards style. The categorical imperative,\n'Thou shalt write, it is necessary that thou writest,' has awakened\nme. I have tried to write well It is a thing which I had forgotten\nsince leaving Pforta, and all at once my pen lost its shape between\nmy fingers. I was impotent, out of temper. The principles of style\nenunciated by Lessing, Lichtenberger, Schopenhauer were scolding in\nmy ears. At least I remembered, and it was my consolation, that these\nthree authorities agreed in saying that it is difficult to write well,\nthat no man naturally writes well, and that one must, in order to\nacquire a style, work strenuously, hew blocks of hard wood.... Above\nall, I wish to imprison in my style some joyous spirits; I shall apply\nmyself to it as I apply myself upon the keyboard, and I hope to play\nat length, not only the pieces that I have learnt, but free fantasies,\nfree as far as possible, though always logical and beautiful.\"\n\nA sentimental joy completed his happiness: he found a friend. Nietzsche\nhad long been faithful to the comrades of his early childhood: one\nwas dead, and the other, their lives and occupations having been\nseparate for ten years, was becoming a stranger to him. At Pforta he\nhad been fond of the studious Deussen, the faithful Gersdorff: the\none was studying at T\u00fcbingen, the other at Berlin. He wrote to them\nwith much zeal, but an exchange of letters could not satisfy that need\nfor friendship which was an instinct of his soul. Finally, he made\nthe acquaintance of Erwin Rohde, a vigorous and perspicacious spirit;\nhe liked him at once; he admired him, for he was incapable of loving\nwithout admiring; he adorned him with the sublime qualities with\nwhich his soul overflowed. Every evening, after laborious hours, the\nyoung men came together. They walked or rode, talking incessantly. \"I\nexperience for the first time,\" wrote Nietzsche, \"the pleasure of a\nfriendship founded on a moral and philosophic groundwork. Ordinarily,\nwe dispute strongly, for we are in disagreement on a multitude of\npoints. But it suffices for our conversation to take a more profound\nturn; and then at once our dissonant thoughts are silenced, and nothing\nresounds between us but a peaceable and total accord.\"\n\nThey had promised each other that they would spend their first holiday\nweeks together. At the beginning of August, being both free, they left\nLeipsic and sought isolation in walks in a tramp on the frontiers of\nBohemia. It is a region of wooded heights, which recalls, with less\ngrandeur, the Vosges. Nietzsche and Rohde led the life of wandering\nphilosophers. Their luggage was light, they had no books, they walked\nfrom inn to inn, and, throughout the days unspoilt by a care, they\ntalked about Schopenhauer, about Beethoven, about Germany, about\nGreece. They judged and condemned, with youthful promptitude; they were\nnever weary of defaming their science. \"Oh childishness of erudition!\"\nthey said. \"It was a poet, it was Goethe, who discovered the genius\nof Greece. He it was who held it up to the Germans, absorbed always\non the confines of a dream, as an example of rich and clear beauty, a\nmodel of perfect form. The professors followed him. They have explained\nthe ancient world, and, under their myopic eyes, that wonderful work\nof art has become the object of a science. What is there that they\nhave not studied? In Tacitus, the ablative case, the evolution of\nthe gerund in the Latin authors of Africa; they have analysed to the\nlast detail the language of the _Iliad,_ determined in what respect\nit is connected with this other and that other Aryan language. What\ndoes it all signify? The beauty of the _Iliad_ is unique; it was felt\nby Goethe, and they ignore it. We shall stop this game; that will be\nour task. We shall go back to the tradition of Goethe; we shall not\ndissect the Greek genius, we shall revitalise it, and teach men to\nfeel it. For long enough the scholars have carried out their minute\nenquiries. It is time to make an end. The work of our generation shall\nbe definitive; our generation shall enter into possession of the grand\nlegacy transmitted by the past. And science, too, must serve progress.\"\n\nAfter a month of conversation, the young men left the forest and went\nto Meiningen, a little town in which the musicians of the Pessimist\nschool were giving a series of concerts. A letter of Friedrich\nNietzsche's has preserved a chronicle of the performance. \"The Abb\u00e9\nLiszt presided,\" he wrote. \"They played a symphonic poem by Hans von\nB\u00fclow, _Nirvana,_ an explanation of which was given on the programme\nin maxims from Schopenhauer. But the music was awful. Liszt, on the\ncontrary, succeeded remarkably in finding the character of the Indian\n_Nirvana_ in some of his religious compositions; for example, in his\n_Beatitudes.\"_ Nietzsche and Rohde separated on the morrow of these\nfestivals, and returned to their families.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAlone at Naumburg, Nietzsche took up work of various kinds and read\nwidely. He studied the works of the young German philosophers,\nHartmann, D\u00fchring, Lange, Bahnsen; he admired them all, with the\nindulgence of a brother-in-arms, and dreamt of making their\nacquaintance and collaborating with them in a review which they should\nfound together. He projected an essay, perhaps a sort of manifesto\nupon the man whom he wished to give to his contemporaries as a master,\nSchopenhauer. \"Of all the philosophers,\" he writes, \"he is the truest.\"\nNo false sensibility shackles his mind. He is brave, it is the first\nquality of a chief. Friedrich Nietzsche notes rapidly: \"Ours is the\nage of Schopenhauer: a sane pessimism founded upon the ideal; the\nseriousness of manly strength, the taste for what is simple and sane.\nSchopenhauer is the philosopher of a revived classicism, of a Germanic\nHellenism....\"\n\nHe was working ardently, and then, suddenly, his life was turned upside\ndown. He had been exempted from military service on account of his very\nshort sight. But the Prussian army in 1867 had great need of men; and\nhe was enrolled in a regiment of artillery, in barracks at Naumburg.\n\nNietzsche made the best of this vexation. It was always a maxim of\nhis that a man should know how to utilise the chances of his life,\nextracting from them, as an artist does, the elements of a richer\ndestiny. Therefore, since he had to be a soldier, he resolved that\nhe would learn his new trade. The military obligation had, in this\ntime of war, a solemnity which it lacks to-day. Nietzsche thought it\na good and healthy thing that he should shut his dictionaries and\nget on horseback; that he should become an artilleryman and a good\nartilleryman, a sort of ascetic in the service of his fatherland,\n_etwas_ \u03b1\u03c3\u03ba\u03b7\u03c3\u03b9\u03c2 _zu treiben,_ he wrote in his German, mottled\nwith Greek.\n\n\"This life is full of inconvenience,\" he wrote again, \"but, tasted as\none would an _entremets,_ it impresses me as altogether profitable. It\nis a constant appeal to the energy of man which has a value above all\nas an antidote against that paralysing scepticism the effects of which\nwe have observed together. In the barracks one learns to know one's\nnature, to know what it has to give among strange men, the greater\npart of whom are very rough.... Hitherto it has appeared to me that\nall have felt kindly towards me, captain and privates alike; moreover,\neverything that I must do, I do it with zeal and interest. Has one not\nreason to be proud, if one be noted, among thirty recruits, as the best\nrider? In truth, that is worth more than a philological diploma.\"\n\nWhereupon he cites in full the fine Latin and Ciceronian testimonial\nwritten by old Ritschl in praise of his memoir, _De fontibus Laertii\nDiogenii._ He is happy in his success and does not conceal his pleasure\nat it. The fact amuses him. \"Thus are we made,\" he writes; \"we know\nwhat such praise is worth, and, in spite of everything, an agreeable\nchuckle puts a grimace on our countenance.\"\n\nThis valiant mood lasted only a short time. Nietzsche was soon to avow\nthat an artilleryman on horseback is a very unhappy animal when he has\nliterary tastes, and reflected in the mess-room on the problems of\nDemocritus.\n\nHe deplored his slavery, and was delivered from it by an accident. He\nfell from his horse and injured his side. He suffered, but he was able\nto study and meditate at leisure, which was what he liked in life.\nHowever, when the exquisite May days arrived and he had been laid\nup for a long month, he grew impatient and sighed for the hours of\nexercise. \"I who used to ride the most difficult mounts!\" he wrote to\nGersdorff. To distract himself he undertook a short work on a poem of\nSimonides, _The Complaint of Dana\u00eb._ He corrected the doubtful words in\nthe text and wrote to Ritschl about a new study: \"Since my schooldays,\"\nhe wrote, \"this beautiful song of _Dana\u00eb_ has remained in my memory as\nan unforgettable melody: in this time of May can one do better than\nbecome a trifle lyrical oneself? provided that on this occasion at\nleast you do not find in my essay too 'lyrical' a conjecture.\"\n\n_Dana\u00eb_ occupied him, and the complaints of the goddess, abandoned with\nher child to the caprice of malevolent billows, mingled in his letters\nwith his own complaints. For he was suffering; his wound remained\nopen, and a splinter of a bone appeared one day with the discharge of\nmatter. \"I had a queer impression at the sight,\" he wrote, \"and little\nby little it became clear to me that my plans for the examination, for\na voyage to Paris, might very easily be thwarted. The frailty of our\nbeing never appears so plainly _ad oculos_ as at the moment when one\nhas just seen a little piece of one's own skeleton.\"\n\nThe voyage to Paris, here mentioned, was the last conceived, and the\ndearest of his dreams. He caressed the idea of it, and, as he was\nnever able to keep a joy to himself alone, he must write to Gersdorff\nand then to Rohde, and to two other comrades, Kleimpaul and Romundt:\n\"After the last year of our studies,\" he said to them, \"let us go to\nParis together and spend a winter there: let us forget our learning:\nlet us dispedantise ourselves (_d\u00e9p\u00e9dantisons-nous_); let us make the\nacquaintance of the _divin cancan,_ the green absinthe: we will drink\nof it; let us go to Paris and live _en camarades,_ and, marching the\nboulevards, let us represent Germanism and Schopenhauer down there;\nwe shall not be altogether idle: from time to time we will send a\nlittle copy to the newspapers, casting a few Parisian anecdotes\nathwart the world; after a year and a half, after two years [he never\nceased to prolong the imaginary period], we will come back to pass our\nexamination.\" Rohde having promised his company, Nietzsche bore less\nimpatiently the weariness of a convalescence which lasted until the\nsummer.\n\nAt last he was cured. In the first days of October, feeling a lively\nneed for the pleasures which Naumburg had not to offer--music, society,\nconversation, the theatre--he reinstalled himself at Leipsic. Both\nmasters and comrades gave him a warm welcome. His re-entry was happy.\nHe had scarcely completed his twenty-third year and a glorious dawn\nalready preceded him. An important review in Berlin asked him for\nsome historical studies, and he gave them. In Leipsic itself he was\noffered the editorship of a musical review: this he refused, although\nimportuned. _\"Nego ac pernego,\"_ wrote he to Rohde, now in residence in\nanother University city.\n\nHe interested himself in everything, except politics. The din and\nconfusion of men in public meeting assembled was insupportable to him.\n\"Decidedly,\" said he, \"I am not a \u03b6\u1ff6\u03bf\u03bd \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u03c4\u03b9\u03ba\u03bf\u03bd.\" And he\nwrote to his friend Gersdorff, who had been giving him some information\nabout Parliamentary intrigues in Berlin:\n\n\"The course of events astonishes me; but I cannot well understand them,\nnor take them in, unless I draw out of the crowd and consider apart the\nactivity of a determined man. Bismarck gives me immense satisfaction. I\nread his speeches as though I were drinking a strong wine; I hold back\nmy tongue that it may not swallow too quickly and that my enjoyment may\nlast. The machinations of his adversaries, as you relate them to me,\nI conceive without difficulty; for it is a necessity that everything\nthat is small, narrow, sectarian and limited should rebel against such\nnatures and wage an eternal war upon them.\"\n\nThen to so many satisfactions, new and old, was added the greatest\nof joys: the discovery of a new genius, Richard Wagner. The whole\nof Germany was making the same discovery about this time. Already\nshe knew and admired this tumultuous man, poet, composer, publicist,\nphilosopher; a revolutionary at Dresden, a \"damned\" author at Paris,\na favourite at the Court of Munich; she had discussed his works and\nlaughed over his debts and his scarlet robes. It was by no means easy\nto pass a clear judgment on this life which was a mixture of faith\nand insincerity, of meanness and greatness; on this thought which was\nsometimes so strong and often so wordy. What kind of man was Richard\nWagner? An uneasy spirit? a genius? One scarcely knew, and Nietzsche\nhad remained for a long time in a state of indecision. _Tristan\nand Isolde_ moved him infinitely; other works disconcerted him. \"I\nhave just read the _Valkyrie,_\" he wrote to Gersdorff, in October,\n1866, \"and I find myself impressed so confusedly that I can reach no\njudgment. Its great beauties and _virtutes_ are counterbalanced by so\nmany defects and deformities equally great; 0_ + a + (-a)_ gives 0,\nall calculations made.\" \"Wagner is an insoluble problem,\" he said on\nanother occasion. The musician whom he then preferred was Schumann.\n\nWagner had the art of imposing his glory on the world. In July, 1868,\nhe produced at Munich the _Meistersinger,_ that noble and familiar\npoem in which the German people, heroes of the action, filled the\nstage with their arguments, their sports, their labours, their loves,\nand themselves glorified their own art, music. Germany was then\nexperiencing the proud desire of greatness. She had the confidence and\nthe _\u00e9lan_ which dare recognise the genius of an artist. Wagner was\nacclaimed; he passed during the last months of 1868 that invisible\nborder-line above which a man is transfigured and exalted, above glory\nitself, into a light of immortality.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche heard the _Meistersinger._ He was touched by\nits marvellous beauty and his critical fancies vanished. \"To be\njust towards such a man,\" he wrote to Rohde, \"one must have a little\nenthusiasm.... I try in vain to listen to his music in a cold and\nreserved frame of mind; every nerve vibrates in me....\" This miraculous\nart had taken hold of him; he wished that his friends should share his\nnew passion; he confided his Wagnerian impressions to them: \"Last night\nat the concert,\" he wrote, \"the overture to the _Meistersinger_ caused\nme so lasting a thrill that it was long since I had felt anything like\nit.\" Wagner's sister, Madame Brockhaus, was living in Leipsic. She\nwas a woman out of the ordinary; and her friends affirmed that they\nrecognised in her a little of the genius of her brother. Nietzsche\nwanted to approach her. This modest desire was soon satisfied.\n\n\"The other evening,\" he writes to Rohde, \"on returning home I found a\nletter addressed to me, a very short note: 'If you would care to meet\nRichard Wagner come to the Caf\u00e9 zum Theater at a quarter to four.--W.\n... SCH.' The news, if you will forgive me, positively turned my head,\nand I found myself as if tossed about by a whirlwind. It goes without\nsaying that I went out at once to seek the excellent Windisch, who\nwas able to give me some further information. He told me that Wagner\nwas at Leipsic, at his sister's, in the strictest incognito; that the\nPress knew nothing about his visit, and that all the servants in the\nBrockhaus household were as mute as liveried gravediggers. Madame\nBrockhaus, Wagner's sister, had presented to him only one visitor,\nMadame Ritschl, whose judgment and penetration of mind you know, thus\nallowing herself the pleasure of being proud of her friend before her\nbrother and proud of her brother before her friend, the happy creature!\nWhile Madame Ritschl was in the room Wagner played the _Lied_ from the\n_Meistersinger,_ which you know well; and the excellent lady informed\nhim that the music was already familiar to her, _mea opera._ Thereupon\npleasure and surprise on the part of Wagner: he expresses a keen desire\nto meet me incognito. They decide to invite me for Friday evening.\nWindisch explains that that day is impossible to me on account of my\nduties, my work, my engagements: and Sunday afternoon is suggested.\nWe went to the house, Windisch and I, and found the professor's\nfamily there, but not Richard: he had gone out with his vast skull\nhidden under some prodigious headdress. I was presented to this very\ndistinguished family, and received a most cordial invitation for Sunday\nevening, which I accepted.\n\n\"I spent the next few days, I assure you, in a highly romantic mood:\nand you must admit that this _d\u00e9but,_ this unapproachable hero, have\nsomething about them bordering on the world of legend.\n\n\"With such an important function before me I decide to dress in my\nbest. It so chanced that my tailor had promised to deliver me on\nSunday a black coat: everything promised well. Sunday was a frightful\nday of snow and rain. One shuddered at the idea of leaving the house.\nSo I was far from displeased to receive a call during the afternoon\nfrom R----, who babbled about the Eleatics and the nature of God in\ntheir philosophy--because as _candidandus_ he is going to take the\nthesis prescribed by Abrens, _The Development of the Idea of God down\nto Aristotle,_ while Romundt proposes to solve the problem _Of the\nWill,_ and thereby to win the University prize. The evening draws on,\nthe tailor fails to arrive and Romundt departs. I go with him as far\nas my tailor's, and entering the shop, I find his slaves very busy\non my coat: they promise that it will be delivered in three hours.\nI leave, more content with the course of things; on my way home I\npass Kintschy, read the _Kladderadatsch,_ and find with satisfaction\na newspaper paragraph to the effect that Wagner is in Switzerland,\nbut that a beautiful house is being built for him at Munich. As for\nme, I know that I am about to see him, and that a letter arrived for\nhim yesterday from the little King, bearing the address: To the great\nGerman composer, Richard Wagner.\n\n\"I return home; no tailor. I read very comfortably a dissertation on\nthe _Eudocia,_ a little distracted from time to time by a troublesome\nthough distant noise. At last I hear the sound of knocking at the old\niron grille, which is closed ...\"\n\nIt was the tailor; Nietzsche tried on the suit, which fitted him well;\nhe thanked the journeyman, who, however, stayed on, and asked to be\npaid. Nietzsche, being short of money, was of another opinion; the\njourneyman repeated his demand, Nietzsche reiterated his refusal; the\njourneyman would not yield, went off with the suit, and Nietzsche, left\nabashed in his room, considered with displeasure a black frock-coat,\ngreatly doubting whether it would \"do for Richard.\" Finally he put it\non again:\n\n\"Outside the rain is falling in torrents. A quarter past eight! At half\npast Windisch is to meet me at the Caf\u00e9 zum Theater. I precipitate\nmyself into the dark and rainy night, I too a poor man, all in black,\nwithout a dress coat, but in the most romantic of humours. Fortune\nfavours me; there is something mysterious and unusual in the very\naspect of the streets on this night of snow.\n\n\"We enter the very comfortable parlour of the Brockhaus's; there is\nno one there but the closest relations of the family, and we two. I\nam introduced to Richard, to whom I express my veneration in a few\nwords; he asks me very minutely how I became a faithful disciple of\nhis music, bursts out in invectives against all the productions of\nhis work, those of Munich, which are admirable, alone excepted; and\ngibes of the orchestra conductors who counsel paternally: 'Now, if\nyou please, a little passion, gentlemen, a little more passion, my\nfriends!' He imitates the accent of Leipsic very well.\n\n\"How I would like to give you an idea of the pleasures of the evening,\nof our enjoyments, which have been so lively, so peculiar, were it\nnot that even to-day I have not yet recovered my old equilibrium, and\ncannot do better than tell you as I chatter along a 'fairy tale.'\nAfterwards, before dinner, Wagner played all the principal passages\nfrom the _Meistersinger;_ he himself imitated all the voices: I can\nleave you to imagine that much was lost. As a talker he is incredibly\nswift and animated, and his abundance and humour are enough to\nconvulse with gaiety a circle of intimates such as we were. Between\nwhiles I had a long conversation with him about Schopenhauer. Ah, you\nwall understand what a joy it was for me to hear him speak with an\nindescribable warmth, explaining what he owes to our Schopenhauer, and\ntelling me that Schopenhauer, alone among the philosophers, understood\nthe essence of music. Then he wanted to know what is the present\nattitude of the philosophers with regard to Schopenhauer; he laughed\nvery heartily at the Congress of Philosophers at Prague, and spoke of\nphilosophical _domesticity._ Afterwards he read us a fragment of his\nMemoirs, which he is now writing, a scene from his student-life at\nLeipsic, overwhelmingly funny, of which I cannot think even now without\nlaughing. His mind is amazingly supple and witty.\n\n\"At last, as we were preparing to leave, Windisch and I, he gave me a\nvery warm handshake, and invited me, in the most friendly fashion, to\npay him a visit, to talk of music and philosophy. He also entrusted\nme with the mission of making his music known to his sister and his\nparents: a mission which I shall discharge with enthusiasm. I will\nwrite you of the evening at greater length when I am able to review\nit from a little further off, and more objectively. To-day, a cordial\ngreeting and, for your health, my best wishes.\"\n\nThat day of calm appreciation, which Nietzsche was waiting for, did\nnot come. He had come in contact with a godlike man. He had felt the\nshock of genius, and his soul remained shaken by it. He studied the\ntheoretical writings of Wagner, which he had hitherto neglected, and\nmeditated seriously on the idea of the unique work of art which was to\nbe a synthesis of the scattered beauties of poetry, the plastic arts,\nand harmony. He saw the German spirit renovated through the Wagnerian\nideal, and his swift mind went off in that direction.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRitschl said to him one day: \"I am going to surprise you. Would\nyou like to be appointed a Professor in the University of Basle?\"\nNietzsche's surprise was, in fact, extreme. He was in his twenty-fourth\nyear, and had not obtained his final degrees. The astonishing\nproposition had to be repeated to him Ritschl explained that he had\nreceived a letter from Basle; he was asked what sort of man was Herr\nFriedrich Nietzsche, author of the fine essays published in the\n_Rheinisches Museum;_ could he be entrusted with a Chair of Philology?\nRitschl had answered that Herr Friedrich Nietzsche was a young man who\nhad ability enough to do anything he chose to do. He had even dared to\nwrite that Herr Nietzsche had genius. The matter, though suspended for\nthe moment, had already gone pretty far.\n\nNietzsche listened to the news with infinite anxiety. It made him proud\nand yet left him broken-hearted. The whole year of liberty which he\nhad thought to be still before him suddenly vanished, and with it his\nprojects of study, of vast reading, of travel. He was losing a happy\nlife swollen with dreams. How could he reject so flattering an offer?\nHe had, it appears, contrary to all good sense, a certain hesitation\nagainst which Ritschl had to fight. The old savant felt a real\ntenderness for this singular pupil of his, this sagacious philologist,\nmetaphysician and poet; he loved him and believed in him. But he had\none anxiety: he feared lest Nietzsche, under the incessant solicitation\nof instincts almost too numerous and too fine, should disperse his\nenergy on too many objects and waste his gifts. For four years he\nhad been iterating in his ears the same counsel: _Restrict yourself\nin order to be strong;_ and he now repeated it in pressing terms.\nNietzsche understood, and gave way. He wrote at once to Erwin Rohde:\n\"As to our Parisian voyage, think of it no longer; it is certain that\nI am to be appointed to this Professorship at Basle; I who wished to\nstudy Chemistry! Henceforward I must learn how to renounce. Down there\nhow much alone I shall be--without a friend whose thought resounds to\nmine like beautiful thirds, minor or major!\"\n\nHe obtained his final diploma without examination, in consideration of\nhis past performances and of the unique circumstance. The professors of\nLeipsic did not like the notion of examining their colleague of Basle.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche remained some weeks at Naumburg with his own\npeople. The family were full of joy and pride: so young and a\nUniversity professor! \"What great matter is it?\" retorted Nietzsche\nimpatiently; \"there is an usher the more in the world, that is all!\" On\nApril 13th he writes to his friend Gersdorff:\n\n\"Here I am at the last term, the last evening that I shall spend beside\nmy hearth; to-morrow morning I strike out into the great world; I\nenter a profession which is new to me, in an atmosphere heavy and\noppressive with duties and obligations. Once more I must say adieu:\nthe golden time in which one's activities are free and unfettered;\nin which every instant is sovereign; in which art and the world are\nspread out before our eyes as a pure spectacle in which we hardly\nparticipate--that time is past beyond recall. Now begins the reign of\nthe harsh goddess of daily duty. _Bemooster Bursche zieh? ich aus._ ...\nYou know that poignant student-song. Yes, yes! now comes my turn to be\na philistine!\n\n\"One day or another, here or there, the saying always comes true.\nOffices and dignities are not to be accepted with impunity. The whole\nthing is to know whether the chains which you are forced to carry\nare of iron or of thread. And I still have courage enough to break\nsome link on occasion, and to risk some plunge or other into the\nperilous life. Of the compulsory gibbosity of the professor I do not\nas yet discern in myself any trace. To become a philistine, a man of\nthe crowd, \u1f04\u03bd\u03b8\u03c1\u03c9\u03c0\u03bf\u03c2 \u1f04\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03bf\u03c2--Zeus and the Muses preserve\nme from such a fate! Moreover, I find it hard to see how I could\ncontrive to become what I am not. I am more afraid of another kind of\nphilistinism, the professional species. It is only too natural that a\ndaily task, an incessant concentration on certain facts and certain\nproblems, should hang like a weight on the free sensibility of the\nmind, and strike at the roots of the philosophic sense. But I imagine\nthat I can confront this peril more calmly than most philologists:\nphilosophical seriousness is too deeply rooted in me: the true and\nessential problems of life and thought have been too clearly revealed\nto me by the great mystagogue Schopenhauer to permit me to be ever\nguilty of shameful treachery to the 'Idea.' To vivify my science with\nthis new blood; to communicate to my hearers that Schopenhauerian\nearnestness which glitters on the brow of that sublime thinker--such\nis my desire, my audacious hope: I want to be more than a pedagogue to\nhonest savants. I am thinking of the duties of the masters of our time;\nI look forward, and my mind is filled with the thought of that next\ngeneration which follows at our heels. Since we must endure life, let\nus at least endeavour so to use it as to give it some worth in the eyes\nof others when we are happily delivered from it.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche disquieted himself needlessly. If he could have\nguessed what the approaching days held for him, his joy would have been\nimmense. Richard Wagner lived not far from Basle, and was to become his\nfriend.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nFRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE AND RICHARD WAGNER--TRIEBSCHEN\n\n\nNietzsche installed himself at Basle, selected his domicile, and\nexchanged visits with his colleagues. But Richard Wagner was constantly\nin his thoughts. Three weeks after his arrival some friends joined with\nhim in an expedition to the shores of the lake of the Four Cantons. One\nmorning he left them and set off on foot by the river bank towards the\nmaster's retreat, Triebschen. Triebschen is the name of a little cape\nwhich protrudes into the lake; a solitary villa and a solitary garden,\nwhose high poplars are seen from afar, occupy its expanse.\n\nHe stopped before the closed gate and rang. Trees hid the house. He\nlooked around, as he waited, and listened: his attentive ear caught\nthe resonance of a harmony which was soon muffled up in the noise\nof footsteps. A servant opened the door and Nietzsche sent in his\ncard; then he was left to hear once more the same harmony, dolorous,\nobstinate, many times repeated. The invisible master ceased for a\nmoment, but almost at once was busy again with his experiments, raising\nthe strain, modulating it, until, by modulating once more, he had\nbrought back the initial harmony. The servant returned. Herr Wagner\nwished to know if the visitor was the same Herr Nietzsche whom he had\nmet one evening at Leipsic. \"Yes,\" said the young man. \"Then would\nHerr Nietzsche be good enough to come back at luncheon time?\" But\nNietzsche's friends were awaiting him, and he had to excuse himself.\nThe servant disappeared again, to return with another message. \"Would\nHerr Nietzsche spend the Monday of Pentecost at Triebschen?\" This\ninvitation he was able to accept and did accept.\n\nNietzsche came to know Wagner at one of the finest moments of the\nlatter's life. The great man was alone, far from the public, from\njournalists, and from crowds. He had just carried off and married the\ndivorced wife of Hans von B\u00fclow, the daughter of Liszt and of Madame\nd'Agoult, an admirable being who was endowed with the gifts of two\nraces. The adventure had scandalised all the Pharisees of old-fashioned\nGermany. Richard Wagner was completing his work in retreat: a gigantic\nwork, a succession of four dramas, every one of which was immense:\na work which was not conceived for the pleasure of men, but for the\ntrouble and salvation of their souls; a work so prodigious that no\npublic was worthy to hear it, no company of singers worthy to sing\nit, no stage, in short, vast enough or noble enough to make its\nrepresentation possible. What matter! The world must stoop to Richard\nWagner; it was not for him to yield to it. He had finished _Rhinegold,_\nand the _Valkyries; Siegfried_ was soon to be completed; and he began\nto know the joy of the workman who has mastered his work, and is able\nat last to view it as a whole.\n\nRestlessness and anger were mixed with his joy, for he was not of those\nwho are content with the approbation of an \u00e9lite. He had been moved by\nall the dreams of men, and he wished in his turn to move all men. He\nneeded the crowd, wanted to be listened to by it, and never ceased to\ncall to the Germans, always heavy and slow-footed in following him.\n\"Aid me,\" he cries out in his books, \"for you begin to be strong.\nBecause of your strength do not disdain, do not neglect those who have\nbeen your spiritual masters, Luther, Kant, Schiller and Beethoven: I\nam the heir of these masters. Assist me. I need a stage where I may\nbe free; give me it! I need a people who shall listen to me; be that\npeople! Aid me, it is your duty. And, in return, I will glorify you.\"\n\nWe may picture this first visit: Nietzsche with his soft manners,\nhis nervous voice, his fiery and veiled look; his face which was so\nyouthful in spite of the long, drooping moustache; Wagner in the\nstrength of the fifty-nine years that he carried without sign of\nweakness, overflowing with intuitions and experiences, desires and\nexpectations, exuberant in language and gesture. What was their first\ninterview like? _We_ have no record of it, but no doubt Wagner repeated\nwhat he was writing in his books, and said imperiously: \"Young man, you\ntoo must help me.\"\n\nThe night was fine and conversation spirited. When it was time for\nNietzsche to go, Wagner desired to accompany his guest on his way home\nalong the river. They went out together. Nietzsche's joy was great. The\nwant from which he had long suffered was now being supplied; he had\nneeded to love, to admire, to listen. At last he had met a man worthy\nto be his master; at last he had met him for whom no admiration, no\nlove could be too strong. He gave himself up entirely and resolved\nto serve this solitary and inspired being, to fight for him against\nthe inert multitude, against the Germany of the Universities, of the\nChurches, of the Parliaments, and of the Courts. What was Wagner's\nimpression? No doubt he too was happy. From the very beginning he had\nrecognised the extraordinary gifts of his young visitor. He could\nconverse with him; and to converse means to give and to receive. And so\nfew men had been able to afford him that joy.\n\nOn the 22nd of May, eight days after this first visit, a few very\nintimate friends came from Germany to Triebschen to celebrate the first\nday of their master's sixtieth year. Nietzsche was invited, but had\nto decline, for he was preparing his opening lecture and did not like\nto be distracted at his task. He was anxious to express straightway\nthe conception that he had formed of his science and of its teaching.\nFor his subject he took the Homeric problem, that problem which is an\noccasion of division between scholars who analyse antiquity and artists\nwho delight in it. His argument was that the scholars must resolve this\nconflict by accepting the judgment of the artists. Their criticism,\nfecund in useful historical results, had restored the legend and the\nvast frame of the two poems. But it had decided nothing, and could have\ndecided nothing. After all, the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ were there\nbefore the world in clear shapes, and if Goethe chose to say: \"The two\npoems are the work of a single poet \"--the scholar had no reply. His\ntask was modest, but useful and deserving of esteem. Let us not forget,\nsaid Nietzsche at the conclusion of his inaugural lecture, how but a\nfew years ago these marvellous Greek masterpieces lay buried beneath an\nenormous accumulation of prejudices. The minute labour of our students\nhas saved them for us. Philology is neither a Muse nor a Grace; she has\nnot created this enchanted world, it is not she who has composed this\nimmortal music. But she is its virtuoso, and we have to thank her that\nthese accents, long forgotten and almost indecipherable, resound again,\nand that is surely a high merit. \"And as the Muses formerly descended\namong the heavy and wretched B\u0153otian peasants, this messenger comes\nto-day into a world filled with gloomy and baneful shapes, filled with\nprofound and incurable sufferings, and consoles us by evoking the\nbeautiful and luminous forms of the Gods, the outlines of a marvellous,\nan azure, a distant, a fortunate country....\"\n\nNietzsche was highly applauded by the bourgeois of Basle, who had\ncome in great numbers to hear the young master whose genius had been\nannounced. His success pleased him, but his thoughts went otherwhere,\ntowards another marvellous, azure, and distant land--Triebschen. On the\n4th of June he received a note:\n\n\"Come and sleep a couple of nights under our roof,\" wrote Wagner. \"We\nwant to know what you are made of. Little joy I have so far from my\nGerman compatriots. Come and save the abiding _faith_ which I still\ncling to, in what I call, with Goethe and some others, German liberty.\"\n\nNietzsche was able to spare these two days and henceforward was a\nfamiliar of the master's. He wrote to his friends:\n\n\"Wagner realises all our desires: a rich, great, and magnificent\nspirit; an energetic character, an enchanting man, worthy of all love,\nardent for all knowledge. ... But I must stop; I am chanting a p\u00e6an....\n\n\"I beg you,\" he says further, \"not to believe a word of what is written\nabout Wagner by the journalists and the musicographers. No one in the\nworld knows him, no one can judge him, since the whole world builds on\nfoundations which are not his, and is lost in his atmosphere. Wagner\nis dominated by an idealism so absolute, a humanity so moving and so\nprofound, that I feel in his presence as if I were in contact with\ndivinity....\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRichard Wagner had written, at the request of Louis II., King of\nBavaria, a short treatise on social metaphysics. This singular work,\nwhich had been conceived to fascinate a young and romantic prince, was\ncarefully withheld from publicity, and lent only to intimates. Wagner\ngave it to Nietzsche, and few things surely that the latter ever read\nwent home more deeply. As traces of the impression he received from it\nare to be discovered in his work down to the very end, it will be worth\nour while to give some idea of its nature.\n\nWagner starts by explaining an old error of his: in 1848 he had been\na Socialist. Not that he had ever welcomed the ideal of a levelling\nof men; his mind, avid of beauty and order, in other words, of\nsuperiorities, could not have welcomed a notion of the kind. But he\nhoped that a humanity liberated from the baser servitudes would rise\nwith less effort to an understanding of art. In this he was mistaken,\nas he now understood.\n\n\"My friends, despite their fine courage,\" he wrote, \"were vanquished;\nthe emptiness of their effort proved to me that they were the victims\nof a basic error and that they had asked from the world what the world\ncould not give them.\"\n\nHis view cleared and he recognised that the masses are powerless,\ntheir agitations vain, their co-operation illusory. He had believed\nthem capable of introducing into history a progress of culture. Now he\nsaw that they could not collaborate towards the mere maintenance of a\nculture already acquired. They experience only such needs as are gross,\nelementary, and short-lived. For them all noble ends are unattainable.\nAnd the problem which reality obliges us to solve is this: how are we\nto contrive things so that the masses shall serve a culture which must\nalways be beyond their comprehension, and serve it with zeal and love,\neven to the sacrifice of life? All politics are comprised within this\nquestion, which appears insoluble, and yet is not. Consider Nature:\nno one understands her ends; and yet all beings serve her. How does\nNature obtain their adhesion to life? She deceives her creatures. She\nputs them in hope of an immutable and ever-delayed happiness. She\ngives them those instincts which constrain the humblest of animals to\nlengthy sacrifices and voluntary pains. She envelops in illusion all\nliving beings, and thus persuades them to struggle and to suffer with\nunalterable constancy.\n\nSociety, wrote Wagner, ought to be upheld by similar artifices. It is\nillusions that assure its duration, and the task of those who rule men\nis to maintain and to propagate these conserving illusions. Patriotism\nis the most essential. Every child of the people should be brought up\nin love of the King, the living symbol of the fatherland, and this\nlove must become an instinct, strong enough to render the most sublime\nabnegation an easy thing.\n\nThe patriotic illusion assures the permanence of the State but does\nnot suffice to guarantee a high culture. It divides humanity, it\nfavours cruelty, hatred, and narrowness of thought. The King, whose\nglance dominates the State, measures its limits, and is aware of\npurposes which extend beyond it. Here a second illusion is necessary,\nthe religious illusion whose dogmas symbolise a profound unity and a\nuniversal love. The King must sustain it among his subjects.\n\nThe ordinary man, if he be penetrated with this double illusion, can\nlive a happy and a worthy life: his way is made clear, he is saved.\nBut the life of the prince and his counsellors is a graver and a more\ndangerous thing. They propagate the illusions, therefore they judge\nthem. Life appears to them unveiled, and they know how tragic a thing\nit is. \"The great man, the exceptional man,\" writes Wagner, \"finds\nhimself practically every day in the same condition in which the\nordinary man despairs of life, and has recourse to suicide.\" The prince\nand the aristocracy which surrounds him, his nobles, are forearmed by\ntheir valour against so cowardly a temptation. Nevertheless, they\nexperience a bitter need to \"turn their back on the world.\" They desire\nfor themselves a restful illusion, of which they may be at the same\ntime the authors and the accessories. Here art intervenes to save them,\nnot to exalt the na\u00efve enthusiasm of the people, but to alleviate the\nunhappy life of the nobles and to sustain their valour. \"Art,\" writes\nRichard Wagner, addressing Louis II., \"I present to my very dear friend\nas the promised and benignant land. If Art cannot lift us in a real and\ncomplete manner above life, at least it lifts us in life itself to the\nvery highest of regions. It gives life the appearance of a game, it\nwithdraws us from the common lot, it ravishes and consoles us.\"\n\n\"Only yesterday\"--wrote Nietzsche to Gersdorff on the 4th of August,\n1869--\"I was reading a manuscript which Wagner confided to me, _Of\nthe State and Religion,_ a treatise full of grandeur, composed in\norder to explain to 'his young friend,' the little King of Bavaria,\nhis particular way of understanding the State and Religion. Never did\nany one speak to his King in a tone more worthy, more philosophical;\nI felt myself moved and uplifted by that ideality which the spirit of\nSchopenhauer seems constantly to inspire. Better than any other mortal,\nthe King should understand the tragic essence of life.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn September, Friedrich Nietzsche, after a short stay in Germany,\nreturned to a life divided between Basle and Triebschen. At Basle\nhe had his work, his pupils, who listened to him with attention,\nthe society of amiable colleagues. His wit, his musical talent, his\nfriendship with Richard Wagner, his elegant manners and appearance,\nprocured him a certain prestige. The best houses liked his company,\nand he did not refuse their invitations. But all the pleasures of\nsociety are less acceptable than the simplest friendship, and Nietzsche\nhad not a single friend in this honest bourgeois city; at Triebschen\nalone was he satisfied.\n\n\"Now,\" he writes to Erwin Rohde, who was living at Rome, \"I, too, have\nmy Italy, but I am able to visit it only on Saturdays and Sundays. My\nItaly is called Triebschen, and I already feel as if it were my home.\nRecently I have been there four times running, and into the bargain\na letter travels the same road almost every week. My dear friend,\nwhat I see and hear and learn there I find it impossible to tell you.\nSchopenhauer and Goethe, Pindar and \u00c6schylus are, believe me, still\nalive.\"\n\nEach of his returns was an occasion of melancholy. A feeling of\nsolitude depressed him. He confided in Erwin Rohde, speaking at the\nsame time of the hopes he had in his work.\n\n\"Alas, dear friend,\" he said, \"I have very few satisfactions, and\nsolitary, always solitary, I must ruminate on them all within myself.\nAh! I should not fear a good illness, if I could purchase at that price\na night's conversation with you. Letters are so little use! ... Men are\nconstantly in need of midwives, and almost all go to be delivered in\ntaverns, in colleges where little thoughts and little projects are as\nplentiful as litters of kittens. But when we are full of our thought\nno one is there to aid us, to assist us at the difficult accouchment:\nsombre and melancholy, we deposit in some dark hole our birth of\nthought, still heavy and shapeless. The sun of friendship does not\nshine upon them.\"\n\n\"I am becoming a virtuoso in the art of solitary walking,\" he says\nagain; and he adds: \"My friendship has something pathological about\nit.\" Nevertheless he is happy in the depths of his being; he says so\nhimself one day, and warns his friend Rohde against his own letters:\n\n\"Correspondence has this that is vexatious about it: one would like\nto give the best of oneself, whereas, in fact, one gives what is most\nephemeral, the accord and not the eternal melody. Each time that I sit\ndown to write to you, the saying of H\u00f6lderlin (the favourite author\nof my schooldays) comes back to my mind: 'Denn liebend giebt der\nSterbliche _vom Besten!_' And, as well as I remember, what have you\nfound in my last letters? Negations, contrarieties, singularities,\nsolitudes. Nevertheless, Zeus and the divine sky of autumn know it, a\npowerful current carries me towards positive ideas, each day I enjoy\nexuberant hours which delight me with full perceptions, with real\nconceptions--in such instants of exalting impressions, I never miss\nsending you a long letter full of thoughts and of vows; and I fling it\nathwart the blue sky, trusting, for its carriage towards you, to the\nelectricity which is between our souls.\"\n\nAnd we can get a glimpse of these positive ideas, these precious\nimpressions, because we are in possession of all the notes and the\nblunders of the young man who was acquiring, at the price of constant\neffort, strength and mastery.\n\n\"My years of study,\" he wrote to Ritschl, \"what have they been for me?\nA luxurious sauntering across the domains of philology and art; hence\nmy gratitude is especially lively at this moment that I address you who\nhave been till now the 'destiny' of my life; and hence I recognise how\nnecessary and opportune was the offer which changed me from a wandering\ninto a fixed star, and obliged me to taste anew the satisfaction of\ngalling but regular work, of an unchanging but certain object. A\nman's labour is quite another thing, when the holy _anangkei_ of his\nprofession helps him; how peaceful is his slumber, and, awakening,\nhow sure is his knowledge of what the day demands. There, there is no\nphilistinism. I feel as if I were gathering a multitude of scattered\npages in a book.\"\n\n_The Origin of Tragedy_ proves to be the book the guiding ideas of\nwhich Nietzsche was now elaborating. Greek thought remains the centre\nround which his thought forms, and he meditates, in audacious fashion,\non its history. A true historian, he thinks, should grasp its ensemble\nin a rapid view. \"All the great advances in Philology,\" he writes in\nhis notes, \"are the issue of a creative gaze.\" The eyes of a Goethe\ndiscovered a Greece clear and serene. Being still under the domination\nof his genius, we continue to perceive the image which he has put\nbefore us. But we should seek and discover for ourselves. Goethe\nfixed his gaze on the centuries of Alexandrine culture. Nietzsche\nneglects these. He prefers the rude and primitive centuries, whither\nhis instinct, since his eighteenth year, had led him when he elected\nto study the distiches of the aristocrat, Theognis of Megara. There he\ninhales an energy, a strength of thought, of action, of endurance, of\ninfliction; a vital poetry, vital dreams which rejoice his soul.\n\nFinally, in this very ancient Greece, he finds again, or thinks that\nhe finds again, the spirit of Wagner, his master. Wagner wishes to\nrenew tragedy, and, by using the theatre, as it were, as a spiritual\ninstrument, to reanimate the diminished sense of poetry in the human\nsoul. The \"tragic\" Greeks had a similar ambition; they wished to\nraise their race and ennoble it again by the most striking evocation\nof myths. Their enterprise was a sublime one, but it failed, for the\nmerchants of the Pir\u00e6us, the democracy of the towns, the vulgar herd of\nthe market-place and of the port, did not care for a lyrical art which\nstipulated a too lofty manner of thought, too great a nobleness in\ndeed. The noble families were vanquished and tragedy ceased to exist.\nRichard Wagner encounters similar enemies--they are the democrats,\ninsipid thinkers, and base prophets of well-being and peace.\n\n\"Our world is being judaised, our prattling _plebs,_ given over to\npolitics, is hostile to the idealistic and profound art of Wagner,\"\nwrites Nietzsche to Gersdorff. \"His chivalrous nature is contrary to\nthem. Is Wagner's art, as, in other times, \u00c6schylus's art, to suffer\ndefeat?\" Friedrich Nietzsche is always occupied with a like combat.\n\nHe unfolds these very new views to his master. \"We must renew the\nidea of Hellenism,\" he says to him; \"we live on commonplaces which\nare false. We speak of the 'Greek joy,' the 'Greek serenity'; this\njoy, this serenity, are tardy fruits and of poor savour, the graces of\ncenturies of servitudes. The Socratic subtlety, the Platonic sweetness,\nalready bear the mark of the decline. We must study the older\ncenturies, the seventh, the sixth. Then we touch the na\u00efve force, the\noriginal sap. Between the poems of Homer, which are the romance of her\ninfancy, and the dramas of \u00c6schylus, which are the act of her manhood,\nGreece, not without long effort, enters into the possession of her\ninstincts and disciplines. It is the knowledge of these times which we\nshould seek, because they resemble our own. Then the Greeks believed,\nas do the Europeans of to-day, in the fatality of natural forces; and\nthey believed also that man must create for himself his virtues and his\ngods. They were animated by a tragic sentiment, a brave pessimism,\nwhich did not turn them away from life. Between them and us there is a\ncomplete parallel and correspondence; pessimism and courage, and the\nwill to establish a new beauty....\"\n\nRichard Wagner interested himself in the ideas of the young man, and\nassociated him more and more intimately in his life. One day, Friedrich\nNietzsche being present, he received from Germany the news that the\n_Rhinegold_ and the _Valkyries,_ badly executed far from his advice and\ndirection, had had a double failure. He was sad and did not hide his\ndisappointment; he was afflicted by this depreciation of the immense\nwork which he had destined for a non-existent theatre and public, and\nwhich now crumbled before his eyes. His noble suffering moved Nietzsche.\n\nNietzsche took part in his master's work. Wagner was then composing\nthe music of the _Twilight of the Gods._ Page after page the work\ngrew, without haste or delay, as though from the regular overflowing\nof an invisible source. But no effort absorbed Wagner's thought, and,\nduring these same days, he wrote an account of his life. Friedrich\nNietzsche received the manuscript with directions to have it secretly\nprinted, and to supervise the publication of an edition limited to\ntwelve copies. He was asked to oblige with more intimate services. At\nChristmas, Wagner was preparing a Punch and Judy show for his children.\nHe wanted to have pretty figurines, devils and angels. Madame Wagner\nbegged Nietzsche to purchase them in Basle. \"I forget that you are a\nprofessor, a doctor, and a philologist,\" she said graciously, \"and\nremember only your five-and-twenty years.\" He examined the figurines\nof Basle, and, not finding them to his liking, wrote to Paris for the\nmost frightful devils, the most beatific angels imaginable. Friedrich\nNietzsche, admitted to the solemnity of the Punch and Judy show, spent\nthe Christmas festival with Wagner, his wife and family, in the most\ncharming of intimacies. Cosima Wagner made him a present; she gave\nhim a French edition of Montaigne, with whom, it seems, he was not\nacquainted, and of whom he soon became so fond. She was imprudent that\nday. Montaigne is perilous reading for a disciple.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"This winter I have to give two lectures on the \u00e6sthetic of the Greek\ntragedies,\" wrote Nietzsche, about September, to his friend the Baron\nvon Gersdorff; \"and Wagner will come from Triebschen to hear them.\"\nWagner did not go, but Nietzsche was listened to by a very large public.\n\nHe described an unknown Greece, vexed by the mysteries and\nintoxications of the god Dionysius, and through its trouble, through\nthis very intoxication, initiated into poetry, into song, into\ntragic contemplation. It seems that he wished to define this eternal\nromanticism, always alike to him, whether in Greece of the sixth\ncentury B.C. or in Europe of the thirteenth century; the same, surely,\nwhich inspired Richard Wagner in his retreat at Triebschen. Nietzsche,\nhowever, abstained from mentioning this latter name.\n\n\"The Athenian coming to assist at the tragedy of the great Dionysos\nbore in his heart some spark of that elementary force from which\ntragedy was born. This is the irresistible outburst of springtime,\nthat fury and delirium of mingled emotions which sweeps in springtime\nacross the souls of all simple peoples and across the whole life of\nnature. It is an accepted thing that festivals of Easter and Carnival,\ntravestied by the Church, were in their origin spring festivals. Every\nsuch fact can be traced to a most deep-rooted instinct: the old soil\nof Greece bore on its bosom enthusiastic multitudes, full of Dionysos;\nin the Middle Ages in the same way the dances of the Feast of Saint\nJohn and of Saint Vitus drew out great crowds who went singing, leaping\nand dancing from town to town, gathering recruits in each. It is, of\ncourse, open to the doctors to regard these phenomena as diseases of\nthe crowd: we content ourselves with saying that the drama of antiquity\nwas the flower of such a disease, and if that of our modern art does\nnot fountain forth from that mysterious source, that is its misfortune.\"\n\nIn his second lecture Nietzsche studied the end of tragic art. It is a\nsingular phenomenon; all the other arts of Greece slowly and gloriously\ndeclined. Tragedy had no decline. After Sophocles it disappeared,\nas though a catastrophe had destroyed it. Nietzsche recounts the\ncatastrophe, and names the destroyer, Socrates.\n\nHe dared to denounce the most revered of men. It was he, the poor\nAthenian, a man of the people, an ugly scoffer, who suppressed the\nancient poetry. Socrates was neither an artist nor a philosopher;\nhe did not write, he did not teach, he scarcely spoke; seated in\nthe public place, he stopped the passers-by, astonished them by his\npleasant logic, convinced them of their ignorance and absurdity,\nlaughed, and obliged them to laugh at themselves. His irony dishonoured\nthe na\u00efve beliefs which gave strength to the ancestors of the race,\nthe myths which upheld their virtues. He despised tragedy, and made\nopen declaration of his contempt for it; that was enough. Euripides was\ntroubled, and suppressed his inspiration, while the young Plato, who\nperhaps would have surpassed Sophocles himself, listened to the new\nmaster, burnt his verses, and renounced art. He disconcerted the old\ninstinctive lyrical humanity of Greece; and, by the voice of Plato,\nwhom he had seduced, he imposed the illusion, unknown to the ancients,\nof Nature as accessible to the reason of man, altogether penetrated\nby it, and always harmonious. Friedrich Nietzsche was to insert these\npages in his book upon _The Birth of Tragedy._\n\nThis charge pronounced against Socrates surprised his audience in\nBasle. Wagner knew it, and in September, 1870, wrote to Nietzsche an\nenthusiastic but extremely shrewd letter.\n\n\"As for me, I cry out to you: That's it! you have got hold of the\ntruth, you touch the exact point with keen accuracy. I await with\nadmiration the series of work in which you will combat the errors of\npopular dogmatism. But none the less you make me anxious, and I hope\nwith all my heart that you are not going to come a cropper. I would\nalso like to advise you not to expound your audacious views, which must\nbe so difficult to establish, in short brochures of limited range.\nYou are, I feel, profoundly penetrated with your ideas: you must\ngather them together into a larger book of much wider scope. Then you\nwill find and will give us the _mot juste_ on the divine blunders of\nSocrates and Plato, those creators so wonderful as to exact adoration\neven from us who forswear them! Our words, my dear friend, swell into\nhymns when we consider the incomprehensible harmony of those essences,\nso strange to our world! And what pride and hope animate us when,\nreturning on ourselves, we feel strongly and clearly that we can and\nshould achieve a work, outside the reach even of those masters!\"\n\nNone of the letters addressed by Nietzsche to Wagner have been\npublished. Have they been lost? Were they destroyed? Or are they\nmerely refused by Madame Cosima Wagner, who is perhaps not incapable\nof rancour? The facts are unknown. However, we may be certain that\nNietzsche begged Wagner to ally himself with him, to aid him in\nrendering clear those difficult views of his. Wagner replied:\n\n\"MY DEAR FRIEND,--How good it is to be able to exchange such letters!\nThere is no one to-day with whom I can talk as seriously as with\nyou--the Unique[1] excepted. God only knows what would happen to me\nbut for that! But I should be able to give myself up to the pleasure\nof fighting with you against \"Socratism\" only on one condition, that\nof having an enormous deal of time at my disposal, free from the\ntemptation of any better project--to speak quite plainly, I should have\nto abandon all creative work. Division of labour is a good thing in\nthis connection. You can do much for me: you can take on your shoulders\na full half of the task assigned to me by fate. And so doing, you will\nperhaps achieve the whole of your own destiny. I have never had much\nsuccess in my essays in Philology: you have never had much success in\nyour essays in music: and it is well that things should be so. As a\nmusician you would have come to much the same end to which I should\nhave come had I stuck obstinately to Philology. But Philology remains\nin my blood; it directs me in my work as a musician. As for you, remain\na philologist, and keeping to Philology, allow yourself to be directed\nby music. I mean what I say in a very serious spirit. You have taught\nme within what base preconceptions a professional philologist is to-day\nexpected to imprison himself--I have taught you in what an unspeakable\nden a genuine 'absolute' musician must to-day waste himself. Show us\nwhat Philology ought to be, and help me to prepare the way for that\ngreat 'Renaissance' in which Plato will embrace Homer, and in which\nHomer, penetrated by the ideas of Plato, will be at last and for the\nfirst time the sublime Homer ...\"\n\nAt this instant Nietzsche had conceived his work, and was making\nready to write it at a spurt. \"Science, art, and philosophy grow so\nintimately within me,\" he said in February to Rohde, \"that I am about\nto give birth to a centaur.\"\n\nProfessional duties, however, interrupted this flight. In March he was\nappointed titular professor. The honour flattered him, the duties kept\nhim occupied. At the same time he was given the care of a class of\nhigher rhetoric; then he was asked to draw up in the noblest Latin an\naddress of congratulation to Professor Baumbrach, of Fribourg, who had\ntaught for fifty years in the University of that town. Nietzsche, who\nnever shirked anything, applied himself to the preparation of his class\nand the composition of his discourse. In April, more work. Ritschl\nfounded a review, the _Acta societatis philologic? Lipsi?,_ and desired\nthat his best pupil should contribute to it. Nietzsche did not haggle\nover the help asked of him. He promised his copy, and wrote to Rohde to\nask for his collaboration also.\n\n\"Personally, I feel most strongly that I am under an obligation,\" he\nwrote. \"And, notwithstanding that this work will put me out at the\nmoment, I am quite committed to it. We must collaborate for the first\nnumber. You are aware that certain persons will read it with curiosity,\nwith malevolence. Therefore, it _must_ be good. I have promised my\nfaithful help--answer me.\"\n\nMay and then June, 1870, came. Friedrich Nietzsche seems to have been\noccupied, above all else, with his work for the _Acta._ During the\nholidays at Pentecost, Rohde, on his way back from Italy, stopped at\nBasle. Nietzsche was delighted, he wished Wagner to make his friend's\nacquaintance, and brought him to Triebschen. They spent a fine day\ntogether, on the brink of an abyss which none of them apparently\nperceived. Rohde, continuing on his road to Germany, left Basle.\nNietzsche remained alone, the victim of a foolish accident. He had\ngiven himself a strain and was forced to be up.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHad he given any attention to the rumours of war which troubled Europe\nin 1870? It seems not. He was little curious of news, and scarcely\nread the newspapers. Not that he was indifferent to his country, but\nhe conceived it, in the manner of Goethe, as a source of art and moral\ngrandeur. One of his thoughts, one alone, is perhaps inspired by\nthe public unrest. \"No war,\" he writes; \"the State would become too\nstrong thereby.\" No doubt we have here, besides one of Nietzsche's\nown impressions, an echo of the conversations of Triebschen: Wagner\nrecruited his most ardent admirers in Southern Germany, in the\nRhineland, in Bavaria, where his protector Louis II. reigned; the\nGermans of the North appreciated him badly, the Berliners worst of all,\nand he had no wish for a warlike crisis which would certainly have the\neffect of adding to the weight of Prussian dictation. The State to\nwhich Nietzsche pointed in his short note was the Prussian State. He\nforesaw, and like his master dreaded, the imminent hegemony of Berlin,\nthat despised town of bureaucrats and bankers, of journalists and Jews.\n\nOn July 14th, a convalescent, stretched out on his long chair, he wrote\nto his comrade, Erwin Rohde. He spoke to him of Richard Wagner and of\nHans von B\u00fclow, of art and of friendship. Suddenly he stops in the\nmiddle of a phrase, marking with a blank line the interruption of his\nthought.\n\n\"Here is a terrible thunderclap,\" he wrote. \"The Franco-German war\nis declared; a demon alights upon all our culture, already worn\nthreadbare. What are we about to experience?\n\n\"Friend, dear friend, we met once more in the twilight of peace. To-day\nwhat do all our aspirations signify? Perhaps we are at the beginning of\nthe end! What a gloomy sight. Cloisters will become necessary. And we\nshall be the first friars.\"\n\nHe signed himself _The Loyal Swiss._ This unexpected signature may be\nexplained in a literal manner. In order to be appointed a professor at\nBasle, Friedrich Nietzsche had had to renounce his nationality. But\nassuredly it indicated more than this. It announced his detachment of\nmind: he had decided on the r\u00f4le of the contemplator.\n\nWhat a misunderstanding of himself! He was too young, too brave, too\nmuch enamoured of his race, to adopt the part of spectator only in\nthe imminent drama. As \"a loyal Swiss,\" and as such dispensed from\nmilitary duties, he quietly took up his abode with his sister Lisbeth\nin a mountain inn, where he wrote out some pages on Greek lyricism. It\nwas then that he formulated for the first time his definition of the\nDionysian and Apollonian spirits. Nevertheless, the German armies were\ncrossing the Rhine and gaining their first victories, and it was not\nwithout emotion that Nietzsche heard the news. The thought of lofty\ndeeds in which he had no part, of perils from which he was preserved,\ntroubled his meditations.\n\nOn July 20th, writing to Madame Ritschl, he expressed the thoughts\nwhich occupied his solitude. First he gave expression to a fear which,\nas it seemed, the memory of a Greece ruined by the conflict of Sparta\nand Athens inspired in him. \"Unhappy, historical analogies teach us\nthat the very traditions of culture may be destroyed by the bitterness\nof such a war of nations.\" But he also expressed the emotion which\nhad begun to seize him. \"How I am ashamed of this inactivity in which\nI am kept, now that the instant has come when I might be applying\nwhat I learned in the artillery. Naturally I make myself ready for an\nenergetic course of action, in case things should take a bad turn;\ndo you know that the students of Kiel have enlisted together, with\nenthusiasm?\" On the morning of August 7th he read in his paper the\ndispatches from W\u00f6rth: _German victory: Enormous losses._ He could no\nlonger remain in his retreat. He returned to Basle, asked and obtained\nfrom the Swiss authorities permission to serve in the ambulance corps,\nand proceeded at once to Germany to enlist for the war which allured\nhim.\n\nHe crossed conquered Alsace: he saw the charnel houses of Wissembourg\nand of W\u00f6rth: on August 29th he bivouacked not far from Strassburg,\nwhere conflagrations lit up the horizon; then he made his way, by\nLun\u00e9ville and Nancy, towards the country around Metz, now converted\ninto an immense ambulance, where the wounded of Mars-la-Tour,\nGravelotte and Saint-Privat, so numerous that it was difficult to nurse\nthem, were dying of their wounds and of infectious illnesses. Some\nunfortunates were given into his charge: he did his duty with kindness\nand courage, but experienced a singular emotion, a sacred and almost\nenthusiastic horror. For the first time he considered without repulsion\nthe labour of the masses. He watched those millions of beings, some\nstruck down and marked by death, others marching the roads or standing\nunder arms: he considered them without contempt, he esteemed their\ndestiny. Under the menaces of war, these men have something momentous\nabout them. They forget their vain thoughts; they march, they sing,\nthey obey their chiefs; they die. Friedrich Nietzsche was recompensed\nfor his pains; a fraternal impulse uplifted his soul, he no longer\nfelt his solitude, he loved the simple people who surrounded him. \"All\nmy military passions awake,\" he writes, \"and I cannot satisfy them! I\nwould have been at Rezonville, at Sedan, actively, passively perhaps.\nThis Swiss neutrality always ties my hands.\"\n\nHis passage through France was rapid. He received orders to convey the\nwounded in his care to the hospital at Carlsruhe.\n\nHe set out and was shut up, for three days and three nights, with\neleven men, lying in a market cart closed fast against the cold and\nthe rain. Two of the wounded who accompanied him were attacked by\ndiphtheria, all had dysentery. \"To reach truth,\" says a German mystic,\n\"the most rapid mount is Affliction.\" Friedrich Nietzsche recalled\nthis maxim of which he was so fond. He tried his courage, verified his\nthoughts. He dressed the sores of his wounded, he listened to their\ncomplaints, their appeals, and did not interrupt his meditation. Till\nnow he had known only his books; now he knew life. He relished this\nbitter ordeal, always discerning some far-off beauty. \"I, also, I have\nmy hopes,\" he was to write; \"thanks to them I was able to look on at\nthe war and to pursue my meditations without pause, in presence of\nthe worst horrors.... I recall a solitary night during which I lay\nstretched out in a market van with the wounded men confided to me and\nnever ceased to explore in thought the three abysses of tragedy which\nhave for names: _Wahn, Wille, Wehe_--Illusion, Will, Affliction. Whence\nthen did I draw the confident certitude that he should undergo in\nbirth a similar ordeal, the hero to come of tragic knowledge and Greek\ngaiety?\"\n\nHe arrived at Carlsruhe with his sick and wounded; he had contracted\ntheir illness and was attacked by dysentery and diphtheria. An unknown\nwho had been his ambulance companion nursed him devotedly. As soon as\nhe was well again, Nietzsche went to his home at Naumburg, there to\nseek not repose, but an entire leisure from work and thought.\n\n\"Yes,\" he wrote to his friend Gersdorff, who was fighting in\nFrance--\"Yes, that conception of things which is common to us has\nundergone the ordeal by fire. I have had the same experience as you.\nFor me, as for you, these weeks will remain in my life as an epoch\nin which each one of my principles re-affirmed itself in me; I would\nhave risked death with them.... Now I am at Naumburg again, but poorly\nrestored to health so far. The atmosphere in which I have lived has\nbeen long over me like a dark cloud; I heard an incessant lamentation.\"\n\nOnce already, in July, 1865, during the campaign at Sadowa, he had\nknown war, and undergone its allurement. A simple and great aspiration\nhad laid hold of him; and for a moment he had felt himself in accord\nwith his race. \"I feel a patriotic emotion,\" he wrote; \"it is a new\nexperience for me.\" He grasped at this sudden exaltation and cultivated\nit.\n\nIndeed, his is a changed soul. He is no longer the \"loyal Swiss\" of\nanother time; he is a man among men, a German proud of his Germany. A\nwar has transformed him; he glorifies war. War awakes the energy of\nmen; it even troubles their spirits. It obliges them to seek in an\nideal order, an order of beauty and duty, the ends of a life which is\ntoo cruel. The lyric poet, the sage, misunderstood in ages of peace,\nare heard with respect in ages of war. Then men have need of them,\nand are conscious of their need. The same necessity which ranges them\nbehind their chiefs renders them attentive to genius. Humanity is made\ntruly one, and is drawn towards the heroic and the sublime, only under\nthe pressure of war.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche, though still very weak and suffering, again took\nup the notes of his book that he might record in it his new ideas. In\nGreece, he argues, art was the visible form of a society, disciplined\nby struggle, from the workshop, where the captive slave laboured, up\nto the gymnasium and the agora, where the free man played with arms.\nSuch was that winged figure, that goddess of Samothrace, that had for\ncompanion of her flight a bloody trireme.\n\nThe Greek genius emanated from war, it sang war, it had war for its\ncomrade. \"It is the people of the tragic mysteries,\" wrote Friedrich\nNietzsche, \"who strike the great blow of the Persian battles; in\nreturn, the people who have maintained these wars need the salutary\nbeverage of tragedy.\" We follow in his notes the movement of a\nmind which wishes to grasp the very idea of the tragic, athwart a\nvaguely-known Greece. Again and again we find this word _tragic_\nbrought in as if it were a fundamental strain which the young\nthinker trains himself to repeat, like a child trying to learn a new\nword:--\"Tragic Greece conquers the Persians.... Tragic man is nature\nitself in its highest strength of creation and knowledge: he trifles\nwith sorrow....\" Three formulas satisfy his research for a moment.\n\"The tragic work of Art--the tragic Man--the tragic State.\" Thus he\ndetermined the three essential parts of his book, which he would\nentitle as a whole: _The Tragic Man._\n\nLet us not misunderstand the real object of his meditations: this\nsociety, this discipline which he discerned in the past, were in\nreality the ideal forms of the Fatherland which he desired and for\nwhich he dared to hope. He saw on the one hand Latin Europe, weakened\nby utilitarianism and the softness of life, on the other Germany, rich\nin poets, in soldiers, in myths, in victories. She was suzerain of\nthose races which were in process of decay. How would she exercise this\nsuzerainty? Might not one augur from her triumph a new era, warlike\nand tragic, chivalrous and lyric? One could conceive it; and therefore\none should hope for it, and this was enough to dictate one's duty. How\nglorious this Germany would be, with Bismarck as its chief, Moltke as\nits soldier, Wagner as its poet--its philosopher, too, existed, and\nwas called Friedrich Nietzsche. This belief, though he expressed it\nnowhere, he surely had: for he had not a doubt as to his genius.\n\nHe was elated, but did not let his dreams lead him astray: he imagined\nan ideal Fatherland, yet never lost from sight the Fatherland, human,\ntoo human, which actually existed.\n\nDuring October and the first days of November, alone with his own\npeople in that Naumburg whose provincial virtues he did not love,\nhe bore hardly with the vulgarity of the little people, of the\nfunctionaries with whom he mixed. Naumburg was a small Prussian town;\nFriedrich Nietzsche did not care for this robust and vulgar Prussia.\nMetz had capitulated; the finest army of France was taken captive: a\ndelirium of conceit swept all Germany off its feet. Friedrich Nietzsche\nresisted the general tendency. The sentiment of triumph was a repose\nwhich his exacting soul might not know. On the contrary, he was\ndisgusted and alarmed.\n\n\"I fear,\" he wrote to his friend Gersdorff, \"that we shall have to pay\nfor our marvellous national victories at a price to which I, for my\npart, will never consent. In confidence--I am of opinion that modern\nPrussia is a Power highly dangerous to culture.... The enterprise is\nnot easy, but we must be philosophers enough to keep our sang-froid in\nthe midst of all this smoke, we must keep watch so that no robber may\ncome and steal any part of what, in my opinion, is commensurable with\nnothing beside, not even the most heroic of military actions, not even\nour national exaltation.\"\n\nThen a document appeared which deeply moved Friedrich Nietzsche. It\nwas the date of the centenary of Beethoven. The Germans, occupied with\ntheir war, had neglected to commemorate it. Richard Wagner's voice was\nraised, it alone was strong enough to recall to the conquerors the\nmemory of another glory: \"Germans, you are brave,\" he cried; \"remain\nbrave in peace.... In this marvellous year 1870 nothing is better\nsuited to your pride in being brave than the memory of the great\nBeethoven.... Let us celebrate that great pioneer and path-hewer, let\nus celebrate him worthily, not less worthily than the victory of German\ncourage: for he who gives joy to the world is raised higher among men\nthan he who conquers the world.\"\n\n_Germans, you are brave; remain brave in peace_--no saying could move\nFriedrich Nietzsche more deeply. He desired to be near the master\nagain, and, though not yet restored to health, he left Naumburg.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe saw Richard Wagner again and was not entirely satisfied. This man,\nwho had been so splendid in misfortune, seemed to have lost stature.\nThere was a vulgar quality in his joy. Well had the German victory\navenged him for those Parisian cat-calls and railleries which he had\nhad to endure; now he \"ate Frenchmen\" with an enormous and peaceable\nrelish. Nevertheless he declined certain offers; he was promised the\nhighest office and honours if he accepted residence in Berlin. He\nrefused, being unwilling to let himself be enthroned as poet-laureate\nof a Prussian Empire; and his disciple was thankful for the refusal.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche found at Basle an even better confidant of his\nanxieties. The historian Jacob Burckhardt, a great scholar of arts and\ncivilisations, was melancholy; all brutality was odious to him, and he\ndetested war and its destruction. A citizen of the last city in Europe\nwhich maintained its independence and its old customs, proud of this\nindependence and of these customs, Jacob Burckhardt disliked those\nnations of thirty or forty millions of souls which he saw establishing\nthemselves. To the designs of Bismarck and of Cavour he preferred the\ncounsel of Aristotle--\"So arrange that the number of citizens does not\nexceed ten thousand; otherwise they would not be able to meet together\non the public square.\"\n\nHe had studied Athens, Venice, Florence, and Sienna. He held in high\nesteem the ancient and Latin disciplines, in very moderate esteem\nthe German disciplines: he dreaded German hegemony. Burckhardt and\nNietzsche were colleagues. They often met in the intervals between two\nlectures. Then they would talk and, on fine days, stroll together along\nthat terrace over which all European travellers lean, that is between\nthe cathedral of red sandstone and the Rhine, here so young still but\nalready so strong, as it passes with a long murmur of ruffled waters.\nThe simply-built University is situated quite near, on the slope,\nbetween the river and the Museum.\n\nThe two colleagues were eternally examining their common thought. How\nshould that tradition of culture and beauty be continued, that fragile\nand oft-broken tradition which two tiny States, Attica and Tuscany,\nhave transmitted to our care? France had not deserved censure; she\nhad known how to maintain the methods and a school of taste. But had\nPrussia the qualities fitting her heritage? Friedrich Nietzsche\nrepeated the expression of his hope. \"Perhaps,\" said he, \"this war will\nhave transformed our old Germany; I see her more virile, endowed with\na firmer and more delicate taste.\" Jacob Burckhardt listened. \"No,\"\nsaid he, \"you are always thinking of the Greeks, for whom war had no\ndoubt an educative virtue. But modern wars are superficial; they do\nnot reach, they do not correct the bourgeois, _laissez-aller_ style of\nlife. They are rare; their impressions are soon effaced; they are soon\nforgotten; they do not exercise people's thought.\" What did Nietzsche\nanswer? A letter to Erwin Rohde enables us to divine the ill-assured\naccent of his observations. \"I am very anxious,\" he writes, \"as regards\nthe immediate future. I seem to recognise there the Middle Ages in\ndisguise.... Be careful to free yourself from this fatal Prussia, with\nits repugnance to culture! Flunkeys and priests sprout from its soil\nlike mushrooms, and they are going to darken all Germany with their\nsmoke!\"\n\nJacob Burckhardt, long a recluse amid his memories and his books, had\nthe habit of melancholy and made the best of it. By way of discreet\nprotest against the enthusiasms of his contemporaries, he delivered a\nlecture upon _Historical Greatness._ \"Do not take for true greatness,\"\nsaid he to the students of Basle, \"such and such a military triumph,\nsuch and such an expansion of a State. How many nations have been\npowerful who are forgotten and merit their oblivion! Historical\ngreatness is a rarer thing; it lies wholly in the works of those men\nwhom we call great men, using that vague term because we cannot truly\nfathom their nature. Some unknown genius leaves us _Notre Dame de\nParis;_ Goethe gives us his Faust; Newton his law of the Solar System.\nThis is greatness, and this alone.\" Friedrich Nietzsche listened and\napplauded. \"Burckhardt,\" wrote he, \"is becoming a Schopenhauerian....\"\nBut a few wise words do not satisfy his ardour. Nor can he so quickly\nrenounce the hope which he has conceived; he wishes to act, to save his\nFatherland from the moral disaster which in his judgment menaces her.\n\nHow act? Here was a sluggish people, not easily aroused, lacking in\nsensitiveness, a people stunted by democracy, a people in revolt\nagainst every noble aspiration: by what artifice could one sustain\namong them the imperilled ideal, the love of heroism and of the\nsublime? Nietzsche formed a project which was so audacious and so\nadvanced that he meditated long upon it without confiding in any one.\nRichard Wagner was then working to establish that theatre of Bayreuth\nin which he hoped to realise his epic creation in complete freedom.\nNietzsche dared to imagine a different institution, but one of the\nsame order; a kind of seminary where the young philosophers, his\nfriends, Rohde, Gersdorff, Deussen, Overbeck, Romundt should meet, live\ntogether and, free from duties, liberated from administrative tutelage,\nmeditate, under the guidance of certain masters, on the problems of\nthe hour. A double home of art and of thought would thus maintain at\nthe heart of Germany, above the crowd and apart from the State, the\ntraditions of the spiritual life. \"Cloisters will become necessary,\" he\nhad written to Erwin Rohde in July; six months' experience brought back\nthis idea. \"Here assuredly is the strangest thing which this time of\nwar and victory has raised up; _a modern anchoritism_--an impossibility\nof living in accord with the State.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche let himself be drawn away by this dream, the\nunreality of which he failed to recognise. He was imagining a reunion\nof solitaries, similar to the Port Royal des Champs. He knew that such\na society did not accord with the manners and tastes of his times, but\nhe judged it to be necessary and believed that he had strength enough\nto establish or impose it.\n\nA profound instinct inspired and directed him. That old college of\nPforta had been monachal in its origins, in its buildings and in its\nvery walls, in the lasting gravity and ordered rule of life. Thus he\nhad, as a child, received the impress of what was almost the life of\na religious. He kept the memory of it, and the nostalgia. During his\nyears at the University he had constantly sought to isolate himself\nfrom the world by surrounding himself with friends. He studied Greece,\nand the antique wisdom nourished his soul: he loved Pythagoras\nand Plato, the one the founder, the other the poet, of the finest\nbrotherhood that man had ever conceived, the close and sovereign\naristocracy of sages armed, of meditative knights. Thus did Christian\nhumanity and Pagan humanity, united by a remote harmony, concur with\nhis thoughts and his aspirations.\n\nHe wished to write an open letter to his friends, known and unknown;\nbut he would only call them at the favourable moment, and till then\nwould keep his secret. \"Give me two years,\" he wrote to his friend\nGersdorff enthusiastically and mysteriously, \"and you will see a\nnew conception of antiquity diffuse itself, which must bring a new\nspirit into the scientific and moral education of the nation!\" Towards\nmid-December he believed that the moment had come. Erwin Rohde wrote\nhim a melancholy letter, a very feeble echo of the passionate letters\nwhich Nietzsche had addressed to him. \"Soon we shall need cloisters\n...\" he said, repeating the same idea expressed six months earlier by\nhis friend. It was but a word; Friedrich Nietzsche saw in it a sign of\nspontaneous agreement, a presage of enthusiastic collaboration, and he\nwrote in a joyous transport:\n\n\"DEAR FRIEND,--I received your letter and I answer it without losing\na minute. Above all I wish to tell you that I feel _altogether_\nlike you, and that we shall be, in my opinion, very weak, if,\nabandoning our feeble complaints, we do not deliver ourselves from\nennui by an energetic act.... I have at last understood the bearing\nof Schopenhauer's judgments on the philosophy of the universities. No\nradical truth is possible there. No revolutionary truth can come out\nfrom there.... We shall reject this yoke; to me that is certain. And we\nshall then form a new Greek academy: Romundt will be of our company.\n\n\"You know, since your visit to Triebschen, the projects of Bayreuth.\nFor a long time, without confiding in any one, I have been considering\nwhether it would not be suitable for us to break with philology and\n_its perspectives of culture._ I am preparing a great _adhortatio_\nfor all those who are not yet completely captured and stifled by the\nmanners of this present time. What a pity that I must write to you, and\nthat for long we have not been able to examine in conversation each of\nmy thoughts! To you who know not their turnings and their consequences,\nmy plan will perhaps appear as an eccentric caprice. That, it is not;\nit is a necessity.\n\n\"... Let us try to reach a little island on which there will be\nno longer need to close one's ears with wax. Then we shall be one\nanother's masters. Our books, from now till then, are but hooks to\ncatch our friends, a public for our \u00e6sthetic and monachal association.\nLet us live, let us work, let us enjoy for one another's sake; in that\nmanner only, perhaps, shall we be able to work for the _whole._ I may\ntell you (see how serious is my design) that I have already commenced\nto reduce my expenses in order to constitute a little reserve fund. We\nshall gamble in order to try our 'luck'; as to the books which we shall\nbe able to write, I shall demand the highest honorarium as a provision\nfor coming times. In brief, we shall neglect no lawful means of success\nin founding our cloister. We also have our duty for the next two years!\n\n\"May this plan seem to you worthy of meditation! Your last letter,\nmoving as it was, signified to me that the time had come to unveil it\nfor you.\n\n\"Shall we not be able to introduce a new form of Academy into the world?\n\n\n    'Und sollt' ich nicht, sehnsuchtigster Gewalt,\n    In's Leben ziehn die einzigster Gestalt?'\n\n\n\"Thus Faust speaks of Helen. No one knows anything of my project, and\nnow it depends upon you to see that Romundt is advised of it.\n\n\"Assuredly, our school of philosophy is neither an historical\nreminiscence nor an arbitrary caprice; is it not a _necessity_ that\npushes us on to that road? It seems that the plan of our student days,\nthat voyage which we were to make together, returns in a new form,\nsymbolic now and vaster than it was. On this occasion, I won't leave\nyou in the lurch as I then did. That memory always annoys me.\n\n\"With my best hopes, your faithful\n\n\"FRATER FRIEDRICH.\n\n\"From the 23rd of December till the 1st of January I go to Triebschen,\nnear Lucerne.\"\n\nOn the 22nd of December Friedrich Nietzsche left Lucerne: he had\nreceived no reply from Rohde. He found the house at Triebschen in high\nfestival with children's games and the preparations for Christmas.\nMadame Wagner gave him a volume of Stendhal, _Les Promenades dans\nRome._ He offered Wagner the famous woodcut of D\u00fcrer's of _The Knight,\nthe Dog, and Death,_ on which he had written a commentary for the\nbook he was then preparing, _The Origin of Tragedy:_ \"A spirit which\nfeels itself isolated, desperate and solitary,\" he wrote, \"could\nchoose no better symbol than that rider of D\u00fcrer's, who, unperturbed\nby his gruesome companions and yet wholly without hope, pursues his\nterrible path alone with dog and horse. This rider of D\u00fcrer's is our\nSchopenhauer: he was without hope, but he desired the truth. His like\ndoes not exist.\" Nietzsche would have been happy in the master's house\nif he had not been expecting Rohde's reply: the waiting worried him.\nHe stopped for a week at Triebschen. Wagner was never done talking\nabout Bayreuth and his vast projects. Nietzsche, too, had his thought\nwhich he would have joyfully uttered; but first he wanted his friend's\napprobation, and that approbation did not come. He left without having\nreceived a word or spoken one on the subject.\n\nAt last, at Basle, he received the too long-desired letter: an\nhonest, affectionate, but negative reply. \"You tell me that cloisters\nare necessary to-day,\" wrote Rohde. \"I believe it. But there are\nnecessities for which no remedy exists. How can we find the money?\nAnd even when we shall have found the money, I do not know that I\nshall follow you; I do not feel in me a creative force which renders\nme worthy of the solitude whither you call me. For a Schopenhauer, a\nBeethoven, a Wagner, the case is different, as it is for you, dear\nfriend. But, as I am in question, no! I must hope for a different life.\nStill let us entertain the wish for such a retreat, among certain\nfriends, in a cloister of the muses; I agree to that. Deprived of\ndesires, what would we become?\"\n\nIf Rohde refused to follow him, who would follow him? He did not write\nhis _Adhortatio;_ Romundt was not advised, and even Wagner, it seems,\nknew nothing of the proposal.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNietzsche made no vain complaints, but set to work to elaborate alone\nthose revolutionary truths for which he would have wished to contrive\na kindlier manner of birth. He turned his back upon Germany, upon\nthose modern States which have it as their mission to flatter the\nservilities, soften the conflicts, and favour the idleness of men.\nHe considered anew primitive Greece, the city of the seventh and the\nsixth centuries; thither a mysterious attraction ever drew him back.\nWas it the seduction of a perfect beauty? Doubtless, but it was also\nthe seduction of that strength and cruelty which a modern conceals\nas he conceals a stain, and which the old Greeks practised with joy.\nNietzsche loved strength; on the battlefield of Metz he had felt within\nhim the appetite and instinct.\n\n\"If,\" he wrote, \"genius and art are the final ends of Greek culture,\nthen all the forms of Greek society must appear to us as necessary\nmechanisms and stepping-stones towards that final end. Let us\ndiscover what means were utilised by the will to act which animated\nthe Greeks....\" He discerns and names one of these means: slavery.\n\"Frederick Augustus Wolf,\" he notes, \"has shown us that slavery is\nnecessary to culture. There is one of the powerful thoughts of my\npredecessor.\" He grasped it, held it to him, and forced it to disclose\nits whole meaning. This idea, suddenly discovered, inspired him; it was\nprofound and moved him to the depths of his being; it was cruel, almost\nmonstrous, and satisfied his romantic taste. He shuddered before it, he\nadmired its sombre beauty.\n\n\"It may be that this knowledge fills us with terror,\" he wrote; 'I\nsuch terror is the almost necessary effect of all the most profound\nknowledge. For nature is still a frightful thing, even when intent on\ncreating the most beautiful forms. It is so arranged that culture, in\nits triumphal march, benefits only a trivial minority of privileged\nmortals, and it is necessary that the slave service of the great\nmasses be maintained, if one wish to attain to a full joy in becoming\n_(werde lust)._\n\n\"We moderns have been accustomed to oppose two principles against the\nGreeks, the one and the other invented to reassure a society of an\naltogether servile kind which anxiously avoids the world, _slave:_ we\ntalk of the 'dignity of man' and the 'dignity of labour.'\n\n\"The language of the Greeks is other. They declare in simple terms that\nwork is a disgrace, for it is impossible that a man occupied with the\nlabour of gaining a livelihood should ever become an artist....\n\n\"So let us avow this cruel sounding truth: slavery is necessary to\nculture; a truth which assuredly leaves no doubt as to the absolute\nvalue of being.\n\n\"The misery of those men who live by labour must be made yet more\nvigorous, in order that a very few Olympian men may create a world\nof art.... At their expense, by the artifice of unpaid labour, the\nprivileged classes should be relieved from the struggle for life, and\ngiven such conditions that they can create, and satisfy a new order of\nneeds.... And if it is true to say that the Greeks were destroyed by\nslavery, this other affirmation is, most certainly, even truer: for\nlack of slavery, we are perishing.\"\n\nBut what was the origin of this very institution of slavery? How was\nthe submission of the slave, that \"blind mole of culture,\" secured?\nThe Greeks teach us, answered Nietzsche: \"The conquered belongs to the\nconqueror,\" they say, \"with his wives and his children, his goods and\nhis blood. Power gives the first _right,_ and there is no right which\nis not at bottom appropriation, usurpation, power.\" Thus Nietzsche's\nthought was brought back towards its first object. The war had inspired\nhim in the first instance. Now he rediscovers that solution. In sorrow\nand in tragedy, men had invented beauty; into sorrow and into tragedy\nthey must be plunged, and there retained that their sense of beauty\nmight be preserved. In pages which have the accent and rhythm of a\nhymn, Friedrich Nietzsche glorifies and invokes war:\n\n\"Here you have the State, of shameful origin; for the greater part of\nmen, a well of suffering that is never dried, a flame that consumes\nthem in its frequent crises. And yet when it calls, our souls become\nforgetful of themselves; at its bloody appeal the multitude is urged to\ncourage and uplifted to heroism. Yes, the State is to the blind masses,\nperhaps, the highest and most worthy of aims; it is, perhaps, the State\nwhich, in its formidable hours, stamps upon every face the singular\nexpression of greatness.\n\n\"Some tie, some mysterious affinity, exists between the State and art,\nbetween political activity and artistic production, the battlefield\nand the work of art. What is the r\u00f4le of the State? It is the tenaille\nof steel which binds society together. Without the State, in natural\nconditions--_bellum omnium contra omnes_--society would remain limited\nby the family, and could not project its roots afar. By the universal\ninstitution of States, that instinct which formerly determined the\n_bellum omnium contra omnes_ has been concentrated; at certain epochs\nterrible clouds of war menace the peoples and discharge themselves at\none great clap, in lightnings and thunders, fiercer as they are less\nfrequent. But these crises are not continual; between one and another\nof them society breathes again; regenerated by the action of war, it\nbreaks on every side into blossom and verdure, and, when the first fine\ndays come, puts forth dazzling fruits of genius.\n\n\"If I leave the Greek world and examine our own, I recognise, I avow\nit, symptoms of degeneration which give me fears both for society and\nfor art. Certain men, in whom the instinct of the State is lacking,\nwish, no longer to serve it, but to make it serve them, to use it for\ntheir personal ends. They see nothing of the divine in it; and, in\norder to utilise it, in a sure and rational manner, they are concerned\nto evade the shocks of war: they set out deliberately to organise\nthings in such a manner that war becomes an impossibility. On the one\nhand they conjure up systems of European equilibrium, on the other\nhand they do their best to deprive absolute sovereigns of the right\nto declare war, in order that they may thus appeal the more easily\nto the egoism of the masses, and of those who represent them. They\nfeel it incumbent on them to weaken the monarchical instinct of the\nmasses, and do weaken it, by propagating among them the liberal and\noptimistic conception of the world, a conception which has its roots in\nthe doctrines of French rationalism and the Revolution; that is, in a\nphilosophy altogether foreign to the German spirit, a Latin platitude,\ndevoid of any metaphysical meaning.\n\n\"The movement, to-day triumphant, of nationalities, the extension of\nuniversal suffrage which runs parallel to this movement, seem to me to\nbe determined above all by _the fear of war._ And behind these diverse\nagitations, I perceive those who are chiefly moved by this alarm, the\nsolitaries of international finance, who, being by nature denuded of\nany instinct for the State, subordinate politics, the State and society\nto their money-making and speculative ends.\n\n\"If the spirit of speculation is not thus to debase the spirit of the\nState, we must have war and war again--there is no other means. In\nthe exaltation which it procures, it becomes clear to men that the\nState has not been founded to protect egoistical individuals against\nthe demon of war; quite the contrary: love of country, devotion to\none's prince, help to excite a moral impulse which is the symbol of\na far higher destiny.... It will not therefore be thought that I do\nill when I raise here the p\u00e6an of war. The resonance of its silver\nbow is terrible. It comes to us sombre as night: nevertheless Apollo\naccompanies it, Apollo, the rightful leader of states, the god who\npurifies them.... Let us say it then: war is necessary to the State,\nas the slave is to society. No one will be able to avoid these\nconclusions, if he have sought the causes of the perfection which Greek\nart attained, and Greek art alone.\"\n\n_War and yet again war which exalts the peoples:_ such was the cry of\nthe solitary. He had but to drop his pen, to listen and look around\nhim, and he saw the pedantic empire and repressed his hopes. \"We follow\nthe trouble of his thought. He hesitates, he records at the same moment\nthe abiding illusion and the inevitable disillusion:\n\n\"I could have imagined,\" he writes, \"that the Germans had embarked\non this war to save Venus from the Louvre, like a second Helen. It\nwould have been the spiritual interpretation of their combat. The fine\nantique severity inaugurated by this war--for the time to be grave has\ncome--we think that is the time for _art_ also.\"\n\nHe continued to write; his thought becomes clearer and more melancholy:\n\"The State, when it cannot achieve its highest aim, grows beyond\nmeasure. The World Empire of the Romans, in face of Athens, has nothing\nof the sublime. This sap, which should all run to the flowers, resides\nnow in the leaves and stalks, which swell to an immense size.\"\n\nRome troubled him; he disliked it; he judged it a slur upon antiquity.\nThat city, warlike, but ever plebeian, victorious, but ever vulgar,\nfilled him with gloomy fore-thought:\n\n\n\"Rome,\" he wrote, \"is the typical barbaric state: the will cannot\nthere attain to its noble ends. The organisation is more vigorous, the\nmorality more oppressive ... who venerates this colossus?\"\n\n_Who venerates this colossus?_ Let us give a modern and pressing\napplication to these interrogatory words. The colossus is not Rome, it\nis Prussia and her empire. Narrow was the soil of Athens or of Sparta,\nand brief their day; but what did that matter if the object, which\nwas spiritual strength and beauty, was attained? Friedrich Nietzsche\nwas haunted by this vision of Greece with its hundred rival cities,\nraising between mountains and sea their acropoles, their temples, their\nstatues, all resounding with the rhythm of p\u00e6ans, all glorious and\nalert.\n\n\"The sentiment of Hellenism,\" he wrote, \"as soon as it is awakened,\nbecomes aggressive and translates itself into a combat against the\nculture of the present day.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche suffered from the wounds which life inflicted\nupon his lyrical dream. His friends listened to him, but followed him\nimperfectly. The professor, Franz Overbeck, who lived in his house and\nsaw him every day, was a man of distinction, with a strong and acute\nmind. A German by birth, a Frenchman by education, he understood the\nproblems of the day, and joined in the anxieties and intentions of\nNietzsche; but his ardour could not equal Nietzsche's. Jacob Burckhardt\nwas a man of noble intellect and character, but he was without hope,\nand Friedrich Nietzsche passionately desired to hope. No doubt, there\nwas Wagner, whom neither passion nor hope ever could surprise, but he\nhad just published an Aristophanic buffoonery directed against the\nconquered Parisians. Friedrich Nietzsche read this gross work, and\ncondemned it. Overbeck and Burckhardt lacked ardour; Wagner lacked\ndelicacy; and Nietzsche confided in no one. A chair of philosophy had\njust been vacated in the University of Basle. Nietzsche took fire\nat once. He wrote to Erwin Rohde, and told him that he should apply\nfor this chair, and that he would assuredly secure it. Thus the two\nfriends were to meet again. Vain hope! Erwin Rohde presented himself\nas a candidate, but was not accepted. Nietzsche reproached himself for\nhaving lured on his friend. He grew melancholy. He felt himself drawn\n\"like a little whirlpool into a dead sea of night and oblivion.\"\n\nHe had never recovered entirely from the ordeals of the war. Neither\nsleep nor sure and certain health were ever at his call again. In\nFebruary the nervous force which had sustained him suddenly gave way,\nand his disorders assumed an acute form. Violent neuralgas, insomnia,\ntroubles and weaknesses of the eyesight, stomach ills, jaundice\nrepresented the nature of the crisis which had been tormenting him for\nfive months. The doctors, quite at a loss, advised him to give up work\nand to take a voyage. Friedrich Nietzsche sent for his sister, who came\nto Naumburg. He brought her to pay a farewell visit to Triebschen, and\nleft for Lugano.\n\nAt that time the railway did not cross the Alps. Travellers went by\ndiligence over the ridge of the St. Gothard. Chance furnished Nietzsche\nwith a remarkable companion, an old man of a talkative humour, and with\nno desire to conceal his identity: it was Mazzini. The old humanitarian\nand the young apostle of slavery hit it off wonderfully well. Mazzini\ncited Goethe's phrase:\n\n\"_Sich des halben zu entwohnen und im Ganzen, Vollen, Sch\u00f6nen resolut\nzu leben_\" (To abjure half-measures, and to live resolutely in the\nWhole, the Full, the Beautiful). Friedrich Nietzsche never forgot the\nenergetic maxim, nor the man who had transmitted it to him, nor this\nday of rapid and healthful travel, not far from those summits which he\nwas afterwards to love so much.\n\nThe fine mountain crossing amid the snow and silence of the Alps had\nsufficed. He was almost cured on his arrival at Lugano. His nature was\nstill supple and youthful; his returns to life were prompt and radiant;\na na\u00efve gaiety re-animated all his being. He spent two happy months\nin Italian Switzerland. A Prussian officer, a relation of General von\nMoltke, was staying at his hotel. He lent him his manuscripts and often\ntalked to him of the destinies of the new German Empire and of the\naristocratic warrior's mission which the victory had conferred upon\nit. It was a fine springtide for the numerous Germans who had come to\nrest at the place: they liked to gather round their young philosopher\nand listen to him. February began, the war was over, and these happy\npeople, freed from all anxieties, abandoned themselves for the first\ntime to the pleasure of their triumph. They sang; they danced in\npublic up to the Market-place, and Nietzsche was not the least prompt\nto rejoice with them, to dance and sing. \"When I recall these days,\"\nwrites Madame F\u00f6rster-Nietzsche, who gives us a sad and gracious\naccount of the time, \"it seems to me that I am having a veritable dream\nof Carnival.\"\n\nFrom Lugano, Friedrich Nietzsche wrote to Erwin Rohde:\n\n\"I have very often suffered from a heavy and depressed mood. But more\nthan once inspiration has returned to me; my manuscript has benefited\nfrom it. I have given the go-by to philology in the most cavalier\nfashion. They may praise me, they may blame me, they may promise me\nthe highest honours, they may talk as they choose; I turn my back upon\nit. Every day I go deeper into my philosophic domain, and I begin to\nhave confidence in myself; better still, if I am ever to be a poet,\nfrom to-day I feel myself disposed towards it. I do not know, I have no\nmeans of knowing, whither my destiny guides me. And nevertheless, when\nI examine myself, everything is in perfect accord within me, as though\nI had followed some good genius. My ends are extremely hidden from me;\nno concern for office, for hierarchic honours, directs my efforts;\nand none the less I live in a surprising condition of clarity, of\nserenity. What a sensation it is to see one's world before one, a fine\nglobe, round and complete! Now it is some fragment of a new metaphysic,\nnow it is a new \u00e6sthetic which grows up within me, now another idea\nclaims me, a new principle of education which entails the complete\nrejection of our Universities and gymnasia. I never learn any fact but\nit immediately finds a good place in some corner that has been long\nprepared for it. This sentiment of an interior world which springs up\nwithin me I feel in all its force when I think not coldly, but quietly\nand without exaggerated enthusiasm, on the history of these last ten\nmonths, on these events which I consider as the instruments of my noble\ndesigns. Pride, folly, are words that feebly express my condition of\nmental 'insomnia.'\n\n\"Ah, how I desire health! As soon as one has something in view which\nmust last longer than oneself--how one gives thanks for every good\nnight, for every mild ray of sun, even for every occasion on which one\ndigests aright!\"\n\nOn the 10th of April, Nietzsche had returned to Basle. He gathered his\nnotes together, re-read them for the last time, and fixed definitely\nthe plan of his work. He allowed those digressions upon war, slavery,\nthe city, of which we have already given some extracts, to drop,\nand--Wagner, it is said, desired it--limited himself to his first\nsubject: ancient tragedy, the model and precursor of German musical\ndrama. Wagner's advice, Madame F\u00f6rster-Nietzsche insinuates, was not\naltogether disinterested; it suited him that his disciple's first work\nshould be consecrated to his fame. This has an air of probability;\nstill it certainly seems that Nietzsche had let himself be captured and\nseduced by too many ideas, that he had not so much amassed the matter\nfor one book as begun, rather at hazard, a whole series of studies in\n\u00e6sthetics, history, and politics. He needed to restrict himself, and\nyet could not make up his mind to it. If Wagner helped him here, he did\nwell. Perhaps we owe the happy completion of this book to him--the only\nreal book which Nietzsche ever completed.\n\nWhat was it that he had to say? He was to analyse the origin and the\nessence of the Greek lyric spirit; he was to set the two Greeces over\nagainst one another, the one intoxicated by its myths and Dionysian\nchants, strong in illusions--\u00c6schylus's Greece, tragic and conquering\nGreece; the other impious, rational, an\u00e6mic--Socratic Greece,\nAlexandrine Greece, which in dying corrupted the peoples who had\nremained young around her, the pure blood of primitive humanity. Then\nhe was to display the two Germanys in conflict in a like manner, the\nGermany of the Democrats and the savants, the Germany of the soldiers\nand the poets; between these two one had to choose. Nietzsche declared\nhis choice: beholden to Wagner, as he was, for all his tranquillity\nof thought, for all his joys, he indicated Wagner to his compatriots.\nWhile the peace was being signed at Frankfort between the nations,\nFriedrich Nietzsche, thus establishing peace within himself, ended the\nrough draft of his work. He remarked upon this coincidence of dates,\nfor his internal conflicts and the revolutions of his thought did not\nappear to him less important events than external conflicts and the\nrevolutions of races.\n\nBut the Peace of Frankfort did not terminate all the conflicts of this\nterrible year. A civil war now broke out in France, and its calamities\nstirred Europe even more profoundly than the battles of Fr\u0153schwiller\nor Sedan. On the morning of the 23rd of May, the newspapers of Basle\nannounced the destruction of Paris and the burning of the Louvre.\nNietzsche learnt the news with a feeling of dismay: the most beautiful\nworks, the flower of human labour, were ruined; human hands, an unhappy\npeople, had dared this profanation. All Nietzsche's alarms were thus\nconfirmed. Without discipline, without an hierarchy, culture, he had\nwritten, cannot subsist. All have not the right to share in beauty; the\nimmense majority should live humbly, work for their masters and revere\ntheir lives. Such is the economy which assures strength to societies,\nand, in return for their strength, delicacy, grace, beauty; and this\nis the order which Europe hesitates to maintain. Nietzsche might now\nhave boasted of the correctness of his judgment; it was far from him\nto do so. It was with alarm that he considered his perspicacity, his\nsolitude, and his responsibility. His thoughts suddenly turned to Jacob\nBurckhardt; what melancholy must be his! He wished to see him, to talk\nto him, to listen to him, to make his desolation his own. He hurried to\nBurckhardt's house; but Burckhardt, though the hour was early, had gone\nout. Nietzsche walked the roads like a desperate man. Finally he went\nback. Jacob Burckhardt was in his study, and awaited him. He had gone\nto seek his friend, as his friend had gone to seek him. The two men\nremained for long together, and Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche, alone in the next\nroom, heard their sobs through the closed door.\n\n\"Let us avow it,\" he writes to his friend, the Baron von Gersdorff, \"we\nare all, with all our past, responsible for the terrors which menace\nus to-day. We shall do wrong, if we consider with a peaceful conceit\nthe unchaining of a war against culture, and if we impute the fault\nmerely to the unfortunates who do the deed. When I heard of the firing\nof Paris, I was for some days utterly powerless, lost in tears and\ndoubts; the life of science, of philosophy and of art appeared to me as\nan absurdity when I saw a single day suffice for the ruin of the finest\nworks of art; what do I say?--of entire periods of art. I profoundly\ndeplored the fact that the metaphysical value of art could not manifest\nitself to the lower classes; but it has a higher mission to fulfil.\nNever, however lively my affliction were, would I have cast the stone\nat the sacrilegious, who in my eyes are only carriers of the mistake of\nall--a mistake which gives cause for much thought....\"\n\nIn the autobiographical notes written in 1878 these words may be read:\n\"The War: my profoundest affliction, the burning of the Louvre.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche had gone back to his old way of life; almost every\nweek he was Wagner's guest. But soon he perceived that since the\nGerman victory Triebschen had changed. Too many intimates made haste\nto the master's house, too many unknown people invaded the abode whose\npeaceful seclusion he had loved. They were not all of the sort that\nNietzsche would have desired; but Wagner talked, discoursed, overflowed\nwith them all. Judging that the favourable moment had come, he had set\nout to rouse Germany and secure at last the construction and gift of\nthe hall which he needed, the theatre, or the temple, of Bayreuth.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche heard and took part in these discussions with an\nuneasy ardour. Wagner's idea exalted him. But he had the soul of a\nsolitary, and could not help being worried, and sometimes shocked,\nby these noises from the world which had to be tolerated. Wagner did\nnot suffer: on the contrary, he seemed elated by the joy of feeling\nthe crowd nearer to him; and Nietzsche, a little surprised, a little\ndisappointed, sought, without precisely finding again, his hero.\n\"To sway the people,\" he had written in his student notebooks, \"is\nto put passions in the service of an idea.\" Wagner adapted himself\nto work of this kind. In the service of his art and of his fame he\naccepted all the passions. A Chauvinist with the Chauvinists, an\nidealist with the idealists, as much of a Gallophobe as was desired;\nrestoring the \u00c6schylian tragedy for some, for others re-animating the\nold German myths; willingly a pessimist, a Christian if it pleased,\nsincere moreover from moment to moment, this prodigious being, a great\nleader of men as well as a great poet, handled his compatriots most\ndexterously.\n\nNo one could resist the impulse which he gave: every one had to\nyield and to follow. He fixed the very details of the plans of the\ntheatre whose site had just been chosen. He studied the practical\norganisation of the work, and laboured to create those _Vereine_ in\nwhich propagandists and subscribers were to be grouped. He set himself\nout to procure rare and unexpected delights for the faithful. One day\nhe surprised them with a performance for their benefit alone, in the\ngardens of Triebschen, of the _Siegfried-Idyll,_ a gracious interlude\nwritten for the churching of his wife, a noble echo of the most\nintimate times. He gave Nietzsche his r\u00f4le, for he could not allow that\nvoice, so passionate and hard to control, and yet so eloquent, to be\nlost. The young man offered to set out on a mission. He would stir up\nthose circles in Northern Germany, so slow and heavy in its emotions.\nBus proposal was not accepted; Wagner, no doubt, feared the violence of\nhis apostolate: \"No,\" he said to him, \"finish and publish your book.\"\nNietzsche felt somewhat melancholy at the refusal. Henceforth, it\nseems, difficulties began to arise between the two.\n\nMoreover, the advice of the master was less easy to follow than it\nseemed. _The Origin of Tragedy_ did not find a publisher. Nietzsche's\napplications failed, and his summer was spoilt by the check. He decided\nto print certain chapters of it in the reviews. \"I put my little book\ninto the world bit by bit,\" he wrote in July to Erwin Rohde; \"what a\nchildbirth! what tortures!\"\n\nAt the beginning of October he was staying at Leipsic. Here he saw\nagain his master Ritschl, and his friends Rohde, Gersdorff, who had\ncome to meet him, and spent with them some happy days of conversation\nand comradeship. But the fate of his book remained uncertain: all the\npublishers of scientific and philological works bowed the author out.\nThey were not tempted by a bizarre work, in which learning was allied\nwith lyricism and the problems of ancient Greece with the problems\nof modern Germany. \"The book is a centaur,\" said Nietzsche. This\nmythological assurance did not satisfy the book-sellers. Finally he\nhad to address himself, not without regret--for he maintained that his\nwork was a scientific work--to Richard Wagner's publisher, from whom\nhe received, after a month's delay, a favourable reply. He wrote to\nhis friend Gersdorff, in a free and relieved tone, which helps us to\nmeasure the vexation from which he had suffered.\n\n\"BASLE, _November_ 19, 1871.\n\n\"Pardon me, dear friend, I ought to have thanked you sooner. I had\nfelt in your last letter, in every one of your words, your strong\nintellectual life. It seemed to me that you remained a soldier at soul\nand brought your military nature to art and philosophy. And that is\ngood, for we have no right to live to-day, if we are not militants,\nmilitants who prepare a _s\u00e6culum_ to come, something of which we can\nguess at in ourselves, across our best instants. For those instants,\nwhich are what there is of best in us, draw us away in spirit from\n_our_ time; nevertheless, in some manner, they need to have their\nhearthstone somewhere: whence I infer that at such instants we feel a\nconfused breath of coming times pass over us. For instance, take our\nlast meeting at Leipsic; has it not left in your memory the impression\nof such instants, as seemed to be strangers to everything, linked with\nanother century? Whatever may be, this remains, '_Im Ganzen, Vollen,\nSch\u00f6nen, resolut zu leben._' But it needs a strong will, such as is\nnot given to the first comer!... To-day, only to-day, the excellent\npublisher Fritzsch replies to me.\"\n\nFritzsch proposed to him that he should give his book the format and\ncharacter of a recent work of Wagner's: _Die Bestimmung der Oper._\nNietzsche rejoiced at the idea, and he wrote five concluding chapters\nwhich accentuated the Wagnerian tendency of the work. This rapid\ncomposition and the correction of the proofs did not deter him from\nanother enterprise.\n\n_The Origin of Tragedy_ was about to appear. He did not doubt for a\nmoment that it would be read, understood, acclaimed. His comrades,\nhis masters, had always acknowledged the strength of his thought.\nApparently, it never occurred to him that a vaster public remained\ncallous; but he wished to affect it profoundly, at the first blow,\nand he formed new projects by which he might make the most of his\nsuccess. He wanted to talk: speech was a livelier weapon. He recalled\nthe emotions which he had experienced when, as a young professor, he\nwas given the singular task of teaching the most delicate language, the\nmost difficult works, to chance audiences; he remembered his perhaps\nfanciful design: that seminary of philologists, that house of study\nand retreat, of which he was always dreaming. He wanted to denounce\nthe schools, the gymnasia, the Universities, the heavy apparatus of\npedantry which was stifling the German spirit, and define the new and\nnecessary institutions, destined, no longer for the emancipation of the\nmasses, but for the culture of the State. He had written to Erwin Rohde\nas early as the month of March: \"A new idea claims me, a new principle\nof education which points to the entire rejection of oar Universities,\nof our gymnasia....\" In December, he announced at Basle, for January,\n1872, a series of lectures upon _The Future of our Educational\nInstitutions._\n\nTowards mid-December, he accompanied Richard Wagner to Mannheim, where\na two days' festival was being devoted to the works of the master.\n\n\"Oh, what a pity you were not there!\" he wrote to Erwin Rohde. \"All\nthe sensations, all the recollections of art, what are they compared\nto these? I am like a man whose ideal has been realised. It is Music,\nand Music alone! ... When I say to myself that a certain number of men\nof the generations to come--at least some hundreds among them--will be\nmoved by this music as I am myself, I cannot augur for less than an\nentire renewal of our culture!\"\n\nHe returned to his house in Basle: but the impression of his days in\nMannheim remained with him. The details of his everyday life caused\nhim a strange and tenacious disgust. \"All that cannot be translated\ninto music,\" he wrote, \"is repulsive and repugnant to me.... I have a\nhorror of reality. Or, rather, I no longer see anything of the real, it\nis only a phantasmagoria.\" Under the stress of this emotion he acquired\na clearer view of the problem which occupied him, he formulated\nmore clearly the principle for which he was seeking. To \"teach,\" to\n\"uplift\" men, what does that mean? It is to dispose their minds in\nsuch sort that the productions of genius will be assured, not of the\nunderstanding of all, for that cannot be, but of the respect of all.\n\nAs in the preceding years, Richard and Cosima Wagner invited him to\nspend Christmas at Triebschen. He excused himself; the work of his\nlectures occupied all his time. He offered Cosima Wagner, by way of\nhomage, a musical fantasy on Saint Sylvester's Night, composed some\nweeks earlier. \"I am very impatient to know what they will think of\nit down there,\" he wrote to Rohde. \"I have never been criticised by\nany competent person.\" In reality, good judges had already often\ndiscouraged his musical enterprises, but he soon forgot their vexatious\nadvice.\n\nOn the last day of 1871, his book appeared: _Die Geb\u00fcrt der Trag\u00f6die\naus dem Geiste der Musik (The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of\nMusic)_. The sub-title which the current editions give, _Hellenism\nand Pessimism,_ was added in 1885 on the issue of the second edition.\nFriedrich Nietzsche sent the first copy to Richard Wagner, from whom he\nreceived almost at once a frenzied letter.\n\n\"DEAR FRIEND,--I have never read a finer book than yours. It is all\nsplendid! At this moment, I write to you very hurriedly because the\nreading has profoundly moved me, and I expect that I wait for the\nreturn of my sang-froid to re-read you methodically. I said to Cosima:\nAfter you, he it is whom I love most; and then, at a long distance,\nLenbach, who has made so striking and so true a portrait of me....\nAdieu! Come soon to see us!\n\n\"Yours,\n\n\"R. W.\"\n\nOn the 10th of January Wagner wrote again:\n\n\"You have just published a book which is incomparable. All the\ninfluences which you may have undergone are reduced to nothing by the\ncharacter of your book: what distinguishes it from every other, is the\ncomplete confidence with which a penetrating individuality displays\nitself. It is here that you satisfy the ardent desire of myself and\nof my wife: in short, a strange voice might have been talking of us,\nand we would have fully approved it! Twice we have read your book from\nthe first line to the last--in the daytime, separately--at night,\ntogether--and we were lamenting that we had not at our disposal that\nsecond copy which you had promised. We deliver battle over that sole\ncopy. I am constantly in need of it; between my breakfast and my\nworking hours, it is it that sets me going; for since I have read\nyou, I have begun again to work on my last act. Our readings, whether\ntogether or separately, are constantly interrupted by our exclamations.\nI am not yet recovered from the emotion which I experienced. There is\nthe condition we are in!\"\n\nAnd Cosima Wagner wrote, for her part: \"Oh, how fine your book is!\nHow beautiful it is and how profound, how profound it is and how\naudacious!\" On January 16th he delivered his first lecture. His joy,\nhis sense of security, were extreme. He knew that Jacob Burckhardt\nread and approved him; he knew that he had the admiration of Rohde,\nGersdorff, Overbeck. \"What they say of my book is incredible,\" he wrote\nto a friend. \"... I have concluded an alliance with Wagner. You cannot\nimagine how we are bound to one another, and how identical are our\nviews.\" He conceived his second work without delay; he would publish\nhis lectures. It would be a popular book, an exoteric translation of\nhis _Tragedy._ But the idea of an even more decisive action at once\nsupervened. Germany was preparing to inaugurate the new University of\nStrassburg; and an apotheosis of professors on a soil that had been\nconquered by soldiers awoke the indignation of Friedrich Nietzsche.\nHe wished to address a pamphlet to Bismarck, \"under the form of an\ninterpellation in the Reichstag.\" Have our pedants, he would ask, the\nright to go in triumph to Strassburg? Our soldiers have conquered the\nFrench soldiers, and that is glorious. But has our culture humiliated\nFrench culture? Who would dare to say so?\n\nSome days went by. Whence came the less happy tone of his letters? Why\nwas it that he did not write his interpellation, that he gave up the\nidea of it? We know: except for a few friends who had understood his\nbook, no one read it, no one bought it; not a review, not a newspaper\ndeigned to take notice of it. Ritchsl, the great philologist of\nLeipsic, kept silent. Friedrich Nietzsche wrote to him: \"I want to know\nwhat you think.\" He received in reply a severe criticism and a reproof.\nErwin Rohde offered an article for the _Litterarische Centralblatt;_\nit was not inserted. \"It was the last chance of a serious voice being\nupraised for me in a scientific sheet,\" he wrote to Gersdorff; \"now I\nexpect nothing more--except spite or idiocy. But, as I have told you,\nI count upon the peaceful journey of my book through the centuries with\nperfect confidence. For in it certain eternal verities are said for the\nfirst time: they must resound....\"\n\nCertainly Friedrich Nietzsche had not foreseen his ill-success: it\nastonished and disconcerted him. A sore throat obliged him to interrupt\nhis lectures, and he found pleasure in the contretemps. He had let\nhimself be drawn towards ideas which were very lofty and delicate,\nand difficult even to himself. He wished to show that two sorts of\nschools should be instituted, the one professional, for the majority;\nthe other, classical and truly superior, for an infinitesimal number\nof chosen individuals, whose course would be extended as far as\ntheir thirtieth year. How was this isolated circle, aloof from the\ncommon herd, to be formed, and how was it to be taught? Friedrich\nNietzsche recurred to his most intimate and familiar thought, to that\naristocratic ideal to which his meditations always led him. He had\noften studied its problems. But to examine them in public he needed his\nwhole strength, and also a sympathetic audience. He felt that he had\nbeen weakened by the failure of his book. His very slight indisposition\ndid not last long: nevertheless he did not return to his lectures. It\nwas vain to ask him to do so: he refused. It was vain to press him\nto have them published; Richard Wagner strongly insisted: he eluded\nthis insistence. His notes have come to us in a sorry condition of\nincompleteness and disorder. They are the echoes, the vestiges of a\ndream.\n\n\"The aristocracy of the mind must conquer its entire liberty in respect\nof the State, which is now keeping Science in curb.\n\n\"Later, men will have to raise the tables of a new culture ... then\ndestruction of the gymnasia, destruction of the University ... an\nareopagus, for the justice of the mind.\n\n\"_The culture of the future: its ideal of social problems._ The\nimperative world of the beautiful and the sublime ... the only\nsafeguard against Socialism ...\"\n\nFinally these three interrogatory words, which sum up his doubts, his\ndesires, and perhaps his whole work: \"_Ist Veredlung m\u00f6glich?\"_ (Is\nennoblement possible?)\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche courageously renounced his hope and was silent.\nHe had lost his country: Prussia would not be the invincible\nframework of a lyrical race; the German Empire would not realise the\n\"imperative world of the beautiful and the sublime.\" On April 30th\nthe new University of Strassburg was inaugurated. \"I hear from here\nthe patriotic rejoicings,\" he wrote to Erwin Rohde. In January he had\nrefused an offer of employment which would have withdrawn him from\nBasle. In April he spoke of leaving Basle and of going to Italy for two\nor three years. \"The first review of my book has at last appeared,\"\nhe wrote, \"and I find it very good. But where has it appeared? In\nan Italian publication, _La Rivista Europea!_ That is pleasant and\nsymbolical!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe had a second reason for melancholy: Richard Wagner was leaving to\nmake his home at Bayreuth. A letter of Cosima Wagner announced the\ndeparture: \"Yes, Bayreuth!... Adieu to dear Triebschen, where the\n_Origin of Tragedy_ was conceived, and so many other things which\nperhaps will never begin again!\"\n\nThree years before, in this spring season, Nietzsche had hazarded his\nfirst visit to Triebschen; he wished to return again. He did return,\nand found the house desolate. A few pieces of furniture, covered over\nwith horse-cloths and dispersed from room to room, seemed like flotsam\nand jetsam from another time. Every small object, all the family\nknick-knacks, had disappeared. The light entered, hard and crude,\nthrough the curtainless windows. Wagner and his wife were completing\nthen-last packages, throwing the last of the books into the last of\nthe baskets. They welcomed the faithful Nietzsche, asked his aid; he\ngave it at once. He wrapped up in packets the letters, the precious\nmanuscripts; then more books and scores. Suddenly his heart failed\nhim. So it was all over, Triebschen was done with! Three years of his\nlife, and what years they had been! How unexpected, how moving, how\ndelicious, and they were to escape in a day! Now he must renounce\nthe past, and follow the master without regret. Now he must forget\nTriebschen and, for the future, think only of Bayreuth. No sooner was\nthis magical name pronounced than it fascinated Nietzsche and troubled\nhim. His hours at Triebschen had been so fine, hours of repose and\nmeditation, hours of work and silence. A man, a woman of genius; a nest\nof children; an infinity of happy conversations, of beauty--Triebschen\nhad given all that. What would Bayreuth give? The crowd would come\nthere, and what would it bring with it? Friedrich Nietzsche left the\nbooks which he was engaged in packing. The grand piano had remained\nin the middle of the salon. He opened it, preluded, then improvised.\nRichard and Cosima Wagner, leaving aside all their affairs, listened. A\nharrowing, unforgettable rhapsody resounded through the empty salon. It\nwas the adieu.\n\nIn November, 1888, Friedrich Nietzsche, already stricken with madness,\nset himself to recount his history. \"Since I am here recalling the\nconsolations of my life, I ought to express in a word my gratitude for\nwhat was by far my most profound and best-loved joy--my intimacy with\nRichard Wagner. I wish to be just with regard to the rest of my human\nrelationships; but I absolutely cannot efface from my life the days at\nTriebschen, days of confidence, of gaiety, of sublime flashes--days of\n_profound_ perceptions. I do not know what Wagner was for others: our\nsky was never darkened by a cloud.\"\n\n\n[1] Cosima Wagner.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nFRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE AND RICHARD WAGNER--BAYREUTH\n\n\nBayreuth has had a strange destiny. This little German town, so\nlong obscure, scintillates in the eighteenth century, shines with\na somewhat flickering brilliance, but becomes celebrated at last\nthroughout all Europe. An intelligent Margravine--Frederick's sister,\nthe friend of Voltaire and of French elegance--lives there, beautifies\nit, enlivens the barren country with castles, and lavishes on its\nfa\u00e7ades the singular volutes of the \"rococo\" style. The Margravine\ndies and Bayreuth is again forgotten. A century passes and suddenly\nits fame returns; the little town that the Margrave adorned becomes\nthe Jerusalem of a new art and a new religion. A strange destiny, but\na factitious one. It is a poet who has regulated the antitheses. The\nhistory of Bayreuth ought to be included among Wagner's works.\n\nHe wished to set up his theatre in a quiet and secluded town. It suited\nhim, not to go to his audience, but rather to force his audience to\ncome to him. He chose, from many others, this town; the two Germanys\nwould be thus confronted, the one, that of the past, a slave to French\ncustoms, mean and shabby; the other, that of the future, his own, an\nemancipating and innovating Germany. The work was started without\ndelay. The master decided that the foundation-stone of his theatre\nshould be laid with pomp on the 22nd of May, 1872, the anniversary of\nhis birth.\n\n\"So we shall see one another again,\" wrote Nietzsche to his friend\nRohde. \"Our meetings are ever becoming more grandiose, more historical,\nare they not?\"\n\nThey were present together at the ceremony, one of them coming from\nBasle, the other from Hamburg. Two thousand people were assembled\nin the little town. The weather was appalling. But the unceasing\nrain, the threatening sky, made the ceremony still more imposing.\nWagnerian art is a serious thing and has no need of smiling heavens.\nThe faithful disciples, standing in the open air at the mercy of the\nwinds, saw the stone laid. In the hollow block Wagner deposited a piece\nof poetry written by himself, and then threw the first spadeful of\nplaster. In the evening he invited his friends to hear an execution\nof the \"Symphony\" with chorus, the orchestration of which he had in\nparts slightly strengthened. He personally conducted. Young Germany,\nassembled in the Margrave's theatre, listened piously to this work in\nwhich the nineteenth century declared its need, and when the final\nchorus struck up--\"Millions of men embrace each other\"--it really\nseemed, said a spectator, as if the sublime wish was about to be\nrealised.\n\n\"Ah! my friend,\" wrote Nietzsche, \"through what days we have lived!\nNo one can rob us of these grave and sacred memories. We ought to go\nforth into life inspired to battle on their behalf. Above all, we ought\nto force ourselves to regulate all our acts, with as much gravity and\nforce as is possible, so as to prove that we are worthy of the unique\nevents at which we have assisted.\"\n\nNietzsche wanted to fight for Wagner, for he loved Wagner and he loved\nbattle. \"To arms, to arms!\" he writes to Rohde; \"war is necessary to\nme, _ich brauche den Krieg._\" But he had already proved many a time,\nwhat he now began sadly to understand, that his nature did not lend\nitself to reticence and to the prudence necessary in such a contest, in\nwhich public opinion was the stake. There was no instant but a word,\nan attitude ran foul of his radical idealism. He felt the instinctive\nconstraint that he had already known at Triebschen. Wagner disturbed\nhim. He hardly recognised the grave and pure hero whom he had loved\nso much. He saw another man, a powerful workman, brutal, vindictive,\njealous. Nietzsche had thought of making a tour in Italy, with a\nrelation of Mendelssohn's; he was obliged to give up this idea in order\nto humour the master, who detested the race, even to the very name of\nMendelssohn.\n\n\"Why is Wagner so distrustful?\" Nietzsche wrote in his diary; \"it\nexcites distrust.\"\n\nWagner was as dictatorial as he was distrustful. The days had become\nrare when he could converse at leisure with nobleness and freedom as he\nhad done at Triebschen. He spoke briefly, he commanded.\n\nNietzsche was still ready to go on a mission to Northern Germany to\nspeak, write, and found _Vereine,_ and to \"thrust under the noses\nof the German savants the things which their timid eyes failed to\nperceive.\" Wagner would not accept this proposal; he wished Nietzsche\nto publish his lectures on _The Future of our Educational Systems._\nNietzsche resisted a desire in which he thought he detected a certain\negotism.\n\n\"Our Herr Nietzsche only wants to do what he likes,\" exclaimed the\nirritable Wagner.\n\nHis anger saddened and humiliated Nietzsche both on his own account\nand on his master's. He thought, \"Ill, weighed down with work, have\nI no right to respect? Am I under any one's orders? Why is Wagner so\ntyrannical?\" We read in his diary, \"Wagner has not the strength to\nmake those around him free and great. Wagner is not loyal; he is, on\nthe contrary, suspicious and haughty.\"\n\nAt the same time there appeared a pamphlet, _The Philology of the\nFuture, a reply to F. Nietzsche._ The author was Willamowitz, who had\nbeen Nietzsche's comrade at the school of Pforta.\n\n\"DEAR FRIEND,\" he wrote to Gersdorff, who informed him of the pamphlet,\n\"Don't worry over me. I am ready. I will never entangle myself in\npolemics. It is a pity it should be Willamowitz. Do you know that\nhe came last autumn to pay me a friendly visit? Why should it be\nWillamowitz?\"\n\nWagner, at whom the title itself of the pamphlet, _The Philology of\nthe Future,_ was aimed--it parodied his famous formula, _The Music of\nthe Future_--wrote a reply, and profited by the occasion to renew his\ninvitation to Friedrich Nietzsche.\n\n\"What must one think of our schools of culture?\" he concludes. \"It is\nfor you to tell us what German culture ought to be, so as to direct\nthe regenerated nation towards the most noble objects.\" Once again\nNietzsche was firm in his determination. He was by no means satisfied\nwith these lectures, being discontented with their form and uncertain\neven of their thought. \"I do not wish to publish anything as to which\nmy conscience is not as pure as that of the seraphim.\" He tried to\nexpress his Wagnerian faith in another style.\n\n\"I should have so much pleasure,\" he wrote to Rohde, \"in writing\nsomething for the service of our cause, but I don't know what. All that\nI advance is so wounding, such an irritant, and more likely to hurt\nthan to serve. Why should my poor book, na\u00efve and enthusiastic as it\nwas, have been received so badly? Singular! Now, what shall we do, we\nothers?\"\n\nHe began to write _Reden eines Hoffenden (Words of a Man of Hope),_\nwhich he soon gave up.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche re-opened his Greek books, so invariably beautiful\nand satisfying. He explained--before very few pupils, because the\nevil fame of the _Geb\u00fcrt_ withdrew young philologists from him--the\n_Choephores of \u00c6schylus_ and some passages of ante-Platonic philosophy.\n\nAcross a gulf of twenty-five centuries that clear radiance descended\nupon him, scattering all doubts and shadows. Nietzsche often heard with\nmisgiving the fine words which it pleased his Wagnerian friends to use.\n\"Millions of men embrace each other,\" the chorus sang at Bayreuth in\nthe work of Wagner. It sang well, but, after all, men did not embrace\neach other; and here Nietzsche suspected a certain extravagance, a\ncertain falsehood. Look at the ancient Greeks, those ambitious and evil\nmen. They do not embrace each other much, their hymns never speak of\nembraces. They desire to excel, and are devoured by envy; their hymns\nglorify these passions. Nietzsche liked their na\u00efve energy, their\nprecise speech. He refreshed himself at this source and wrote a short\nessay: _Homer's Wettkampf (The Homeric Joust)._ We find ourselves\ndriven at the very beginning far away from the Wagnerian mysticism.\n\n\"When you speak of _Humanity,_\" he writes, \"you imagine an order of\nsentiment by which man distinguishes himself from nature, but such a\nseparation does not exist; these qualities called 'natural' and those\ncalled 'human' grow together and are blended. Man in his noblest\naspirations is still branded by sinister nature.\n\n\"These formidable tendencies which seem inhuman are perhaps the\nfruitful soil which supports all humanity, its agitations, its acts,\nand its work.\n\n\"Thus it is that the Greeks, the most human of all men, remain cruel,\nhappy in destruction.\"\n\nThis rapid sketch was the occupation of a few days. Nietzsche undertook\na long work. He studied the texts of Thales, Pythagoras, Heraclitus,\nEmpedocles. He tried to approach those philosophers who were truly\nworthy of the name which they themselves had invented, those masters of\nlife, scornful of argument and of books; citizens and at the same time\nthinkers, and not _d\u00e9racin\u00e9s_ like those who followed them--Socrates\nand his school of mockers, Plato and his school of dreamers,\nphilosophers of whom each one dares to bring a philosophy of his own,\nthat is to say, an individual point of view in the consideration of\nthings, in the deliberation of acts. Nietzsche, in a few days, filled a\ncopybook with notes.\n\nAll the same, he continued to be interested in the successes of his\nglorious friend. In July _Tristan_ was played at Munich. He went, and\nmet many other disciples; Gersdorff, Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug, whom he\nhad met at the May festivals of Bayreuth. She had preserved, despite\nher fifty years, that tender charm that never left her, and the\nphysical grace of a frail and nervous body. Friedrich Nietzsche passed\nsome pleasant days in the company of his comrade and his new friend.\nAll three regretted them when they were gone, and at the moment of\ndeparture expressed a hope of meeting each other soon again. Gersdorff\nwished to return in August to hear _Tristan,_ and once more Nietzsche\npromised to be there, but at the last moment Gersdorff was unable to be\npresent, and Nietzsche had not the courage to return alone to Munich.\n\"It is insupportable,\" he wrote to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug, \"to find\nyourself face to face with an art so serious and profound. In short, I\nremain at Basle.\" Parmenides, on whom he was meditating, consoled him\nfor the loss of _Tristan._\n\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug kept Nietzsche advised of all news, whether\ntrivial or important, in connection with the Wagnerian campaign. The\nmaster had just terminated _The Twilight of the Gods,_ the last of\nthe four dramas of the Tetralogy. He had at last finished his great\nwork. Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug was informed in a note written to her by\nCosima Wagner. \"In my heart I hear sung 'Praise be to God,'\" wrote the\nwife. \"Praise be to God,\" repeated Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug, and she\nadds--these few words indicate the tone of the place and of the time:\n\"The disciples of the new spirit need new mysteries by which they may\nsolemnise together their instinctive knowledge. Wagner creates them\nin his tragic works, and the world will not have recovered its beauty\nuntil we have built for the new Dionysian myth a Temple worthy of\nit.\" Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug confided to Nietzsche the measures she\nwas taking to win Marguerite of Savoy, the Queen of Italy, to the\ncause, and to make her accept the Presidency of a small circle of\nnoble patronesses. A few women of the highest aristocracy, friends\nof Liszt's, initiated by him into the Wagnerian cult, composed this\nsublime _Verein._\n\nIn all this there was an irritating atmosphere of snobbery and\nexcessive religiosity. Yet Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug was an exquisite\nwoman with irreproachable intentions, pure with that purity which\npurifies all that it touches: Nietzsche did not practise his criticism\non this friend's letters. He soon felt the fatigue of continuous work.\nHe lost his sleep and was obliged to rest. Travel had often lightened\nhis mind. He set out, at the end of summer, for Italy, and went as\nfar as Bergamo but no further. This country, which he was afterwards\nto love so much, displeased him. \"Here reigns the Apollonian cult,\"\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug, who was staying at Florence, told him; \"it\nis good to bathe in.\" Nietzsche was very little of an Apollonian. He\nperceived only voluptuousness, excessive sweetness, harmony of line.\nHis German tastes were disconcerted and he returned to the mountains,\nwhere he became, as he wrote, \"more audacious and more noble.\" There,\nin a poor village inn at Spl\u00fcgen, he had a few days of happiness.\n\n\"Here, on the extreme border of Switzerland and Italy,\" he wrote in\nAugust, 1872, to Gersdorff, \"I am alone, and I am very well satisfied\nwith my choice. A rich and marvellous solitude, with the most\nmagnificent roads in the world, along which I go meditating for hours,\nburied in my thoughts, and yet I never fall over a precipice. And\nwhenever I look around me there is something new and great to see. No\nsign of life except when the diligence arrives and stops for relays.\nI take my meals with the men, our one contact. They pass like the\nPlatonic shadows before my cave.\"\n\nUntil now Nietzsche had not cared much for high mountains; he preferred\nthe moderate valleys and woods of the Jura, which reminded him of\nhis native country, the hills of the Saale and Bohemia. At Spl\u00fcgen a\nnew joy was revealed to him; the joy of solitude and of meditation\nin the mountain air. It was like a flash of lightning. He went down\nto the plains and forgot; but six years later, with the knowledge of\nhis eternal loneliness on him, he found, sheltered in mean inns like\nthis one, once again the same lyrical \u00e9lan that he had discovered in\nOctober, 1872.\n\nHe soon left his sanctuary and returned without vexation to Basle,\nwhither his professional duties drew him. There he had made friendships\nand established a way of life. He liked the town, and tolerated the\ninhabitants. Basle had truly become his centre. \"Overbeck and Romundt,\nmy companions of table and of thought,\" he writes to Rohde, \"are the\nbest society in the world. With them I cease my lamentations and my\ngnashing of teeth. Overbeck is the most serious, the most broad-minded\nof philosophers, and the most simple and amiable of men. He has that\nradical temper, failing which I can agree with no one.\"\n\nHis first impression on his return was trying. All his pupils left\nhim. He was not at a loss to understand the reason of this exodus;\nthe German philologists had declared him to be \"a man scientifically\ndead.\" They had condemned him personally, and put an interdict upon his\nlectures. \"The Holy Vehmgericht has done its duty well,\" he wrote to\nRohde. \"Let us act as if nothing had happened. But I do not like the\nlittle University to suffer on my account, it hurts me. We lose twenty\nentries in the last half-year. I can hardly as much as give a course on\nGreek and Latin rhetoric. I have two pupils, one is a Germanist, the\nother a Jurist.\"\n\nAt last he received some comfort. Rohde had written in defence of\nhis book an article which no review would accept. Weary of refusal,\nhe touched up his work and published it under the form of a letter\naddressed to Richard Wagner. Nietzsche thanked him. \"Nobody dared to\nprint my name,\" he wrote to Rohde.\n\n\"... It was as if I had committed a crime, and now your book comes,\nso ardent, so daring a witness to our fraternal combat! My friends\nare delighted with it. They are never tired of praising you, for the\ndetails and the whole; they think your polemics worthy of a Lessing.\n... What pleases me most is the deep and threatening clamour of it,\nlike the sound of a waterfall. We must be brave, dear, dear friend. I\nalways have faith in progress, in our progress. I believe that we will\nalways go on increasing in loyal ambitions, and in strength. I believe\nin the success of our advance towards ends more noble yet, and more\naspiring. Yes, we will reach them, and then as conquerors, who discover\ngoals yet further off, we shall push on, always brave! What does it\nmatter to us that they will be few, so few, those spectators whose eyes\ncan follow the path we are pursuing? What does it matter if we have for\nspectators only those who have the necessary qualities for judging this\ncombat? All the crowns which my time might give me I sacrifice to that\nunique spectator, Wagner. The ambition to satisfy him animates me more,\nand more nobly, than any other influence. Because he is difficult and\nhe says everything, what pleases him and what displeases him; he is my\ngood conscience, to praise and to punish.\"\n\nAt the commencement of December, Nietzsche was lucky enough to find\nhis master again for a few hours, and to live with him in the intimate\nway that reminded him of the days at Triebschen. Wagner, passing\nthrough Strassburg, called to him; and he went at once. The meeting\nwas untroubled by any discord, a harmony now, no doubt, rare enough;\nfor Cosima Wagner, after having remarked this in one of her letters,\nexpressed the hope that such perfect hours would suffice to dissipate\nall misunderstandings and to prevent their recrudescence.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNietzsche worked a great deal during these last months of 1872. His\nstudies on the tragic philosophies of the Greeks were well advanced;\nhe left them over. Those wise men had restored his serenity, and he\nprofited by the help which they had given him to contemplate once more\nthe problems of his century. The problems--this is hardly a correct\nexpression, for he knew of only one. He questioned himself how a\nculture should be founded, that is to say, a harmony of traditions, of\nrules, of beliefs, by submission to which a man may become nobler.\nActual modern societies have for their end the production of certain\ncomforts; how should different societies be substituted which would\nnot only satisfy men, but benefit them? Let us know our wretchedness;\nwe are stripped of culture. Our thoughts and our acts are not ruled by\nthe authority of any style; the idea even of such an authority is lost\nto us. We have perfected in an extraordinary manner the discipline of\nknowledge, and we seem to have forgotten that others exist. We succeed\nin describing the phenomena of life, in translating the Universe into\nan abstract language, and we scarcely perceive that, in writing and\ntranslating thus, we lose the reality of the Universe of Life. Science\nexercises on us a \"barbarising action,\" wrote Nietzsche. He analysed\nthis action.\n\n\"The essential point of all science has become merely accessory, or\nelse it is entirely absent.\n\n\"The study of languages--without the discipline of style and rhetoric.\n\n\"Indian studies--without philosophy.\n\n\"Classical antiquity--without a suspicion of how closely everything in\nit is bound up with practical efforts.\n\n\"The sciences of nature--without that beneficent and serene atmosphere\nwhich Goethe found in them.\n\n\"History--without enthusiasm.\n\n\"In short, all the sciences without their practical uses, that is to\nsay, studied otherwise than as really cultivated men would study them.\nScience as a means of livelihood.\"\n\nIt is necessary, therefore, that the sense of beauty, of virtue, and of\nstrong and regulated passions should be restored. How can a philosopher\nemploy himself in this task? Alas! the experience of antiquity teaches\nand discourages us. The philosopher is a hybrid being, half logician,\nhalf artist, a poet, an apostle, who constructs his dreams and his\ncommandments in a logical manner. Men listen willingly enough to poets\nand apostles, they do not listen to philosophers, they are not moved by\ntheir analyses and their deductions. Consider that long line of genius,\nthe philosophers of tragic Greece. What did they realise? Their lives\nwere given in vain to their race. Empedocles alone moved the mob, but\nhe was as much a magician as philosopher; he invented myths and poems;\nhe was eloquent, he was magnificent; it was the legend, and not the\nthought of Empedocles, that was effective. Pythagoras founded a sect,\na philosopher cannot hope for more: his labour grouped together a few\nfriends, a few disciples, who passed over the human masses like a\nripple on the ocean; not one of the great philosophers has swayed the\npeople, writes Nietzsche. Where they have failed, who will succeed? It\nis impossible to found a popular culture on philosophy.\n\nWhat is then the destiny of these singular souls? Is their force, which\nis at times immense, lost? Will the philosopher always be a paradoxical\nbeing, and useless to men? Friedrich Nietzsche was troubled; it was\nthe utility of his own life that he questioned. He would never be a\nmusician, that he knew at last; never a poet, he had ceased to hope\nfor it. He had not the faculty of conceiving the uniformities, of\nanimating a drama, of creating a soul. One evening he confessed this to\nOverbeck with such sadness that his friend was moved. He was therefore\na philosopher, moreover, a very ignorant one, an amateur of philosophy,\nan imperfect lyrical artist; and he questioned himself: Since I have\nfor weapons only my thoughts, the thoughts of a philosopher, what can\nI do? He answered: I can help. Socrates did not create the truths that\nerror kept prisoners in the souls of his interlocutors, he only aspired\nto the title of accoucheur. Such is the task of a philosopher. He is\nan inefficient creator, but a very efficient critic. He is obliged\nto analyse the forces which are operative around him, in science, in\nreligion, and in art; he is obliged to give the directions, to fix the\nvalues and the limits. Such shall be my task. I will study the souls\nof my contemporaries, and I shall have every authority to say to them:\nNeither science nor religion can save you; seek refuge in art, the\npower of modern times, and in the artist who is Richard Wagner. \"The\nphilosopher of the future,\" he wrote, \"he must be the supreme judge of\nan \u00e6sthetic culture, a censor of every digression.\"\n\nNietzsche went to Naumburg for the Christmas holidays. Wagner sent\nhim word to ask him to stop at Bayreuth on his way home to Basle, but\nhe was hard pressed by work and perhaps a little ill, and no doubt\na secret instinct warned him that solitude would be best for the\nmeditation of the problems which he had to determine for himself.\nHe made his apologies. Besides, he had had for some weeks many\nopportunities of proving his attachment. He had written an article (the\nonly one in all his work) in answer to an alienist who had undertaken\nto prove that Wagner was mad. He had offered a sum of money to help in\nthe propaganda. This anonymous and distant manner was the only one that\nsuited him at the time. Even at Basle he tried to found a Wagnerian\nVerein. He was therefore astounded when he discovered that the master\nwas displeased at his absence. Already in the past year an invitation,\nalso declined, had helped to provoke a mild lecture.\n\n\"It is Burckhardt who is keeping you at Basle,\" wrote Cosima Wagner.\nNietzsche wrote and remedied things, but the painful impression\nremained.\n\n\"Everything is quieted,\" he told the friend who had informed him; \"but\nI cannot quite forget. Wagner knows that I am ill, absorbed in work,\nand in need of a little liberty. I shall be, henceforth, whether I\nwish it or no, more anxious than in the past. God knows how many times\nI have wounded him. Each time I am astonished, and I never succeed in\nprecisely locating the point in which we have clashed.\"\n\nThis annoyance did not affect his thought; we can follow it to its\nsmallest shades of meaning, thanks to the notes published in the tenth\nvolume of his complete works. It is quite active and fecund. \"I am the\nadventurer of the spirit,\" he was to write. \"I wander in my thought. I\ngo to the idea that calls me....\"\n\nHe was never to wander so audaciously as in the first weeks of 1876.\n\nHe completed a finer and sober essay, _Ueber Wahrheit und L\u00fcge im\nausser moralischen Sinne (On Truth and Falsehood in an Extra-Moral\nSense.)_ (It is a pity that it is necessary to translate these\nhigh-sounding expressions, and we render them word for word.) Nietzsche\nalways liked high-sounding words; he does not recoil here from using\nthe word \"untruth,\" and essays for the first time a \"reversal of\nvalues.\" To the true he opposes the false and prefers it. He exalts the\nimaginary worlds which poets add to the real world. \"Dare to deceive\nthyself and dream,\" Schiller had said; Friedrich Nietzsche repeats\nthis advice. It was the happy audacity of the Greeks; they intoxicated\nthemselves with their divine histories, their heroic myths, and this\nintoxication set their souls on high adventures. The loyal Athenian,\npersuaded that Pallas dwelt in his city, lived in a dream. More\nclear-sighted, would he have been stronger; more passionate, braver?\nTruth is good in proportion to the services which it assures, and\nillusion is preferable if it performs its duty better. Why deify the\ntruth? It is the tendency of the moderns; _Pereat vita, fiat veritas!_\nthey say readily. Why this fanaticism? It is an inversion of the sane\nlaw for men: _Pereat Veritas, fiat vita!_\n\nNietzsche wrote down these dogmatic formulas, but did not stop at them.\nHe went on writing. It was thus that he worked and advanced in his\nresearches. Let us not forget that these thoughts, firm though they\nwere in manner, were only indications, steps on the road. He would\ngive birth to other and perhaps contrary thoughts. Friedrich Nietzsche\nhad in him two instincts, opposed to each other; the one, that of the\nphilosopher, and the other, that of the artist; the one was bent on\ntruth, the other was ready to fabricate. He hesitated at the moment\nwhen he had to sacrifice one or the other. The instinct for the true\nprotested within him. He did not abandon his formulas; he took them up\nagain, he essayed new definitions, he indicated the difficulties, the\nhiatus. His thoughts had no disguise, and we can follow his researches.\nLet us translate this significant disorder:\n\n\"_The philosopher of the tragic knowledge._ He binds the disordered\ninstinct of knowledge, but not by a new metaphysic. He does not\nestablish new beliefs. He sees with a tragic emotion that the ground\nof metaphysics opens under him, and he knows that the many-coloured\nwhirlwind of science can never satisfy him. He builds for himself a new\nlife; to art he restores its rights.\n\n\"_The philosopher of the desperate knowledge_ abandons himself to blind\nscience: knowledge at any price.\n\n\"Even if metaphysics be only an anthropomorphic appearance, for the\ntragic philosopher that achieves the _image of being._ He is not\nsceptical. Here there is an idea to create; for scepticism is not the\nend. The instinct of knowledge forced to its extreme limits turns\nagainst itself to transform itself into a criticism of the faculty of\nknowledge. Knowledge in the service of the best kind of life. One\nshould even _will illusion,_ therein lies the tragic.\"\n\nWhat is then this philosopher of the desperate knowledge whose attitude\nNietzsche defines in two lines. Must he not love him, having found for\nhim already such a beautiful name? _There is an idea to create,_ writes\nNietzsche; what then is this idea? It seems that in many passages\nNietzsche is pleased to contemplate, without its veils, that terrible\nreality, whose aspect alone, says the Hindu legend, means death.\n\n\"How,\" he writes, \"do they dare talk of a destiny for the earth? In\ninfinite time and space there are no ends: _what is there, is eternally\nthere,_ whatever the forms. What can result from it for a metaphysical\nworld one does not see.\n\n\"Without support of this order humanity should stand firm; a terrible\ntask for the artist!\n\n\"The terrible consequences of Darwinism, in which, moreover, I believe.\nWe respect certain qualities which we hold as eternal, moral, artistic,\nreligious, &c, &c, &c. The spirit, a production of the brain, to\nconsider it as supernatural! To deify it, what folly!\n\n\"To speak of an unconscious end of humanity, to me, that is false.\nHumanity is not a whole like an ant-hill. Perhaps one may speak of the\nunconscious ends of an ant-hill--but of all the ant-hills of the world!\n\n\"Our duty is not to take shelter in metaphysics, but actively to\nsacrifice ourselves to the _birth of culture._ Hence my severity\nagainst misty idealism.\"\n\nAt that instant Nietzsche had almost reached the term of his thought,\nbut with great labour and consequent suffering. Headaches, pains in\nthe eyes and stomach, laid hold of him once more. The softest light\nhurt him, he was obliged to give up reading. Nevertheless, his thought\nnever halted. He was again occupied with the philosophers of tragic\nGreece; he listened to the words which come down to us diminished by\nthe centuries, but always firm. He heard the concert of the everlasting\nresponses--\n\n_Thales._ Everything derives from a unique element. _Anaximander._ The\nflux of things is their punishment. _Heraclitus._ A law governs the\nflux and the institution of things.\n\n_Parmenides._ The flux and the institution of things is illusion. The\nOne alone exists.\n\n_Anaxagoras._ All qualities are eternal; there is no becoming.\n\n_The Pythagoreans._ All qualities are quantities. _Empedocles._\nAll causes are magical. _Democritus._ All causes are mechanical.\n_Socrates._ Nothing is constant except thought.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche is moved by these opposing voices, by these rhythms\nof thought which accuse nature in their eternal collisions. \"The\nvicissitudes of the ideas and systems of man affect me more tragically\nthan the vicissitudes of real life,\" said H\u00f6lderlin. Nietzsche's\nfeeling was the same. He admired and envied those primitives who\ndiscovered nature and who found the first answers. He threw aside the\ndevices of art, he confronted life as \u0152dipus confronted the Sphinx,\nand under this very title _\u0152dipus_ he wrote a fragment to the\nmysterious language of which we may open our ears.\n\n_\u0152dipus._ I call myself the last philosopher because I am the last\nman. I speak alone and I hear my voice sounding like that of a dying\nman. With thee, dear voice, whose breath brings to me the last memories\nof all human happiness, with thee let me speak yet a moment more:\nthou wilt deceive my solitude; thou wilt give me back the illusion\nof society and love, because my heart will not believe that love is\ndead. It cannot endure the terror of the most solitary solitude, and\nforces me to speak as if I were two. Is it thou that I hear, my voice?\nThou murmurest, and thou cursest? Yet--thy malediction should rend\nthe entrails of the world! Alas, in spite of everything it subsists,\nmore dazzling and colder than ever; it looks at me with its stars\npitilessly; it exists blind and deaf as before, and nothing dies but\nman. And yet, you still speak to me, beloved voice! I die not alone in\nthis universe. I, the last man: the last plaint, your plaint, dies with\nme. Misery, misery! pity me, the last man of misery, \u0152dipus!\n\nIt seems that Nietzsche, now at the extreme limits of his thought,\nexperiences a sudden need of rest. He wants to speak to his friends, to\nfeel himself surrounded by them and diverted. The Easter holidays in\n1873 gave him a fortnight's release. He left for Bayreuth, where he was\nnot expected.\n\n\"I leave this evening,\" he writes to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug. \"Guess\nwhere I am going? You've guessed, and, height of bliss, I shall meet\nthe best of men, Rohde, to-morrow at half-past four. I shall be staying\nwith Wagner, and then see me quite happy! We shall speak much of you,\nmuch of Gersdorff. He has copied my lectures, you say? It touches\nme, and I will not forget it. What good friends I have! It is really\nshameful.\n\n\"I hope to bring back from Bayreuth courage and gaiety, and to\nstrengthen myself in everything that is good. I dreamt last night\nthat I was having my _Gradus ad Parnassum_ carefully rebound. This\nmixture of bookbinding and symbolism is comprehensible; moreover,\nvery insipid. But it is a truth! It is necessary from time to time to\nrebind ourselves by frequenting men more valorous and stronger than\nourselves or else we lose a few of our pages, then a few more, still a\nfew more, until the last page is destroyed. And that our life should be\na _Gradus ad Parnassum,_ that also is a truth that we must often repeat\nto ourselves. The future to which I shall attain if I take plenty of\ntrouble, if I have a little happiness and much time, is to become a\nmore sober writer, and from the first and ever better to pursue my\ncalling as a man of letters more soberly. From time to time I feel a\nchildish repugnance to printed paper, I think that I see soiled paper.\nAnd I can very well picture a period when reading was not much liked,\nwriting even less so; but one far preferred to think a lot, and to act\nstill more. For everything to-day awaits that efficacious man, who,\ncondemning in himself and us our millenarian routines, will live better\nand will give us his life to imitate.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche left for Bayreuth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe there learnt a piece of unexpected news. Money was lacking. Of the\ntwelve hundred thousand francs needed, eight hundred thousand only had\nbeen realised with great difficulty. The enterprise was compromised\nand perhaps ruined. Everyone was losing heart. The master alone was\nconfident and calm. Since he had attained his manhood, he had desired\nto possess a theatre. He knew that a constant will prevails over\nchance, and a few months of crisis did not alarm him after forty years\nof waiting. Capitalists from Berlin, Munich, Vienna, London, and\nChicago were making proposals to him which Richard Wagner invariably\nrefused to entertain. He wished his theatre to belong to himself alone,\nand to be near him: \"It is not a question of the success of the\naffair,\" he said, \"but of awakening the hidden forces of the German\nsoul.\" But his remarkable serenity failed to reassure his friends. A\npanic was engendered at Bayreuth, and no one again dared to hope.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche looked on, listened, observed, and then fled to\nNaumburg. \"My despair was deep,\" he has written; \"there was nothing\nthat did not seem criminal to me.\" He was rediscovering the world after\nten months of solitude, and finding it even more cowardly and more\nmiserable than he had ever judged it to be. There was worse to endure,\nfor he was discontented with himself. He recalled his last meditations.\n\"I call myself the last philosopher, because I am the last man.\" And\nhe questioned himself: Was he really \"the last philosopher\"? \"the\nlast man\"? Had he not flattered himself in assigning himself a r\u00f4le\nso difficult and magnificent? Had he not been ungrateful, cowardly,\nand vile, like the others, in abandoning the struggle at the decisive\nmoment to shut himself up in his solitude and his selfish dreams? Had\nhe not forgotten his master? He accused himself; remorse accentuated\nhis despair. \"I should not think of myself,\" was his reproach--\"Wagner\nalone is a hero--Wagner, so great in misfortune, great as of old at\nTriebschen. It is he whom we must serve. I must henceforth be vowed to\nhelp him.\"\n\nIt had been his intention to publish a few chapters of his book on _The\nPhilosophers of Tragic Greece._ He abstained from this delight; put\naway in a drawer--not without a pang--his almost finished manuscript.\nHe wished to \"spit out lava,\" to insult Germany and treat her like a\nbrute, since, imbecile brute that she was, she would only yield to\nbrutality.\n\n\"I return from Bayreuth in such a state of persistent melancholy,\" he\nwrote to Rohde, \"that the only hope for me is holy wrath.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche looked for no joy in the work which he was about to\nundertake. To attack is to recognise, to condescend, to lower oneself.\nHe would have preferred to have had no traffic with base humanity. But\nhere was Richard Wagner; was it to be borne that he should be tormented\nand trammelled? that the Germans should sadden him as they saddened\nGoethe, and break him, as they broke Schiller? To-morrow other men\nof genius would be born: was it not necessary to fight from to-day\nto assure them their liberty and the freedom of their lives? It is\nimpossible to ignore the masses that beset us. It is a bitter destiny,\nbut one that may not be eluded. It is the destiny of the best-born, and\nabove all of the best Germans, heroes begotten and misunderstood by a\nrace insensible to beauty.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche remembered what Goethe had said of Lessing: \"Pity\nthis extraordinary man, pity him that he lived in such a pitiable\nera, that he was forced to act ceaselessly by polemics.\" He applied\nthis to himself, but polemics seemed to be a duty to him, as in other\ntimes they had been to Lessing. He looked round for an adversary. The\nillustrious D. F. Strauss now represented official philosophy; he was\nits heavy pontiff. Having renounced the critical researches, in which\nhe was a real master, he was affecting, in his old age, the attitude of\na thinker, and was elaborating his _Credo_ with sham elegances borrowed\nfrom Voltaire and About.\n\n\"I simply propose,\" he wrote in _The Old Faith and the New_, \"to say\nhow we live--how for long years past we have been wont to direct our\nlives. By the side of our professions--for we belong to the most\ndiverse professions; we are not all artists or scholars, but also\nofficials, soldiers, artisans, or proprietors, and, I have already said\nand I repeat it, our number is not small, we are many thousand, and\nnot of the worst, in every country--by the side of our professions, I\nsay, we try, as far as possible, to keep our minds open to the highest\ninterests of humanity; our hearts are exalted by these new destinies,\nas unforeseen as they are magnificent, assigned by Fate to our country\nwhich formerly endured so much. The better to understand these things,\nwe study history, to which easy access is opened to the first comer\nby a number of both popular and attractive works. And then we try to\nextend our knowledge of nature by the aid of manuals which are within\nreach of everybody. Finally we find in reading our great poets, in\nhearing our great musicians, stimulants for spirit and feeling, for the\nimagination and the heart, stimulants which in truth leave nothing to\nbe desired. Thus we live, thus we march forward in happiness.\"\n\nSo the Philistines are happy and very rightly, thought Nietzsche: this\nis the era of their power. Assuredly the species is not new. Even\nAttica had its abettors of \"banausia.\" But the Philistine formerly\nlived under humiliating conditions. He was merely tolerated. He was\nnot talked of, nor did he talk. Then a more indulgent period arrived,\nin which he was listened to, his follies flattered; he appeared droll.\nThis was enough: he became a fop, proud of his _prudhommerie._ To-day\nhe triumphs; it is impossible to hold him back. He becomes a fanatic,\nand founds a religion: it is the new faith, of which Strauss is the\nprophet. Friedrich Nietzsche would have assuredly approved of that\nclassification of the ages which Gustave Flaubert suggested about this\ntime: \"_Paganisme, christianisme, muflisme_\" (Paganism, Christianity,\nSnout-ism). The Philistine dictates his tastes, and imposes his\nmannerisms. A war breaks out: he reads his paper, the telegrams\ninterest him, and contribute to his happiness. Great men have suffered,\nand have left us their works: the Philistine knows these works, and\nappreciates them--they add to his well-being. Moreover, he appreciates\nwith discernment. The Pastoral Symphony ravishes him, but he condemns\nthe exaggerated uproar of the Symphony with chorus. David Friedrich\nStrauss says it distinctly: and that clear mind of his is not to be\ndeceived.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche sought no further; he had found the man whom he\nwished to destroy. In the first days of May he had all his notes in\nhand, his work was ready. His strength suddenly gave out: his aching\nhead, his eyes that could not bear the light without pain, played\ntraitor to his desire to work; in a few days he was all but an invalid,\nalmost blind. Overbeck and Romundt did their best to help him. But\nthey had, both of them, other work; their time was measured by their\nprofessional duties. A third friend came to give assistance to the\ninvalid. The Baron von Gersdorff, a man of leisure and a devoted\nfriend, was travelling in Italy. He had been Friedrich Nietzsche's\ncomrade at the college of Pforta, and since those already distant days\nhad scarcely seen him again, but his friendship had remained intact.\nHe hastened to Basle. He was a younger son of good family. His elder\nbrothers having died, one in 1866 in the Austrian campaign, the other\nin 1871 in the French campaign, he had been obliged to sacrifice his\ntastes, to renounce philosophy and learn farming so as to be able to\nmanage the family estate in North Germany. He was the only one of\nNietzsche's friends who was not a slave to paper and books. \"He is a\nfine type of the reserved and dignified gentleman, although extremely\nsimple in his manners,\" wrote Overbeck; \"at bottom the best fellow\nimaginable, and at the first glance you are left with the impression\nof a man who is entirely trustworthy.\" A friend of Romundt's, Paul\nR\u00e9e, also came to help or distract the invalid, who, thanks to so\nmany kindnesses, was able to resist his sufferings. Lying always in\nsemi-darkness, he dictated: the faithful Gersdorff wrote down what\nhe had to say, and by the end of June the manuscript was sent to the\npublisher.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche's condition improved when he had finished his work.\nHe felt a great need of fresh air and of solitude. His sister, who\nhad come from Naumburg, took him to the mountains of the Grisons. His\nheadaches grew less severe, his eyesight became stronger. He rested\nfor a few weeks, correcting his proofs, rejoicing in his new-found\nstrength, but always haunted by his angers and his aspirations.\n\nOne day, while walking with his sister on the outskirts of Flimms, he\ncame on a little _ch\u00e2teau_ in a sequestered site. \"What a beautiful\nretreat,\" he said; \"what a beautiful spot in which to establish our lay\nconvent.\" The _ch\u00e2teau_ was for sale. \"Let us visit it,\" said the young\ngirl. They went in, and were delighted with everything: the garden,\nthe terrace from which a wide view stretched out before them, the big\nhall with its chimney-piece of sculptured stone. The rooms were few,\nbut why should there be more? This would be given to Richard Wagner,\nthat to Cosima Wagner, this other would be at the disposal of friends\nof passage, Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug or Jacob Burckhardt. Gersdorff,\nDeussen, Rohde, Overbeck, Romundt, would often reside there. \"Here,\"\ndeclared Nietzsche, \"we will build a covered walk, a sort of cloister.\nThus, in every kind of weather, we can walk as we talk. For we shall\ntalk much, we shall read but little, and write hardly at all.\"\n\nHe returned to his familiar dream once again, fraternal intercourse\nbetween disciples and masters. Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche grew very excited.\n\"You will need a woman to keep house,\" she said. \"It will be I.\" She\nenquired about the price and wrote to the proprietor, but matters were\nnot arranged.\n\n\"I looked too young,\" wrote Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche, who tells the\nanecdote, \"and the gardener did not take us seriously.\" What are we to\nthink of this affair? It is hard to know. Was it only the chatter of a\nyoung girl to which Friedrich Nietzsche had hearkened for an instant?\nOr was it, on the contrary, a serious notion? Probably the latter. His\nspirit, hospitable to chimeras, ill knew what the world admits and what\nit does not admit. He came back to Basle. His pamphlet had provoked a\ngood deal of discussion. \"I read it, and re-read it,\" wrote Wagner,\n\"and I swear to the great gods that I hold you to be the only one who\nknows what I want.\" \"Your pamphlet is a thunderbolt,\" wrote Hans von\nB\u00fclow. \"A modern Voltaire ought to write: _\u00e9cr.... l'inf...._ This\ninternational \u00e6sthetic is for us a far more odious adversary than red\nor black bandits.\"\n\nOther good judges, elderly men in many cases, approved of the young\npolemist; Ewald (of Gottingen), Bruno Bauer, Karl Hildebrandt, \"_dieses\nletzten humanen Deutschen,\"_ said Nietzsche--\"this last of the human\nGermans\"--declared for him. \"This little book,\" wrote the critic,\n\"may mark a return of the German spirit towards serious thought and\nintellectual passion.\"\n\nBut these friendly voices were few.\n\n\"The German Empire,\" he had written, \"is extirpating the German\nspirit.\" He had wounded the pride of a conquering people. In return,\nhe suffered many an insult, many an accusation of scurviness and\ntreachery. He rejoiced over it. \"I enter society with a duel,\" he\nsaid; \"Stendhal gave that advice.\" Complete Stendhalian that he\nwas (or at least he flattered himself that he was), Nietzsche was,\nnotwithstanding, accessible to pity. David Strauss died but a few weeks\nafter the publication of the pamphlet, and Nietzsche, imagining that\nhis work had killed the old man, was sorely grieved. His sister and his\nfriends tried in vain to reassure him; he did not wish to abandon a\nremorse which was, moreover, so glorious.\n\nStimulated by this first conflict, he dreamt of vaster conflicts. With\nextraordinary rapidity of conception he prepared a series of treatises\nwhich he wished to publish under a general title: _Unzeitgem\u00e4sse\nBetrachtungen_ (\"Thoughts Out of Season\"). D. F. Strauss had furnished\nthe subject of the first of the series. The second was to be entitled\n_The Use and Abuse of History._ Twenty others were to follow. His\nfriends, ever the associates of his dreams, would contribute, he\nthought, to the work.\n\nFranz Overbeck had just published a little book entitled _The\nChristianity of our Modern Theology._ He attacked the German savants\nand their too modernist tendencies, which attenuated Christianity,\nand allowed the irrevocable and serious doctrine, which was that of\nthe early Christians, to fall into oblivion. Nietzsche had Overbeck's\n_Christlichkeit_ and his _D. F. Strauss_ bound together. On the outside\npage he wrote six lines of verse.\n\n\"Two twins of the same house enter joyfully into the world--to devour\nthe dragons of the world. Two fathers, one work. Oh, miracle! The\nmother of these twins is called Friendship.\"[1]\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche hoped for a series of similar volumes, the work of\nmany hands but inspired by one spirit.\n\n\"With a hundred men bred up to the conflict of modern ideas, inured\nto heroism,\" he then wrote, \"all our noisy and lazy culture would be\nreduced to eternal silence. A hundred men of that stamp carried the\ncivilisation of the Renaissance on their shoulders.\" A double hope and\na vain one: his friends failed him, and he himself did not write his\ntwenty pamphlets. Only their titles, and a few pages of rough outline,\nare left to us. On _The State, The City, The Social Crisis, Military\nCulture,_ on _Religion,_ what had he to tell us? Let us moderate our\nregrets; little perhaps; little, at all events, that could be called\nprecious, as distinct from his desires and his complaints.\n\nHe was also busy with another work, and announced it to Gersdorff in\nmysterious terms: \"Let it be enough for you to know that a danger, a\nterrible and unexpected one, menaces Bayreuth, and that the task of\ndigging the countermine has fallen to me.\" In fact, Richard Wagner had\nbegged him to write a supreme appeal to the Germans, and he applied\nhimself to the task of drawing it up with all the gravity, all the\nprofundity, all the solemnity of which he was capable. He demanded\nErwin Rohde's assistance and advice. \"Can I count on it that you will\nsend me soon,\" he wrote, \"a fragment drawn up in the Napoleonic style?\"\nErwin Rohde, a prudent man, declined. \"One would have to be polite,\" he\nsaid, \"when the only true thing for the rabble is insult.\" Friedrich\nNietzsche did not embarrass himself with politeness.\n\nAt the end of October the presidents of the Wagner Vereine, assembled\nunited at Bayreuth, invited Friedrich Nietzsche to read his manifesto,\n_A Summons[2] to the Germans._\n\n\"We wish to be listened to, for we speak in order to give a warning;\nand he who warns, whoever he be, whatever he says, always has the right\nto be heard.... We lift our voices because you are in danger, and\nbecause, seeing you so mute, so indifferent, so callous, we fear for\nyou.... We speak to you in all sincerity of heart, and we seek and\ndesire our good only because it is also yours: the salvation and the\nhonour of the German spirit, and of the German name....\"\n\nThe manifesto was developed in the same menacing and rather emphatic\ntone, and the reading was received in an embarrassing silence. There\nwas no murmur of approval, no look of encouragement for the writer.\nHe was silent. At last some voices made themselves heard. \"It is too\nserious; it is not politic enough, there must be changes, a great many\nchanges.\" Some opined, \"It is a monk's sermon.\" He did not wish to\nargue, and withdrew his draft of a summons. Wagner alone had supported\nhim with a great deal of energy. \"Wait,\" said he; \"in a little time,\na very little time, they will be obliged to return to your challenge,\nthey will all conform to it.\"\n\nNietzsche remained very few days at Bayreuth. The situation, which had\nbeen serious at Easter, was now desperate. The public, who for some\nmonths had gibed at the great enterprise, now forgot all about it. A\nformidable indifference stood in the way of the propagandists, and\nevery day it seemed more difficult to collect the necessary money. All\nidea of a commercial loan, of a lottery, had been set aside. An appeal\nwritten in haste to replace that of Nietzsche was spread all over\nGermany; ten thousand copies were printed, an infinitesimal number were\nsold. A letter was addressed to the directors of one hundred German\ntheatres. Each was asked to give as a subscription to Bayreuth its\nreceipts at a single benefit performance. Three refused, the others did\nnot reply.\n\n\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche returned to Basle. He succeeded, with the aid of\nGersdorff, in drawing up his second \"Thoughts Out of Season,\" _The\nUse and Abuse of History._ But he wrote few letters, few notes, he\nformed no new project, and for the moment almost entirely escapes from\nour study. The double hope of his youth, that he might assist at the\ntriumph of Wagner, and have a share in achieving this triumph, was\nruined. His help had been refused. He had been told: \"Your text is too\ngrave, too solemn.\" And he asks himself, What does this mean? Is not\nthe art of Wagner a matter of supreme gravity and solemnity? He is\nunhappy, humiliated, wounded in his _amour propre_ and in his dreams.\nDuring these last weeks of 1873 he lived like an earthworm in his room\nat Basle.\n\nHe went to spend the New Year holidays at Naumburg. There, alone with\nhis own people, he picked up some strength. He had always liked the\nrepose of anniversaries, which was so favourable to reflection, and, as\na young man, never allowed the feast of Saint Sylvester to pass without\nputting on paper a meditation on his life, his memories, and his views\nof the future. On December 31, 1873, he wrote to Erwin Rohde; the tone\nof his letter recalls his former habit.\n\n\"The _Letters of an Heretical \u00c6sthete,_ by Karl Hildebrandt, have given\nme inordinate pleasure,\" he wrote. \"What a refreshment! Read, admire,\nhe is one of ours, he is of the society of those who hope. May it\nprosper in the New Year, this society, may we remain good comrades! Ah!\ndear friend, one has no choice, one must be either of those who hope,\nor of those who despair. Once and for all I have decided on hope. Let\nus remain faithful and helpful to one another in this year 1874 and\nuntil the end of our days.\n\n\"Yours,\n\n\"FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.\n\n\"NAUMBURG, _Saint Sylvester's,_ 1873-74.\"\n\nThe first days of January came, and Friedrich Nietzsche applied himself\nto work once more. Since the strange misadventure at Bayreuth (no doubt\nthe irritation of an author, whose aid has been rejected, accounts for\nthese unforeseen changes), he has been tormented by anxieties and by\ndoubts; he wished to clear them up. In two lines, which are like an\nintroduction to his thoughts of the time, he brings the Wagnerian art\ninto history. \"Every thought that is great,\" he writes, \"is dangerous,\nand dangerous, above all, in its newness. The impression is that of an\nisolated phenomenon which justifies itself by itself.\" Then, having\nposited this general principle, he approached the definitive questions:\n\"What kind of man is Wagner? What does his art signify?\"\n\nIt was a catastrophe in fairyland. The modern \u00c6schylus, the modern\nPindar vanished; the beautiful metaphysical and religious decorations\nfell in, and the art of Wagner appeared as it really was--an art,\nthe late, magnificent, and often sickly flower of a humanity fifteen\ncenturies old.\n\n\"Let us really ask ourselves,\" wrote Nietzsche in his notes, of which\nhis friends did not know--\"Let us really ask ourselves what is the\nvalue of the time which adopts the art of Wagner as its art? It is\nradically anarchical, a breathless thing, impious, greedy, shapeless,\nuncertain of its groundwork, quick to despair--it has no simplicity,\nit is self-conscious to the marrow, it lacks nobility, it is violent,\ncowardly. This art unites pell mell in one mass all that still attracts\nour modern German souls; aspects, ways of feeling, all comes pell\nmell. A monstrous attempt of art to affirm and dominate itself in an\nanti-artistic period. It is a poison against a poison.\"\n\nThe demi-god was gone, and in his place was a stage-player. Nietzsche\nrecognised despairingly that he had allowed himself to be captured\nby the gambols of a giant. He had loved with simplicity and with the\nardour of his youth, and had been deceived. There was jealousy in his\nanger, and a little of that hatred which is never far from love. His\nheart, his thought, of which he was so proud, he had given to a man:\nthis man had trifled with these sacred gifts.\n\nWe may pass over these personal sorrows; others, even more profound,\nhumiliated Friedrich Nietzsche. He was humiliated because he had\nbetrayed Truth. He had desired to live for her; he now perceived that\nfor four years he had lived for Wagner. He had dared to repeat after\nVoltaire, \"It is necessary to tell the truth and sacrifice oneself;\"\nhe now saw that he had neglected her, that perhaps he had shunned\nher, in seeking consolation from the beauties of Wagner's art. \"If\nyou seek for ease, believe,\" he had written some years before to his\nyoung sister: \"if you desire the truth, search\"; and the duty which he\nhad indicated to this child he had himself failed to observe. He had\nsuffered himself to be seduced by images, by harmonies, by the magic of\nwords; he had fed on lies.\n\nHis fault was graver yet, for he had consented to this abasement. The\nuniverse is evil, he had written in _The Origin of Tragedy_--cruel\nlike a dissonance of notes, and the soul of man, dissonant like the\nuniverse, suffering from itself, would detach itself from life if it\ndid not invent some illusion, some myth which deceives but appeases it\nand procures it a refuge of beauty. In truth, if we thus draw back,\nif we create our consolations for ourselves, whither will we not let\nourselves be led? One hearkens to one's weakness; there is no cowardice\nthat is not thus authorised. To accept is to deliver oneself over to\nthe illusionist. Is it a noble or a vile illusion? How can we know if\nwe are deceived, if we ask to be deceived? Nietzsche felt his memories\ndegraded, and his hopes discouraged by the bitterness of remorse.\n\nThe _Use and Abuse of History_ appeared in February. It is a pamphlet\ndirected against that science, history, the invention and pride of\nthe moderns; it is a criticism of the faculty, recently acquired by\nmen, by which they reanimate within themselves the sentiments of past\ncenturies, at the risk of lessening the integrity of their instincts\nand perplexing their rectitude. A brief indication gives the spirit of\nthe book.\n\n\"The man of the future: eccentric, energetic, hot-blooded,\nindefatigable, an artist, and an enemy of books. I should desire to\nhunt from my ideal State the self-styled 'cultivated' men, as Plato did\nthe poets: it would be my terrorism.\"\n\nThus Nietzsche affronted the ten thousand \"Herr Professors\" to whom\nhistory is their daily bread and who guide the public. He was punished\nby their hatred and their silence. No one spoke of his book. His\nfriends tried to find him some readers. Overbeck wrote to his student\nfriend, Treischke, the political writer, the Prussian historiographer.\n\"I am sure,\" he said to him, \"that you will discern in these\ncontemplations of Nietzsche's the most profound, the most serious, the\nmost instinctive devotion to German greatness.\" Treischke refused his\nassent; Overbeck wrote again. \"It is Nietzsche, my suffering friend, of\nwhom I will and above all must talk to you.\" Treischke showed temper\nin his reply and the dispute became bitter. \"Your Basle,\" he wrote,\n\"is a boudoir, from which German culture is insulted!\" \"If you saw the\nthree of us, Nietzsche, Romundt, and myself,\" said Overbeck, \"you would\nsee three good companions. Our difference strikes me as a painful\nsymbol. It is so frequent an accident, so unfortunate a feature in our\nGerman history, this misunderstanding between political men and men\nof culture.\" \"How unlucky for you,\" retorted Treischke, \"that you met\nthis Nietzsche, this madman, who tells us so much about his inactual\nthoughts, and who has nevertheless been bitten to the marrow by the\nmost actual of all vices, the _folie des grandeurs._\"\n\nOverbeck, Gersdorff and Rohde wretchedly watched the failure of this\nbook which they admired. \"It is another thunderbolt,\" wrote Rohde;\n\"it will have no more effect than fireworks in a cellar. But one day\npeople will recognise it and will admire the courage and precision\nwith which he has put his finger on our worst wound. How strong he\nis, our friend.\" And Overbeck: \"The sensation of isolation that our\nfriend experiences is growing in a painful manner. Ever and ever to sap\nthe branch of the tree on which one supports oneself cannot be done\nwithout grievous consequences.\" And Gersdorff: \"The best thing for\nour friend would be for him to imitate the Pythagoreans: five years\nwithout reading or writing. When I am free, which will be in two or\nthree years, I shall return to my property: that asylum will be at his\ndisposal.\"\n\nThese men, with their touching solicitude concerning their friend's\nlot, did not suspect either the true cause or the intensity of his\ndistress. They pitied his solitude, they did not know how profound\nit was, or how lonely he was even with them. What mattered to him\nthe failure of a book from which he was separated by a revolution of\nthought? \"As to my book,\" he wrote to Rohde, \"I can hardly think that I\nwrote it.\" He had discovered his error and his fault. Hence his sorrow,\nhence the agony which he dared not confess. \"At the present moment,\" he\nannounced to Gersdorff, \"many things ferment within me, many extreme\nand daring things. I do not know in what measure I may communicate\nthem to my best friends, but in any case I cannot write them.\" One\nevening, however, passion carried him away. He was alone with Overbeck;\nthe conversation happened to turn on _Lohengrin,_ and, with a sudden\nfury, Nietzsche pulled to pieces this false and romantic work. Overbeck\nlistened to him in amazement. Nietzsche became silent, and from that\nmoment was more careful to practise the pretence which shamed him and\ndisgusted him with himself.\n\n\"Dear, true friend,\" he wrote to Gersdorff in April, 1874 \"if only\nyou could have a far lower opinion of me! I am almost sure you will\nlose those illusions that you have about me, and I would wish to be\nthe first to open your eyes, by explaining fully and conscientiously\nthat I _deserve nothing._ If you could understand how radically I am\ndiscouraged, and from what melancholy I suffer on my own account. I\ndo not know if I shall ever be capable of production. Henceforward I\nseek only a little liberty, a little of the real atmosphere of life,\nand I am arming myself against the numerous, the unspeakably numerous,\nrevolting slaveries that encompass me. Shall I ever succeed? Doubt upon\ndoubt. The aim is too distant, and if I ever succeed in reaching it,\nthen I shall have consumed the better part of myself in long and trying\nstruggles. I shall be free and languishing like an ephemeron at dusk. I\nexpress my lively fear! It is a misfortune to be so conscious of one's\nstruggles, so clairvoyant....\"\n\nThis letter was written on the 1st April On the 4th of April he sent\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug a letter which was quite melancholy and yet less\nhopeless.\n\n\"Dear Fr\u00e4ulein, what pleasure you give, and how deeply you touch me!\nThis is the first time that I have had flowers sent to me, but I know\nnow that these numberless living colours, voiceless though they be, can\nspeak plainly to us. These heralds of spring are blooming in my room,\nand I have been able to enjoy them for more than a week. It needs must\nbe that, in our grey and painful lives, these flowers should come and\nlay bare to us a mystery of nature. They prevent our forgetting that\nit always is, and always must be, possible for us to find, somewhere\nin the world, life and hope and light and colour. How often do we lose\nthis faith! And how beautiful and happy a thing it is when those who\nare battling confirm themselves and one another in courage, and by\nsending those symbols of flowers or books, recall their common pledge.\n\n\"My health (forgive a word on this subject) has been satisfactory\nsince the new year, save that I have to be careful of my sight.\nBut, as you know, there are states of physical suffering that are\nalmost a blessing, for they produce forgetfulness of what one suffers\n_elsewhere._ Rather one tells oneself that there are remedies for the\nsoul, as there are for the body. That is my philosophy of illness, and\nit gives hope for the soul. And is it not a work of art, still to hope?\n\n\"Wish me strength to write my eleven 'Unseasonable Thoughts' that still\nremain to be done. Then at last I shall have said everything that\nweighs upon us; and it may be that after this general confession, we\nshall feel ourselves liberated, in however slight a degree.\n\n\"My heartfelt wishes are with you, dear Fr\u00e4ulein.\"\n\nAt last Friedrich Nietzsche began to work. His instinct brought him\nback to the philosopher who had helped his first years. He wished to\nconsecrate to Schopenhauer his third \"Unseasonable Thought.\" Ten years\nbefore, he had led a miserable existence at Leipsic; Schopenhauer\nsaved him. His strange gaiety, his lyricism, the irony with which he\nexpresses his harshest thoughts, had restored to him the power of life.\nIf Schopenhauer \"troubles you, burdens you,\" he wrote at that time to a\nfriend, \"if he has not the power to raise you, and guide you, through\nthe keenest sorrows of external life, to that sorrowful, but happy\nstate of mind that takes hold on us when we hear great music, to that\nstate in which the surroundings of the earth seem to fall away from\nus--then I do not claim to understand his philosophy.\"\n\nOnce more he experienced the impressions of his youth. He remembered\nthat the most productive crises of his life had been the most\nsorrowful, and as a disciple in the school of his former master he\nrecovered his courage. \"I have eleven fine melodies yet to sing,\" he\nwrites to Rohde, in announcement of the work which was to follow. And\nhis Schopenhauer is a melody, a hymn to Solitude, to the daring of\na thinker. His heart was full of music at that time. He rested from\nwriting and composed a hymn to Friendship. \"My song is for all of you,\"\nhe wrote to Erwin Rohde.\n\nHis sister joined him, and the two left Basle and settled together in\nthe country, near the falls of the Rhine. Friedrich Nietzsche recovered\nthe gaiety of his most childish days, partly, no doubt, to amuse the\ngirl who had come so tenderly to join him--_aliis l\u00e6tus, sibi sapiens,_\naccording to the maxim that is found written in his diary of the\ntime--but also because he was truly happy, despite his sorrow: happy to\nbe himself, free and unspotted before life. \"My sister is with me,\" he\nwrites to Gersdorff. \"Every day we make the finest plans for our future\nlife, which is to be idyllic, hard-working, and simple. All is going\nwell: I have put well away, far from me, all weakness and melancholy.\"\n\nHe used to walk with his sister and talk, laugh, dream, and read. What\ndid he read? Schopenhauer, no doubt, and Montaigne, in that small and\nelegant edition which became a sad reminder: Cosima Wagner had given\nit to him in former days at Triebschen in gratitude for the dolls he\nused to bring to the little girls. \"Because that man wrote,\" he used\nto say, \"the pleasure of life on earth has been intensified. Since I\nhave had to do with this free and brave spirit I like to repeat what he\nhimself said of Plutarch--'Je ne le puis si peu raccointer que je n'en\ntire cuisse ou aile.' If the duty were laid upon me, it would be in his\ncompany that I would attempt to live on earth as at home.\" Schopenhauer\nand Montaigne: these two ironists, one confessing his despair, the\nother hiding it, are the men with whom Nietzsche elects to try to live.\nBut he read at the same time with deepest appreciation the work of a\nyounger thinker, one less unfavourable to his aspirations--the trustful\nEmerson, the young prophet of a young people, one who in his slightest\nexpressions so happily renders the pure emotion that lightens the\neighteenth year of a man's life and passes away with that year.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche had read Emerson at Pforta, and he discovered him\nagain in the spring of 1874, and recommended him to his friends.\n\n\"The world is young,\" wrote Emerson at the end of his _Representative\nMen._ \"The former great men call to us affectionately. We too must\nwrite Bibles, to unite again the heavens and the earthly world. The\nsecret of Genius is to suffer no fiction to exist for us; to realise\nall that we know in the high refinement of modern life, in arts,\nin sciences, in books, in men; to exact good faith, reality, and a\npurpose: and first, last, midst, and without end, to honour every truth\nby use.\"\n\nNietzsche had need of the comfort of such words and loved them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche finished the manuscript of his _Schopenhauer as\nEducator_ at the beginning of June. Intellectually he was almost\ncured, but he had other sufferings. Madame F\u00f6rster-Nietzsche tells\nhow one day, when her brother had expressed his disgust of novels and\ntheir monotony of love, some one asked him what other sentiment could\nhave the power of inspiring passion. \"Friendship,\" he said quickly. \"It\nproduces absolutely the same crises as love, but in a purer atmosphere.\nFirst of all, attraction brought about on both sides by common\nconvictions, mutual admiration and glorification: then, distrust on one\nside, and on the other doubts as to the excellence of the friend and\nhis ideas: the certainty that a rupture is inevitable and yet will be\npainful. In friendship there are all these sufferings, and others too\nmany to tell.\" Nietzsche had knowledge of every one from June, 1871,\nonwards.\n\nHe loved Wagner; he had never ceased to love him. He had been able to\ncorrect himself of his intellectual error. Richard Wagner was not a\nphilosopher or an educator of Europe. True enough, none the less he was\na wonderful artist, the source of all beauty and of all happiness, and\nNietzsche desired him still, as one desires a woman, because she gives\njoy. Any idea of rupture was unbearable, and to none did he confess his\nthoughts.\n\nThe situation was false and awkward. In January, at the worst moment of\nthe crisis, he had to write to Wagner to congratulate him on a truly\nextraordinary and unexpected piece of news: the King of Bavaria, the\npoor madman, had suddenly stepped in and rescued the enterprise of\nBayreuth by promising the necessary money. At the same time Nietzsche\ndespatched his pamphlet on _The Use and Abuse of History._ Now, there\nwas not one mention in it of the master's name. This created rather a\nshock at Bayreuth, and Madame Cosima Wagner took upon herself the task\nof delicately calling him to order.\n\n\"It has been given to you to take part in the sufferings of genius,\"\nshe wrote, \"and it is this that has made you capable of pronouncing\na general judgment on our culture and has lent to your works the\nmarvellous warmth which, I am convinced, will last long after our stars\nof petroleum and gas have been extinguished. Perhaps you would not\nhave penetrated with so sure a look the colour-medley of Appearance if\nyou had not mingled so deeply in our lives. From this same source has\nsprung your irony and humour, and this background of sufferings shared\nhas given them a far greater power than if they were simply a play of\nthe intellect.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" said Nietzsche to his sister, \"see what they think of me at\nBayreuth.\" On the 22nd of May, the anniversary of Wagner's birthday,\nNietzsche paid him his tribute of homage; Wagner answered him at once,\nand asked him to come and spend a few days in \"his room.\" Nietzsche\nmade some excuse and declined the invitation. A few days later he wrote\nto Wagner--his letters have been lost or destroyed. He received the\nfollowing answer:\n\n\"DEAR FRIEND,--Why do you not come to see us?\n\n\"Do not isolate yourself so, or I shall be able to do nothing for you.\n\n\"Your room is ready.\n\n\"I have just received your last letter; I shall say more of it another\ntime.\n\n\"Yours cordially,\n\n\"R. W.\n\n\"WAHNFRIED, _the 9th June,_ 1874.\"\n\nIt is probable that Wagner liked Nietzsche as far as he was capable\nof liking any man. From among all the admirers and too submissive\ndisciples who surrounded him he distinguished this zealous young man,\neager to give himself, eager for freedom. He was often impatient and\nforgave quickly. He guessed, though he did not precisely understand,\nthat crises of tragedy shook this troubled life: so he wrote kindly.\nBut Nietzsche only suffered the more: he felt more keenly the value of\nwhat he was going to lose. His courage failed him, and for the second\ntime he refused the master's invitation. An echo reached him of the\nirritation caused at Bayreuth.\n\nTo a friend he wrote: \"I hear that they are again worried about me\nthere, and that they consider me unsociable and ill-humoured as a sick\ndog. Really, it is not my fault if there are some people whom I prefer\nseeing at a distance to near at hand.\"\n\nThe faithful Gersdorff--faithful to both parties, master and\ndisciple--wrote to Nietzsche begging and pressing him to come;\nNietzsche resisted his insistence and revolted at it.\n\n\"DEAR FRIEND,--Where did you get this strange idea of compelling me by\na threat to spend a few days this summer at Bayreuth? We know, both of\nus, that Wagner is naturally disposed to distrust, but I do not think\nit wise to kindle this distrust further; besides, consider that I have\nduties towards myself, and that they are difficult to discharge with my\nhealth shattered as it is. Really, it is not right for any one to lay\nconstraint of any kind on me.\"\n\nThese revolts were only momentary. Nietzsche had not the strength to\nbreak with Wagner. He longed with his whole being to preserve the\nfriendship. Certainly he had refused to go to Bayreuth. But he had\ngiven excuses. He had asked for time, given urgent work as a pretext;\nhe had made arrangements for the future. And towards the end of July,\nreceiving a new invitation, tired at last of denying himself, he set\nout.\n\nMeanwhile a curious idea had occurred to him.\n\nDid he merely wish to affirm his independence? or did he wish to\n_correct_ Wagner? It may be that he conceived the fantastic dream of\ninfluencing his master, purifying him, lifting him up to the height\nof the devotion which he inspired. He took a score of Brahms, whom he\nadmired, and whom Wagner pursued with a jealousy that was comic at\ntimes, slipped it in his trunk, and, early in the first evening, put\nit well in view on the piano. It was bound in the most beautiful red.\nWagner perceived it, and, without doubt, understood; he had the sense\nto say nothing. Next day, however, Nietzsche repeated the man\u0153uvre.\nThen the great man exploded; he screamed, raged, and foamed; then\ndashed off, banging the doors behind him. He met Nietzsche's sister,\nwho had come with her brother, and, suddenly laughing at himself, gaily\nrelated the anecdote.\n\n\"Your brother had again thrust that red score on the piano, and the\nfirst thing I see on entering the room is it! Then I fell into a fury,\nlike a bull before a red rag. Nietzsche, as I knew well, wanted me\nto understand that that man, too, had composed beautiful music. I\nexploded--what is called exploding!\"\n\nAnd Wagner laughed noisily. The bewildered Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche sent for\nher brother.\n\n\"Friedrich, what have you done? What has happened?\"\n\n\"Ah! Lisbeth. Wagner has not been great....\" Wagner had laughed; he was\nappeased. That same evening, he made friends again with the _enfant\nterrible._ But Nietzsche, as he shook hands with the master, allowed\nhimself no illusion: the gulf between them was deeper, the definitive\nseparation more menacing.\n\nHe left Bayreuth. His health, tolerable in the month of August, was\nbad in September; well or ill, he worked, correcting the proofs of his\n_Schopenhauer,_ which he published in October.\n\n\"You will know enough from my book,\" he wrote to Fr\u00e4ulein von\nMeysenbug, \"of the ordeals of my year, ordeals in reality more cruel\nand more serious even, than you will be able to guess in reading me.\nStill, _in summa,_ all's well, my life is bereft of sunshine, but\n_I advance,_ and that is assuredly a great happiness, to advance in\none's duty.... At the moment, I want to make myself clear as regards\nthe system of antagonistic forces on which our 'modern world' rests.\nHappily I have neither political nor social ambitions. No danger\nmenaces me, no considerations hinder me, nor am I inclined or forced\nto compromise. In short, I have a free field, and I will know one day\nin what degree our contemporaries, proud as they are of their liberty\nof thought, tolerate free thoughts.... What will be my ardour when\nat last I shall have thrown off all that mixes in me of negation and\nrefractoriness! And yet, I dare to hope that in about five years this\nmagnificent aim will be ready to be achieved.\"\n\nIt was a hope well charged with shadows. Friedrich Nietzsche, greedy to\npossess, longing to act, had to look forward to five years of waiting,\nof arid work, of criticism. \"Thirty years,\" he put down in a note-book.\n\"Life becomes a difficult affair. I see no motive to be gay; but there\nought always to be a motive to be gay.\"\n\nHe returned to Basle and recommenced his course. This duty, which had\nalways been a burden, became heavier still: he was entrusted with the\ncharge of a Greek class for quite young men. He was conscious of the\nvalue of his time, and knew that every hour given to the University\nadded to the delay, already so long, of the five years. He suffered\nfrom each of them as from a remorse, as though he were failing in his\nduty as a man of letters.\n\n\"I have before me work enough for fifty years,\" he wrote to his mother\nin autumn, \"and I must mark time under the yoke, and it is with\ndifficulty that I can throw a look to right or left. Alas! (a sigh).\nThe winter has quickly come, very quickly, a very hard one. It will\nprobably be cold at Christmas. Would I bother you if I went to see you?\nI delight so much in the thought of being once more with you, free for\nten days of this cursed University work. So prepare me for Christmas a\nlittle corner in the country, where I might end my life in peace and\nwrite beautiful books.\n\n\"Alas! (a sigh).\"\n\nIn these moments of depression he was always seized by memories of\nWagner, and of the almost serene existence that he had tasted in his\nintimacy. The glory of the master, a moment faded, went on increasing;\nthe public bowed before success, and Nietzsche, who had fought in the\ndifficult times, had now to stand aside in the hour of triumph. The\nidea that the art of Wagner was within his reach, always offering\nthe miracle of its \"fifteen enchanted worlds \"; the idea that Wagner\nhimself was there, offering himself also, ever genial, abundant,\nlaughing, tender, sublime, caressing, and like a god creating life\naround him: the idea that he had possessed so much beauty, and that,\nwith a little cowardice, he could possess it again, and that never,\nnever again would he possess it; this was an everlasting sadness to\nNietzsche.\n\nFinally, giving way to his need of an outlet, he wrote to the one\ncomforter, to Wagner. Like all his other letters to Wagner, this letter\nis lost, or destroyed; but the tone of the letter which we are about to\nquote, the tone of Wagner's reply, helps us to imagine its eloquence.\n\nWagner answered:\n\n\"DEAR FRIEND,--Your letter has again made us most anxious on your\naccount. Presently, my wife will write more fully than I. But I have\njust a quarter of an hour's rest, and I want--to your great annoyance\npossibly--to devote it to posting you up in what we say of you here.\nIt seems to me, amongst other things, that never have I had in my life\nsuch intellectual society as you get in Basle, to amuse you in the\nevenings. However, if you are all hypochondriacs, it is not a great\nbenefit, I admit. It is, I think, women that you need, you young men\nof to-day. There is a difficulty, as I well know: as my friend Sulzer\nused to say, 'Where take women without stealing them?' Besides, one\ncould steal at a pinch. I mean to say you ought to marry, or compose an\nopera; one would be as good, or as bad, as the other. All the same, I\nhold that marriage is the better.\n\n\"In the meanwhile, I could recommend you a palliative, but you always\nsettle your _r\u00e9gime_ in advance, so that one can say nothing to you.\nFor example: our household here is so organised that we have a place\nsuch as was never offered me in the most difficult moments of my life,\nhere for you: you should come and spend all the summer holidays;--but\nvery prudently, you announced to us, at the beginning of winter, that\nyou had resolved to pass the summer holidays on a very high and very\nsolitary mountain in Switzerland! Does that not look like very careful\nguarding against a possible invitation? We could be useful to you in\nsome directions: why do you despise that which is offered you in such\ngood part? Gersdorff and all the society of Basle would be happy here:\na thousand things are to be seen: I pass in review all my singers of\nthe _Nibelungen;_ the decorator decorates, the machinist machines; and\nthen we are there, in flesh and blood.\n\n\"But one knows the eccentricities of friend Nietzsche!\n\n\"So I shall say no more about you, because it serves no purpose.\n\n\"Ah! _mon Dieu!_ marry a rich woman! O, why should Gersdorff happen to\nbe of the masculine sex! Marry, and then travel, and enrich yourself\nwith those magnificent impressions which you desire so much! And then\n... you will compose an opera which, surely, will be terribly difficult\nto execute. What Satan was it that made a pedagogue of you?\n\n\"Now, to end up: next year, in the summer, complete rehearsals (perhaps\nwith orchestra) at Bayreuth. In 1876, the representations. Impossible\nearlier.\n\n\"I bathe every day, I could no longer endure my stomach. Bathe you too!\nAnd eat meat like me. \"With all my heart,\n\n\"Your devoted,\n\n\"R. W.\"\n\nWagner had foreseen that his letter would be useless. He had not\nforeseen that it would be hurtful. Nietzsche repented that he had drawn\nforth these tender offers, which he could not accept. In writing,\nhe had been weak; he was ashamed. Finally, the announcement and the\napproach of the Bayreuth rehearsals overwhelmed him. Should he go?\nShould he not go? If he did not go, how was he to excuse himself? Could\nhe still hide his thoughts? Should he henceforth acknowledge all?\n\nHe had commenced a fourth \"Unseasonable Thought,\" _We other\nPhilologists;_ he abandoned it, alleging, to explain this abandonment,\nweariness and the weight of his University duties. When he speaks thus,\nNietzsche deceives either himself or us. Christmas came, and he went\nto spend ten days at Naumburg with his mother. He was at liberty and\ncould work. But instead of writing, he composed and copied out his\n_Hymn to Friendship_ for four voices. He spent Saint Sylvester's day in\nre-reading his youthful compositions: this examination interested him.\n\"I have always seen admiringly,\" he wrote to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug,\n\"how the invariability of character manifests itself in music. What a\nchild expresses musically is in so clear a manner the language of his\nmost essential nature that the man afterwards desires to revise nothing\nin it.\"\n\nThis musical debauch was a bad sign of his condition, a sign of\nweakness and of fear before his thoughts. Two letters, one from\nGersdorff, the other from Cosima Wagner, came to disturb his solitary\ncommemoration. His friends spoke to him of Bayreuth. The reminder\nplunged him in despair.\n\n\"Yesterday,\" he wrote to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug, \"on the first day\nof the year, I saw the future with a real fear. It is terrible and\ndangerous to live--I should envy him who came by death in an honest\nmanner. For the rest, I am resolved to live to an old age. I have my\nwork. But it is not the satisfaction of living that will help me to\ngrow old. You understand this resolution.\"\n\nDuring January and February, 1875, Nietzsche did not work. He let\ndepression get the better of him. \"At very rare moments,\" he writes,\n\"ten minutes every fortnight, I compose a _Hymn to Solitude._ I will\nshow it in all its dreadful beauty.\"\n\nIn March, Gersdorff came to sojourn in Basle. Nietzsche, encouraged by\nhis arrival, dictated some notes to him. He seemed to have escaped\nfrom his melancholy; then once more he was plunged into it by a fresh\nsorrow.\n\nIt had become his habit, a kindly habit and one conformable to his\ntastes, to live in common with his two colleagues, Overbeck and\nRomundt, who formed the intellectual society of which Wagner spoke with\nsuch esteem. Now, in February, 1875, Romundt announced to Overbeck and\nto Nietzsche that he was obliged to leave them to enter into Orders.\nNietzsche experienced a feeling of stupefied indignation: for many\nmonths he had lived with this man, he called him his friend. Yet he\nhad had no suspicion of the secret vocation now suddenly declared.\nRomundt had not been open with him. Subjugated by religious faith, he\nhad lacked in simple good faith, and the duties of friendship of which\nNietzsche had such an exalted ideal. Romundt's treachery reminded him\nof another treachery and made it easier for him to understand the news\nwhich was rumoured among Wagnerians: the master was about to compose\na Christian Mystery--a _Parsifal._ Nothing was so displeasing to\nFriedrich Nietzsche as a return to Christianity: nothing seemed to him\nmore weak or cowardly than such a capitulation to the problems of life.\nSome years before, he had known and admired the different projects on\nwhich Wagner conversed with his intimates: he then spoke of Luther,\nof the Great Frederick; he wished to glorify a German hero and repeat\nthe happy experiment of _Die Meistersinger._ Why had he abandoned his\nprojects? Why did he prefer Parsifal to Luther? and to the rude and\nsinging life of the German Renaissance, the religiosity of the Graal?\nFriedrich Nietzsche then understood and measured the perils of the\npessimism which accustoms souls to complaint, weakens and predisposes\nthem to mystical consolations. He reproached himself for having taught\nRomundt a doctrine too cruel for his courage, and thus to have been the\ncause of his weakness.\n\n\"Ah! our Protestant atmosphere, good and pure as it is!\" he wrote\nto Rohde; \"I have never felt so strongly how well I am filled with\nthe spirit of Luther. And the unlucky man turns his back on so many\nliberating geniuses! I ask myself if he is in his senses, and if it\nwould not be better to treat him with cold water and douches; so\nincomprehensible is it to me, that such a spectre should rise up by me,\nand take possession of a man for eight years my comrade. And to crown\nall it is on me that the responsibility of this base conversion rests.\nGod knows, no egoistic thought induces me to speak thus. But I believe\ntoo that I represent a sacred thing, and I should be bitterly ashamed\nif I merited the reproach of having the slightest connection with this\nCatholicism which I detest thoroughly.\"\n\nHe wished to bring back, to convince his friend, but no discussion was\npossible. Romundt did not answer and held to his resolve. He left on\nthe fixed date. Nietzsche wrote to Gersdorff, and related the story of\nthis departure.\n\n\"It was horribly sad: Romundt knew, repeated endlessly that\nhenceforward he had lived the better and the happier part of his life.\nHe wept a great deal and asked our forgiveness. He could not hide\nhis misery. At the last moment I was seized with a veritable terror;\nthe porters were shutting the carriage doors, and Romundt, wishing\nto continue speaking to us, wanted to let down the window, but it\nstuck; he redoubled his efforts, and while he tormented himself thus,\nhopelessly trying to make himself heard, the train went out slowly, and\nwe were reduced to making signs to each other. The awful symbolism of\nthe whole scene upset me terribly, and Overbeck as much as it did me\n(he confessed as much to me later): it was hardly endurable; I stayed\nin bed the next day with a bad headache that lasted thirty hours, and\nmuch vomiting of bile.\"\n\nThis day of illness marked the beginning of a very long attack.\nNietzsche was obliged to leave Basle and to repose in the solitude\nof the mountains and woods. \"I wander always alone,\" he writes,\n\"clearing up many thoughts.\" What were these thoughts? We can ascertain\nthem. \"Send me a comforting message,\" he wrote to Rohde: \"that your\nfriendship may help me better to support this terrible affair. It is in\nmy sentiment of friendship that I am hurt. I hate more than ever that\ninsincere and hypocritical way of being a man of many friendships, and\nI will have to be more circumspect in the future.\"\n\nFr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche, who had passed the month of March at Bayreuth with\nthe Wagners, came back to her brother, whose condition alarmed her. He\nseemed obsessed by the memory of Romundt. \"That such a misadventure\nshould occur between friends living under the same roof,\" he was\nconstantly saying. \"It is appalling.\" In reality he was thinking of\nthe other friend, Richard Wagner, of the master he was losing. \"What\na peril I have run,\" he said to himself. \"I admired, I was happy, I\ndelivered myself over to and followed an illusion, but all illusions\nare connected, and accomplices. Wagnerism borders upon Christianity.\"\nTirelessly he listened to his sister's accounts of the marvels of\nBayreuth, of the activity, the enthusiasm, the joy of all. Walking one\nday with him in a public garden, she related for the tenth time this\nsame story: she noticed that her brother was listening to her with a\nstrange emotion. She interrogated him, plied him with questions, and\nthen the secret which he had kept for a year escaped him in a long,\neloquent plaint. He was suddenly silent. He remarked that a wayfarer\nwas following and spying on him. He dragged his sister precipitately\naway, terrified by the idea that his words would be repeated at\nBayreuth. A few days later, having recognised again the too curious\nwayfarer, he was able to learn his name: it was Ivan Turgenieff.\n\nJuly, 1875, the month fixed for the rehearsals of the Tetralogy,\napproached, and these rehearsals were the sole preoccupation of\nNietzsche's friends, the sole subject of their letters and their\nconversations. He continued to dissemble and dared not decide the\nquestion which was becoming urgent: Should he go to their rehearsals\nor not? His enervation increased day by day, bringing on the ordinary\ntroubles; headaches, insomnia, sickness, internal cramp: finally his\nhealth served for an excuse. \"As you are going to Bayreuth,\" he wrote\nto Gersdorff, \"warn them that they will not see me. Wagner will be\ngreatly provoked, I am not less.\"\n\nAbout the beginning of July, when his friends were hurrying towards\nBayreuth and the University of Basle had closed its doors, he retired\nto the little therapeutic station which his doctor had recommended,\nSteinabad, a spot lost in a valley of the Black Forest.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche had the faculty of occasionally rising above his\nown sorrows and his own joys. He knew how to enjoy the spectacle of his\ncrises as though they were the intermingled voices of a symphony. Then\nhe ceased to suffer, and contemplated with a sort of mystical rapture\nthe tragic development of his existence. Such was his life during the\nfew weeks of his cure at Steinabad. It brought him nevertheless no\nmotive of happiness. His illness resisted remedies, and the doctors\nlet him guess, as at the origin of all these attacks, an identical,\nindiscernible, and mysterious cause. He did not forget the nature of\nthe illness that had killed his father at thirty-six years of age. He\ntook the hint and felt the danger: but he even brought this menace into\nthe spectacle of his life and considered it bravely.\n\nSteinabad is near Bayreuth; Nietzsche was once more tempted. Would\nhe go, or would he stay? This indecision was enough, he broke down\nutterly. Towards the end of July, a terrible attack which kept him\ntwo days in bed did away with these doubts. On the first of August he\nwrote to Rohde: \"To-day, dear friend, if I am not mistaken, you are all\nmeeting at Bayreuth. And I am not among you. In vain have I obstinately\nbelieved that I could all of a sudden emerge in your society and enjoy\nmy friends. In vain; to-day, my cure being half completed, I say it\nwith certainty....\"\n\nThe attack lost its force; he was able to get up and walk in the woods.\nHe had brought a _Don Quixote_ with him: he read this book, \"the\nbitterest of all,\" with its derision of every noble effort.\n\nStill, he kept up his courage. He recalled without too poignant a\nsorrow his past that had been filled with joy. He faced without fear\nthe menacing future; he thought of that grand work on Hellenism, an\nold, unabandoned dream; he thought of the interrupted succession of\nthe \"Thoughts out of Season;\" and above all he delighted in conceiving\nthe beautiful book he would write when he was sure of himself. \"To\nthis work,\" he thought, \"I must sacrifice everything. For some years\nI have been writing a great deal, I have written too much; I have\noften made mistakes. Now I must keep silence and devote myself to many\nyears' work; seven, eight years. Shall I live as long? In eight years\nI shall be forty. My father died four years earlier. Never mind, I\nmust accept the risk and peril. The time of silence has returned for\nme. I have greatly slandered the modern men, yet I am one of them. I\nsuffer with them, and like them, because of the excess and the disorder\nof my desires. As I shall have to be their master, I must first gain\nthe mastery of myself and repress my trouble. That I may dominate my\ninstincts, I must know them and judge them; I must restrict myself and\nanalyse. I have criticised science, I have exalted inspiration, but I\nhave not analysed the sources of inspiration; and to what unfathomable\ndepths have I not followed it! My youth was my excuse, I needed\nintoxication. Now my youth is over. Rohde, Gersdorff, Overbeck, are at\nBayreuth: I envy, yet pity them. They have passed the age of dreams,\nthey ought not to be there. What task am I going to undertake? I will\nstudy natural sciences, mathematics, physics, chemistry, history, and\npolitical economy. I will accumulate an immense equipment for the\nknowledge of men. I will read ancient history books, novels, letters.\nThe work will be hard, but I shall have Plato, Aristotle, Goethe, and\nSchopenhauer constantly by me; thanks to my well loved geniuses my pain\nwill be less painful, my solitude less solitary.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche's thoughts were almost every day diverted by a\nletter from Bayreuth. He received and read it without bitterness. In a\nfew notes written for himself alone, he fixed the memory of the joys\nhe owed to Wagner. Then answering his friends: \"I am with you in the\nspirit during three-quarters of my days,\" he told them; \"I roam like a\nshadow around Bayreuth. Do not fear to excite my envy, tell me all the\nnews, dear friends. During my walks I conduct entire pieces of music\nthat I know by heart, and then I grumble and rage. Salute Wagner in my\nname, salute him deeply! Good-by, my well loved friends, this is for\nall of you. I love you with all my heart.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche came back to Basle somewhat the better for his\ncure. His sister joined him and wished to stay with him. He continued\nto lead the wholly meditative and almost happy existence of Steinabad,\nwith his papers, his books, and his piano.\n\n\"_I dream,_\" he wrote (he underlines these words), \"_I dream of an\nassociation of unrestricted men, who know no circumspection and wish\nto be called the 'destroyers'; they apply to everything the measure\nof their criticism, and sacrifice themselves to the truth. Everything\nthat is suspect and false must be brought to light. We do not wish to\nconstruct prematurely, we do not know if we can construct, and whether\nit may not be better to construct nothing. There are cowardly and\nresigned pessimists; of these we do not wish to be._\"\n\nHe commenced the long studies which he had assigned himself. He\nexamined firstly D\u00fchring's book, _The Value of Life._ D\u00fchring was a\nPositivist who led the combat against the disciples of Schopenhauer and\nWagner. \"All idealism deceives,\" he told them, \"all life that seeks to\nescape beyond life vows itself to chimera.\" Friedrich Nietzsche had no\nobjection to offer to these premises. \"A sane life carries its worth in\nitself,\" said D\u00fchring. \"Asceticism is unhealthy and the sequel of an\nerror.\" \"No,\" answered Nietzsche. Asceticism is an instinct which the\nmost noble, the strongest among men have felt: it is a fact, it must\nbe taken into account if the value of life is to be appreciated. And\neven if a prodigious error be here indicated as being at work, then\nthe possibility of such an error should be placed amongst the sombre\nfeatures of being.\n\n\"The tragedy of life is not irreducible,\" said D\u00fchring, \"the\nsovereignty of egoism is only apparent; the altruistic instincts work\nin the human soul.\"\n\nEgoism an appearance! exclaimed Nietzsche. Here D\u00fchring falls into\nchildishness. _Ich wollte er machte mir hier nichts vor!_ God be\npraised if it were true! He talks nonsense, and if he seriously\nbelieves what he says, he is ripe for all the socialisms. Nietzsche\nfinally held out as against D\u00fchring for the tragic philosophy that\nHeraclitus and Schopenhauer had taught him. There is no possible\nevasion, all evasion is a lure and a cowardice. D\u00fchring says it and\nhe speaks truly; but he attenuates the task in presenting a sweetened\nimage of that life in which we are set. It is either stupidity or\nfalsehood: life is hard.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche was gay, or appeared so. In the evening (he did\nnot work because of his eyes) his sister read Walter Scott's novels to\nhim. He liked their simple narration. \"The serene art, the andante,\" he\nwrites; he also liked the heroic, na\u00efve, and complicated adventures.\n\"What fellows! what stomachs!\" he exclaimed at the recitals of the\ninterminable feasts; and Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche, seeing him so cheerful,\nwas astonished to hear him a moment later play and develop at great\nlength his _Hymn to Solitude._\n\nShe was astonished not without reason: the gaiety of her brother was\nartificial; his sadness was real; he dissembled with her, and doubtless\nwith himself.\n\nHe had begun to study Balfour Stewart's book on the conservation of\nenergy: he stopped at the first pages. It was odious to him to work\nthus without the consolation of art, or the real joy of hoping. He\nthought he would be more interested in the Indian wisdom, and took\nup the English translation of the _Sutta Nip\u00e2ta._ Only too well he\nunderstood its radical nihilism.\n\n\"When I am ill and in bed,\" he writes in December to Gersdorff, \"I let\nmyself be oppressed by the persuasion that life is without value, and\nall our ends illusory....\" His crises were frequent: every fortnight he\nwas disabled by the headaches, internal cramp, twitching of the eyes,\nwhich laid hold of him.\n\n_\"I wander here and there, alone like a rhinoceros,\"_ Nietzsche had\nkept in mind this final phrase of a chapter of the _Sutta Nip\u00e2ta,_ and\napplied it to himself with melancholy humour. His best friends were\nthen marrying. Nietzsche was ready to abuse marriage and women: one is\nrarely sincere when one speaks thus, and we know he was not.\n\n\"I have more and better friends than I deserve,\" he wrote in October,\n1874, to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug; \"what I now wish myself, I tell you\nin confidence, is a good wife, and as soon as possible. Then life will\nhave given me all that I shall have asked of it. The rest is my affair.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche congratulated the fianc\u00e9s, Gersdorff, Rohde,\nOverbeck, and rejoiced with them, but felt the difference of his own\ndestiny.\n\n\"Be happy,\" he wrote to Gersdorff, \"you who will no longer go wandering\nhere and there, alone like a rhinoceros.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe year 1876 was about to begin, the representations of the Tetralogy\nwere announced for the summer. Friedrich Nietzsche knew that his\nirresolution must then cease: \"I was exhausted,\" he wrote later, \"by\nthe sadness of an inexorable presentiment--the presentiment that\nafter this disillusion I should be condemned to mistrust myself more\nprofoundly, to despise myself more profoundly, to live in a profounder\nsolitude than before.\"\n\nThe impression of the Christmas and New Year festivals, always strong\nin him, aggravated his melancholy. He fell ill in December, only to get\nup again in March. He was still weak.\n\n\"I find it an effort to write, I shall be brief,\" he wrote to Gersdorff\nthe 18th January, 1876; \"I have never spent so sad and painful a\nChristmas or one of such dreadful foreboding. I have had to give up\ndoubting. The malady which has attacked me is cerebral; my stomach, my\neyes, give me all this suffering from another cause, whose centre is\nelsewhere. My father died at the age of thirty-six of inflammation of\nthe brain. It is quite possible that things may go even quicker with\nme.... I am patient, but full of doubts as to what awaits me. I live\nalmost entirely on milk. It has a good result; I sleep well. Milk and\nsleep are at present my best foods.\"\n\nAt the approach of spring, he wished to leave Basle: Gersdorff offered\nto go with him, and the two friends settled on the shores of the Lake\nof Geneva, at Chillon. They spent a bad fortnight there. Nietzsche's\nnerves were irritated by the least variation of the atmosphere, which\nwas more or less humid and more or less charged with electricity, and\nhe suffered from the \"f\u00f6hne,\" a soft wind which melts the snows in\nMarch. He let the softness and tepidity depress him, and could not\nrestrain the heartrending expression of his doubts and his agonies.\nGersdorff, obliged to return to Germany, went with an uneasy mind on\nhis friend's account.\n\nBut Nietzsche felt better once he was left alone. Perhaps finer weather\nfavoured him; perhaps he felt his distress less acutely when the\ncompassionate Gersdorff was not near by, ever ready to lend an ear to\nhis complaints. His humours became less bitter, and chance procured him\na decisive relief, a liberating hour. Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug had just\npublished her _Memoirs of an Idealist._ Nietzsche had put these two\nvolumes in his bag. Of this woman of fifty he was very fond, and every\nday he liked her more. She was always suffering and courageous, always\nfine and good. He did not put her on the level of Cosima Wagner. The\nsuperiority of her mind was not dazzling; but she was great-hearted,\nand Nietzsche infinitely esteemed this woman who was faithful to the\nreal genius of women. Doubtless he began reading her book with moderate\nexpectations: yet the work held him. It is one of the most beautiful\nrecords of the nineteenth century. Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug had gone\nall through it: she had known all the worlds, all the heroes, all\nthe hopes. Born in old Germany with its petty Courts--her father was\nMinister in one of them--as a child she had listened to the friends of\nHumboldt and Goethe; as a young girl, the humanitarian gospel touched\nher: detached from Christianity, she abandoned its observances. Then\ncame 1848, and its dream; the Socialists, and their essays towards a\nmore noble, a more brotherly life: she admired them, and wanted to\nwork with them. Blamed by her people, she left them and went alone\nwithout asking help or advice. An idealist of action, not of dreams,\nshe joined the communists of Hamburg; with them she instituted a sort\nof phalanstery, a rationalistic school in which the masters lived\ntogether. This school prospered under her direction; but, threatened by\nthe police, she had to fly. Next she was in London among its proscripts\nof all the races, that mournful refuge, and tomb of the vanquished.\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug earned her living by giving lessons: she knew\nMazzini, Louis Blanc, Herzen: she was the friend and the consoler\nof these unhappy men. At the time of the second Empire, of Napoleon\nIII., of Bismarck, and of the silence of the peoples--in Paris, with\nits brilliant culture--Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug met Richard Wagner. She\nhad long admired his music: she admired the man, listened to him,\nsuccumbed to his ascendancy, and, renouncing the religion of humanity,\ncarried her fervour to the cult of art. But always she exercised and\nlavished her active goodness: Herzen died; he left two children, whom\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug adopted, thus taking upon herself the anxiety of\na double maternity. Friedrich Nietzsche had known these young girls\nand often admired the tenderness of their friend, her free and sane\nself-sacrifice: he had not known of what life of entire devotion this\ndevotion was the flower.\n\nHe was encouraged by this book: Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug reconciled him\nto life. Again he found his confidence and health. \"My health,\" he\nwrote to Gersdorff, \"is allied to my hopes. I am well when I hope.\"\n\nHe left his _pension_ and went to spend some days in Geneva. There he\ndiscovered a friend, the musician Senger; he made the acquaintance\nof a few Frenchmen, exiled communards, and liked talking to them.\nHe esteemed these fanatics with the square skulls, so prompt to\nself-sacrifice. It appears that he flirted with two \"exquisite\"\nRussians. Then he returned to Basle, and his first letter was sent to\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug.\n\n\"BASLE, _Good Friday, April_ 14, 1876.\n\n\"DEAR FR\u00c4ULEIN,--Four days or so back, finding myself alone on the\nshores of the Lake of Geneva, I spent a whole Sunday quite near you,\nfrom the earliest hour till the moon-bathed night. I have read you\nthrough and through, with a revived interest at every page, and I\nkept on repeating that never had I passed so blessed a Sunday. You\nhave given me an impression of purity and love which will never leave\nme; and Nature, the day on which I read you, seemed to reflect this\nimpression. You were before me as a superior form of my being, a very\nsuperior form; and which yet did not humiliate but encouraged me: thus\nyou crossed my thoughts, and, measuring my life with yours, I am more\neasily able to feel what I lacked--so much! I thank you much more than\nI would do for a book.\n\n\"I was ill, I doubted my strength and my aims; I thought I should have\nto renounce everything, and my greatest fear was of the length of a\nlife which can be but an atrocious burden if one renounces the highest\naims. I am now saner and freer, and I can consider without torturing\nmyself the duties I have to fulfil. How many times I have wished you\nnear me to ask you some question which only a moral being higher than\nmyself could answer! Your book gives me answers to such of these\nprecise questions as touch me. I don't think I can ever be satisfied\nwith my conduct, if I have not first your approbation. But it is\npossible that your book is a severer judge than you would be yourself.\nWhat should a man do, if, in comparing his life to yours, he does not\nwish to be taxed with unmanliness? I often ask myself this. He ought to\ndo everything you have done and no more. But doubtless he could not;\nhe lacks that sure guide, the instinct of a love that is always ready\nto give itself. One of the most elevated of moral themes _[einer der\nh\u00f6chsten Motive]_ that I have discovered, thanks to you, is maternal\nlove without physical bonds between the mother and the child. It is one\nof the most magnificent manifestations of _Caritas._ Give me a little\nof that love, dear lady and dear friend, and think of me as one of\nthose who need to be the son of such a mother. Ah! such a great need!\n\n\"We shall have lots of things to say to one another when we meet at\nBayreuth. At present I again have hopes of being able to go, whereas,\nthese two past months, I had put the very thought away from me. How I\nshould like to be now the _saner_ of us two, and capable of rendering\nyou a service!\n\n\"Why can't I live near you?\n\n\"Adieu; I am and I remain, in all truth, yours,\n\n\"FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.\"\n\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug answered at once. \"If my book had only been\nworth this joy, your letter to me, I would have been happy to have\nwritten it. If I can help you, I want to do so. Next winter, leave\nBasle, you must; look for a milder climate and a brighter one; how I\nfeel, as you do, the annoyance of our separation. I sheltered this\nwinter your young Basle pupil, Alfred Brenner, who is still ill; you\nshall bring him back to me. I will be able to find the two of you a\nhealth-giving home. Come, promise me.\" Nietzsche wrote immediately:\n\"To-day I shall answer you in one word; thank you, I shall come.\"\n\nAssured henceforth of sanctuary, Friedrich Nietzsche regained\nconfidence and courage.\n\n\"I have recovered my good conscience,\" he wrote to Gersdorff a few\ndays after his return; \"I know that up to the present I have done\nall I could to enfranchise myself, and that in working thus, I have\nnot worked for myself alone. I want to start off again on this road,\nand nothing more will stop me, neither memories, nor despairing\npresentiments. This is what I have discovered--the only thing that men\nrespect and before which they bow, is a noble deed. Compromise, never!\nnever! Profound success can only be assured by remaining faithful to\noneself. I know already by experience what influence I exercise, and\nthat if I became weaker or more sceptical, I should impoverish, besides\nmy own, the hearts of many who develop with me.\"\n\nHe needed a pride of this sort to confront the imminent crisis. The\ndisciples of the master gave him a dinner, and Nietzsche, who did not\nwant to be present, had to excuse himself. He wrote an impassioned\nletter of which Wagner comprehended perhaps the hidden signification.\n\n\"Seven years ago, at Triebschen, I paid you my first visit. And\nevery year, in this month of May, on this same day upon which we\nall celebrate the anniversary of your birth, I myself celebrate the\nanniversary of my spiritual birth. For since then, you live and work\nin me always like a drop of fresh blood that had as it were entered\ninto my veins. This element that I owe to you urges me on, humiliates,\nencourages and stimulates me. It never allows me to rest, so much\nso that I should perhaps bear a grudge against you for this eternal\ndisquietude if I did not know that it ever drives me on towards a freer\nand better state.\"\n\nWagner answered him at once in a few exuberant lines. He told of the\ntoasts drunk to his glory and of his humorous responses, with so many\npuns, cock-and-bull stories and impenetrable allusions, that it is\nnecessary to give up the attempt to translate. Nietzsche was moved by\nthis letter. At the moment it arrived he was feeling very much the\nmaster of himself, very sure of his future. The history of his past\nyears suddenly appeared as a grand adventure that was now for ever\nclosed. He considered it with an indulgent regard, and, measuring the\njoys he owed to Wagner, he wished to express his gratitude. The other\nsummer, at Steinabad, when in a similar state of mind, he had filled\nsome pages of notes. He took them up again, in spite of a nervous\naffection of the eyes which prevented him from working without help,\nand undertook to draw from them the substance of a volume. Singular\nattempt! Disillusioned, he wrote an enthusiastic book, the most\nbeautiful in Wagnerian literature. But a forewarned reader recognises\nalmost from page to page the idea that Nietzsche expresses in masking\nit. He writes the eulogy of the poet; of the philosopher he does not\nspeak; he denies, for him who can understand, the educative bearing of\nthe work.\n\n\"For us,\" he writes, \"Bayreuth signifies the consecration at the moment\nof battle.... The mysterious regard that tragedy turns towards us is\nnot an enervating and paralysing charm, but its influence imposes\nrepose. For beauty is not given to us for the very moment of battle;\nbut for those moments of calm which precede and interrupt it, for\nthose fugitive moments in which, reanimating the past, anticipating\nthe future, we penetrate all the symbols; for those moments when, with\nthe impression of a slight weariness, a refreshing dream descends upon\nus. The day and the strife are about to begin, the sacred shadows fade\naway, and art is once more far from us; but its consolation is still\nshed upon man, as a morning dew....\"\n\nThere exists a radical opposition between these thoughts and those that\ninspired _The Birth of Tragedy._ Art is no longer a reason for living,\nbut a preparation for life, a necessary repose. Three menacing lines\nend Nietzsche's little book: \"Wagner is not the prophet of the future\nas we might fain believe, but the interpreter and the glorifier of a\npast.\" Nietzsche had not been able to keep back these admissions. Brief\nand disguised as they were, he had hoped that they might not be heard,\nand his hope, it seems, was justified. Wagner wrote as soon as the\npamphlet had appeared:\n\n\"FRIEND!--Your book is prodigious!\n\n\"Where did you learn to know me so well? Come quickly, and stay here\nduring rehearsals until the representations.\n\n\"Yours,\n\n\"R. W.\n\n_\" July 12th.\"_\n\n        *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe rehearsals began in the middle of July, and Nietzsche, who did not\nwish to miss one of them, went, in spite of the precarious state of\nhis health, with an impatience that astonished his sister. Two days\nlater she received a letter: \"I almost regret ever having come; up till\nnow, everything is wretched.... On Monday I went to the rehearsal; it\ndispleased me, I was obliged to go out.\"\n\nWhat was happening? Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche waited with great uneasiness.\nShe was slightly reassured by a second letter:\n\n\"MY DEAR GOOD SISTER,--At present things are better....\" But the last\nsentence read strangely: \"I must live very much to myself, and decline\nall invitations, even Wagner's. He finds that I make myself scarce.\"\nAlmost immediately came the last letter: \"I hope to leave: it is too\nsenseless to stay here. I await with terror every one of these long\nmusical evenings. Yet I stay. I can stand it no longer. I shall not be\nhere even for the first performance; I will go no matter where--but I\nwant to leave; here everything is unbearable.\"\n\nWhat had occurred? Had the mere sight of the world driven him away\nso soon? Nietzsche had led a very hard existence, during the past\ntwo years, \"the friend of enigmas and problems.\" He had forgotten\nmen: he suffered on encountering them again. A Titan, Wagner, held\nthem captive, protected them against every enigma and too disquieting\n\"problem\"; and in this shadow they seemed satisfied. They never\nreflected, but repeated passionately the formulas that had been given\nthem. Some Hegelians had come: Wagner offered himself to them as a\nsecond incarnation of their master. All the Schopenhauerians were\nthere; they had been told that Wagner had translated into music the\nsystem of Schopenhauer. A few young people were calling themselves\n\"idealists,\" \"pure Germans\": \"My art,\" declared Wagner, \"signifies the\nvictory of German idealism over Gallic sensualism.\" All, Hegelians,\nSchopenhauerians, pure Germans, agreed in the pride of triumph: they\nhad _succeeded._ Succeeded! Nietzsche heard this extraordinary word in\nsilence. What man, he pondered, what race ever did succeed? Not even\nthe Greek, which was bruised in its most beautiful flights. What effort\nhad not been in vain? So, taking his eyes off the comedy, Nietzsche\nexamined Wagner: was this dispenser of joys in the end great enough to\nbecome uneasy in the hour of victory? No; Wagner was happy, because he\nhad succeeded; and the satisfaction of such a man was more shocking and\nsadder still than that of the crowd.\n\nBut happiness, however low it be, is still happiness. An exquisite\nintoxication had seized the little town of Bayreuth. Nietzsche had\nfelt and shared this intoxication; he kept the remorse and envy of\nit. He listened to a rehearsal: the entrance into the sacred theatre,\nthe emotion of the public, the presence of Wagner, the darkness,\nthe marvellous sounds, touched him. How sensible he had remained to\nthe Wagnerian infection. He got up in haste and went out; it is the\nexplanation of his letter: \"_Yesterday evening, I went to a rehearsal;\nit displeased me; I was obliged to go out._\"\n\nA new element aggravated his trouble. He was informed definitely of\nthe significance of the forthcoming work, _Parsifal_. Richard Wagner\nwas about to declare himself a Christian. Thus, in eighteen months,\nNietzsche observed two conversions: Romundt was weak and perhaps the\nvictim of chance; but Nietzsche knew that with Wagner everything was\ngrave, and answered to the necessities of the century. Neo-Christianity\ndid not yet exist: Nietzsche felt it all through _Parsifal._ He\nperceived the danger run by the modern man, so uncertain of himself,\nand tempted by this Christian faith, which is so firm a thing, which\ncalls, which promises and can give peace. If he did not redouble his\nefforts to discover in himself a new \"possibility of life,\" it was\ncertain that he would fall back into a Christianity, cowardly like\nhis inspiration. Then Nietzsche saw these men, whose happiness he had\ninstinctively despised, menaced by a final collapse, and led gently,\nand as if by the hand, towards this collapse by the master, by the\nimpostor who had subjugated them. Not one of them knew whither this\npowerful hand might not soon lead them, scarcely one of them was a\nChristian, but they were all on the eve of becoming Christians. How far\naway was that May day of 1872 in which Richard Wagner conducted, in\nthis same Bayreuth, Schiller and Beethoven's ode to liberty and joy!\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche saw clearly for them all: the spectacle of these\nunconscious lives made him feel desperate, as the sight of the world in\nthe Middle Ages had made those mystics desperate, who had always before\ntheir eyes the accusing and bleeding image of the Christ. He would have\nliked to have torn these people from their torpor, to have warned them\nby a word, prevented them with a cry. \"I ought to,\" he thought, \"as I\nalone understand what is happening....\" But who would have listened to\nhim? He held his peace, he dissembled his dreadful impressions, and\nwished to observe without weakness or desertion the tragic solemnities.\n\nBut he could not. Soon he weakened and had to fly. \"_I should be insane\nto stay here. I await with terror each of these long musical evenings,\nand yet I stay. I can bear no more.... I shall go, no matter where, but\nI will go: here everything is torture to me...._\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe heights which separate Bohemia from Franconia rise some miles from\nBayreuth, and the village of Klingenbrunn, where Nietzsche retired,\nis situated in the forests which cover them. The crisis was brief\nand less severe than he had dreaded. Now that he had perceived in a\nclearer manner the dangers of the Wagnerian art, he saw the remedy\nmore plainly. \"Religiosity,\" he wrote, \"when it is not upheld by a\nclear thought, rouses disgust.\" He renewed his Steinabad meditations\nand re-affirmed the resolutions then made. He would make a clean sweep\nof the past; resist the seductions of metaphysics; deprive himself of\nart; reserve judgment; like Descartes, begin by doubting. Then, if some\nnew security could be discovered, he would raise the new grandeur on\nimmovable foundations.\n\nHe wandered up and down the silent forests; their severe peace was a\ndiscipline: \"If we do not give firm and serene horizons to our souls\nlike those of the woods and mountains,\" he wrote, \"then our inner life\nwill lose all serenity. It will be broken up like that of the men of\ntowns; it will not know happiness and will not be able to give it.\"\nThen, all of a sudden he released the cry of his sick soul: \"I shall\ngive back to men,\" said he, \"the serenity which is the condition of all\nculture. And the simplicity. _Serenity, Simplicity, Greatness!_\"\n\nNietzsche, once more master of himself, returned to Bayreuth without\ndelay: he wished to complete his experience. The excitement of the\ncrowd was even greater than on the day of his departure. The old\nEmperor William was present, on his way to the grand man\u0153uvres. He\nhad paid Wagner the compliment of being present on two evenings. From\nall Bavaria and Franconia, citizens and peasants had hurried hither\nto salute their Emperor, and there was almost a famine in the little\ninvaded town.\n\nThe performances began; Nietzsche heard them all. He listened in\nsilence to the observations of the faithful and measured the abyss\nwhich he had so long skirted. He continued to see his friends: Fr\u00e4ulein\nvon Meysenbug, Miss Zimmern, Gabriel Monod, E. Schur\u00e9, Alfred Brenner,\nwho did not fail to notice in him a reserve and a silence singular\nat times. Often he went off alone, during the intervals or in the\nafternoons, with a pleasant and charming spectator, Madame O----, who\nwas slightly Parisian, slightly Russian. He liked the delicate and\nsurprising conversation of women, and he excused this one for being a\nWagnerian.\n\nM. Schur\u00e9, who met Nietzsche at these festivals, gives a description\nof him which merits repetition. \"As I talked to him I was struck by\nthe superiority of his mind and the strangeness of his physiognomy. A\nlarge forehead; short hair brushed up off his forehead; the projecting\ncheekbones of the Slav. The strong drooping moustache, the sharp cut\nof the face, would have given him the air of a cavalry officer, had\nit not been for an indescribable something in his address that was at\nthe same time timid and haughty. The musical voice, the slow speech,\ndenoted the organism of the artist; the prudent and meditative bearing\nwas a philosopher's. Nothing was more deceiving than the apparent calm\nof his expression. The fixed glance betrayed the melancholy labour of\nhis thought. It was the glance of a fanatic, of a keen observer, and\nof a visionary. This double character added a disturbed and disturbing\nelement, the more so because it always seemed riveted upon one point.\nIn his effusive moments this look was moistened with the softness\nof a dream, but very soon it became hostile again.... During the\ngeneral rehearsals, and the first three performances of the Tetralogy,\nNietzsche appeared to be sad and dejected....\"\n\nEach evening was a triumph, and each of them added to Nietzsche's\ndistress. The _Rhinegold,_ the _Valkyrie_--these old pieces recalled\nhis youth, his enthusiasms for Wagner, whom he did not know, whom he\ndid not dare hope to know. _Siegfried:_ souvenirs of Triebschen;\nWagner was completing this score when Nietzsche entered into his\nintimacy.\n\nSiegfried was Nietzsche's favourite among the Wagnerian heroes. He\nfound himself again in this young man, who had never known fear. \"We\nare the knights of the spirit,\" he had then written in his notes, \"we\nunderstand the song of the birds and follow them.\" No doubt he was\nalmost happy when he heard _Siegfried;_ it was the only one of Wagner's\ndramas which he could listen to without remorse. Lastly, _The Twilight\nof the Gods._ Siegfried has mixed in the crowd of men; they deceive\nhim; one evening he na\u00efvely relates his life; a traitor strikes him\nfrom behind and kills him. The giants are annihilated, the dwarfs\nvanquished, the heroes powerless; the gods abdicate; the gold is given\nback to the depths of the Rhine, whose surging waters cover over the\nworld, and as they await death, men contemplate the universal disaster.\n\nIt was the end. The curtain fell slowly, the symphony was extinguished\nin the night, and the spectators rose suddenly, with one accord, and\ngave vent to a loud burst of cheering. Then the curtain rose once more\nand Richard Wagner appeared, alone, dressed in a redingote and cloth\ntrousers, holding his little figure erect. With a sign he called for\nsilence; every murmur ceased.\n\n\"We have shown you what we wished to show you,\" he cried, \"and what we\ncan show you when all wills are directed to one object; if on your side\nyou support us, then you will have an art.\"\n\nHe retired, then returned; again and again he was recalled. Nietzsche\nwatched his master standing in the limelight, and he alone in the hall\ndid not applaud.\n\n\"There he is,\" he thought, \"_my ally._.. the Homer who has been\nfertilised by Plato....\"\n\nThe curtain fell for the last time, and Nietzsche, silent, lost in the\ncrowd, followed his tide like a wreck.\n\n\n[1]\n\n\n    \"Ein Zwillingspaar von einem Haus,\n    Gieng muthig in die Welt hinaus,\n    Welt--Drachen zu zerreissen.\n    Zwi'r V\u00e4ter--Werk! Ein Wunder war's!\n    Die Mutter doch des Zwillingpaars\n    Freundschaft ist sie geheissen.\"\n\n\n\n[2] _Mahnruf._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nCRISIS AND CONVALESCENCE\n\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche returned to Basle. His eyesight was feeble and\npainful, so that he had to accept the help which two friends offered\nhim: one of them was a young student named K\u00f6selitz, whom he had\njokingly called _Peter Gast, Peter the Guest_--the surname stuck to\nhim; the other was that Paul R\u00e9e, the Jew, with the acute mind, whom\nhe had known for two years. Thanks to their devotion he was able to\nre-read the notes written at Klingenbrunn; he hoped to find matter\nin them for the second \"Unseasonable Thought.\" Paul R\u00e9e was then\npublishing his _Psychological Observations,_ reflections inspired by\nthe English and French masters, Stuart Mill and La Rochefoucauld.\nFriedrich Nietzsche heard this little work read, and appreciated it.\nHe admired this prudent style of conducting thought; he enjoyed it\non the morrow of the emphatic ceremonies of Bayreuth, as though it\nwere a repose; and he resolved to study at the school of R\u00e9e and of\nhis masters. Nevertheless he always felt the immense void which his\nrenouncement of Richard Wagner left in him.\n\n\"At this moment,\" he wrote, the 20th September, 1876, \"I have every\nleisure to think of the past--farthest and nearest--for my oculist\nmakes me sit idle for long periods in a darkened room. Autumn, after\nsuch a summer, is for me, and no doubt not only for me, more _autumn_\nthan any other. After the great event comes an attack of blacker\nmelancholy, and to escape it one cannot fly too quickly towards Italy\nor towards work, or towards both.\"\n\nHe had obtained the leave for which he had asked, and the sole gladness\nwhich he had in life was the certainty that he would be free for some\nmonths from all professional duties.\n\nHe left Switzerland at the end of October. Alfred Brenner and Paul R\u00e9e\naccompanied him. The three Germans went down towards Genoa, and thence\ntook a steamer to Naples, where Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug was expecting\nthem.\n\n\"I found Nietzsche,\" she writes, \"disappointed sufficiently, because\nthe journey and the arrival in Naples, in the middle of this noisy,\nclamorous, importunate people, had been very disagreeable to him.\nIn the evening, however, I asked the visitors to take a drive to\nPausilippe. It was such an evening as one sees only down here; sky,\nearth, and sea floated in a glory of indescribable colours, which\nfilled the soul as an enchanting music, a harmony from which every\ndiscordant note was gone. I observed how Nietzsche's face lit up\nin joyous and almost childlike astonishment, as though he were\ndominated by a profound emotion; finally he gave vent to enthusiastic\nexclamations, which I welcomed as a happy augury for the efficacy of\nhis visit.\"\n\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug had hired a villa--it was an old pension--on\nthat slope which glides rapidly towards the sea, carrying its olives,\nits lemons, its cypresses, and its vines with it down to the waves.\n\"On the first floor,\" she writes, \"there were rooms with terraces for\nthe gentlemen; on the second, rooms for myself and my maid, with a big\nsitting-room for our common use.\"\n\nShe installed her guests in this retreat which she had selected for\nthem; but they had to wait a while before they could enjoy the retired\nlife for which they were in search. A too illustrious neighbour was\nstopping hard by--none other than Richard Wagner, who, accompanied by\nall his people, was resting at Sorrento after the immense effort and\ntriumph of Bayreuth.\n\nHe showed no signs of fatigue. His days were spent in walking, his\nnights in conversation. With Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug and his friends he\nheld a sort of court.\n\nWe wonder if Friedrich Nietzsche had expected thus to find his master\nbefore him again? He could not avoid taking part in the walks, and in\nthe evening parties: but he displayed a slight reserve. Whilst Richard\nWagner talked of his future projects and of his coming work, and of\nthe religious ideas which he wished to express, Nietzsche preferred to\nisolate himself with Paul R\u00e9e and to talk of Chamfort and of Stendhal.\nRichard Wagner observed these conversations. Now, he disliked Jews,\nand R\u00e9e displeased him. \"Be careful,\" said he to Nietzsche, \"that\nman will do you no good.\" Nietzsche did not modify his attitude. He\nspoke little, or, if he did mix in conversation, displayed a forced\nliveliness and a gaiety which were not altogether natural. Fr\u00e4ulein von\nMeysenbug was more than once surprised:\n\n\"But I never suspected,\" she writes, \"that any change had come over his\nsentiments, and I abandoned myself with a whole heart to the delights\nwhich came to complete those of Bayreuth. The joy I experienced in\nliving in a like intimacy led me to quote one day, as we sat together\nat table, a thought from Goethe of which I was very fond: 'Happy he\nwho, without hatred, withdraws from the world, presses a friend to his\nbreast, and thus enjoys that something which men know not nor suspect,\nthat which crosses the labyrinth of the heart at night.' The Wagners\ndid not know this quotation, and were so enchanted with it that I had\nto repeat it to them. Alas! I did not guess that the demons who also\ncross the labyrinth of the heart at night and intimately contemplate\nthe divine mystery of sympathy between noble minds, had already begun\ntheir work of sowing discord and division.\"\n\nTowards the end of November, Richard Wagner having left Sorrento,\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug and her friends were able to regulate their\nlives with a view to study. They arranged the employment of their time:\nup to noon, work and solitude; at noon, breakfast; after breakfast, a\nwalk and conversation; in the evening, work and solitude; at night,\nafter dinner, reading. Paul R\u00e9e, the only healthy member in this\nsociety of invalid intellectuals, read aloud. Nietzsche and Fr\u00e4ulein\nvon Meysenbug were short-sighted; Brenner's lungs were affected. Who\nwere their authors? Jacob Burckhardt, whose course of lectures on Greek\nculture they were studying (a student of Basle had lent his notes); a\nlittle of Michelet; Herodotus; Thucydides. A question posed, a doubt\nexpressed, sometimes interrupted Paul R\u00e9e's readings; and it was almost\nalways Friedrich Nietzsche who concluded the short debate.\n\n\"Nietzsche was indeed the soul of sweetness and kindliness!\" writes\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug in her charming account. \"How well his good\nand amiable nature counterbalanced his destructive intelligence! How\nwell he knew how to be gay, and to laugh with a good heart at the\njokes which often came to disturb the serious atmosphere of our little\ncircle. When we were together in the evening, Nietzsche comfortably\ninstalled in an arm-chair in the shade of a screen; Dr. R\u00e9e, our\nobliging reader, seated at the table on which the lamp was placed;\nyoung Brenner, near the chimney-piece opposite me, helping me to peel\noranges for dinner; I often said, laughing: 'We represent truly an\nideal family; here are we four people, who scarcely knew each other\nbefore, who are not united by any tie of relationship, who have no\nmemories in common, and we now live together in absolute concord, in\nthe most complete personal liberty, and in a perfect content of mind\nand heart.' So plans were soon sketched for the renewal and enlargement\nof this happy experience....\"\n\nWould it be impossible to come back each year to this Italian coast,\nto call one's friends thither, and thus to found a spiritual refuge,\nfree of every school, of every Church? On the morrow of 1848 Fr\u00e4ulein\nvon Meysenbug had inspired at Hamburg a sort of Socialist phalanstery,\nwhich became the subject of one of the finest chapters of her book,\nand remained to her as one of the greatest memories of her life.\nFriedrich Nietzsche in no wise abandoned his ancient dream of a lay\ncloister. Thus the memories of the old lady agreed with the hopes of\nher young companion. Paul R\u00e9e and Alfred Brenner did not refuse their\nco-operation, and the four friends gave the project their serious\nconsideration.\n\n\"Already we are in quest of an appropriate locality,\" writes Fr\u00e4ulein\nvon Meysenbug, \"for it was at Sorrento, in the heart of this delicious\nscenery, and not in the close air of a town, that our project was to\ntake shape. We had discovered near the shore various spacious grottoes\nenlarged by the hand of man, veritable rock halls, in which a sort of\npulpit is actually to be seen, which seems to be especially put there\nfor a lecturer. It is here that, during the hot days of summer, we\nthought of giving our lessons. We had besides conceived the plan of the\nschool rather on the Greek model than according to modern ideas, and\nthe teaching was chiefly to be a mutual instruction in the Peripatetic\nmanner....\"\n\nNietzsche wrote to his sister: \"My idea, the school of the educators,\nor, if you like, _modern cloister, ideal colony, free university,_ is\nalways floating in the air. What will befall it, who can tell? Already\nwe have, in imagination, named you directress and administrative head\nof our establishment for forty persons.\"\n\nAt the beginning of spring Brenner and R\u00e9e left Sorrento. Fr\u00e4ulein\nvon Meysenbug and Nietzsche, now alone together, read to one another,\nbut only a little, for reading tried the eyes of both. They preferred\nto talk. Nietzsche was never tired of listening to his companion's\nrecitals. She told him of the lofty days of 1848. This he liked and,\nabove all, he liked that she should talk to him of Mazzini.\n\nHe did not forget the chance by which he had had the Italian hero\nas carriage companion in April, 1871, as they were crossing the\nAlps. _No compromise: live resolutely in the whole, the good, and\nthe beautiful...._ Mazzini had repeated this maxim of Goethe's to\nhim, and Nietzsche associated it with his recollection of the man.\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug had known Mazzini in London. She had admired\nhis authority in command, his exactitude in obedience, his readiness\nto serve every servant of the cause, whether he were called Cavour or\nGaribaldi. He had paid the price of this humility; for, forgotten in\nthe hour of victory, the exile's ban had been maintained against him\nalone. Nevertheless, he had wished to end his days in his well-loved\nLiguria, and he had come there to die, hiding his name and race. The\ndoctor who took care of him was astonished--he had taken him for an\nEnglishman--when he heard him speak in so pure an Italian. \"Look you,\"\nreplied the dying man, \"no one has ever loved Italy so much as I loved\nher.\" Friedrich Nietzsche listened to these stories.\n\n\"The man I venerate most,\" said he to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug, \"is\nMazzini.\"\n\nCould Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug have guessed that her young companion,\nthis young, tender, and enthusiastic German, had just declared war\nwithin himself on those instincts of tenderness and enthusiasm\nwhich obstructed the clarity of his views?--that Nietzsche, the\ncontinuator of Schopenhauer, the friend of Wagner, was now choosing La\nRochefoucauld, Chamfort, Stendhal for masters? Could she have guessed\nthat this friend who dreamed with her of setting up a lay cloister was\ntraining himself, during his long walks, to face the melancholy of a\nlife of revolt and of solitude? He formulated the rules of such a life:\n\n\n    You must neither love nor hate the people.\n\n    You must in no way occupy yourself with politics.\n\n    You must be neither rich nor poor.\n\n    You must avoid the path of those who are illustrious and\n    powerful.\n\n    You must take a wife from outside your people.\n\n    You must leave to your friends the care of bringing up your\n    children.\n\n    You must accept none of the ceremonies of the Church.\n\n\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug knew at last. One day Nietzsche handed to her\na pile of MSS. \"Read,\" said he; \"here are some impressions which\ncame to me down there, under that tree; I have never sat down in its\nshade without plucking a thought.\" Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug read, and\ndiscovered an unsuspected Nietzsche, a critic and a denier. \"Do not\npublish that,\" she said. \"Wait, reflect!\" Nietzsche's only answer was a\nsmile. She insisted; the conversation grew animated; they made peace in\nreading Thucydides.\n\nAt the beginning of May, Nietzsche, incommoded by the heat, wished to\nleave. Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug wanted him to postpone his departure in\norder that he might master his first fatigue before he began the trying\nvoyage. He would not listen to her.\n\n\"Nietzsche is really going to-morrow,\" she wrote to R\u00e9e; \"you know\nthat when he is thus determined upon something he carries it out, even\nthough the sky sends the most serious warnings to turn him from it.\nIn that he is no longer a Greek, as he is not attentive to oracles.\nJust as, in the most frightful weather, he starts out on an excursion,\nso now he goes, tired to death, in defiance of the raging wind which\nis lashing up the sea, and will certainly make him ill, for he is\ndetermined to make the voyage from Naples to Genoa by sea.\"\n\n\"Yes, he has gone,\" she wrote in another letter. \"The charm of\nSorrento in flower could not keep him; he must go, but it is horribly\npainful to me to let him travel thus; he is unpractical and so bad at\nextricating himself from a difficulty. Luckily the sea is a little\ncalmer to-day.... Alas, there is so much to regret! Eight days ago we\nhad sketched plans for his near and distant future. Was his brusque\nresolution dictated by a feverish desire to fly from his malady, which\nhe suddenly fancied had some connection with our spring temperature,\nwhich is truly a little abnormal? But how could he have been any better\nelsewhere this miserable spring? I think that at the last moment it\noccurred to him that his departure was nevertheless precipitate. But\nit was too late.... This melancholy multiplication of departures has\nquite upset me....\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche went to take a cure at the waters of Rosenlaui.\nHe experienced very little benefit from it, and his immediate\nfuture preoccupied his thoughts. In September he had to resume his\nprofessorial duties. It was his daily bread, and a daily discipline\nfrom which he feared to be freed. But he also knew the horrible ennui\nof it. He had been given reason to hope that the authorities at Basle\nwould consent to grant him, in consideration of his services and of his\nillness, a definite discharge with a sufficient pension. Fr\u00e4ulein von\nMeysenbug advised him to retire; his sister, on the contrary, advised\nhim to retain his office, and Nietzsche chose to listen to his sister.\nBut the nearer came the date of his return, the more lively grew his\nrevolt.\n\n\"It is a thing which I know, which I feel,\" he then wrote to a woman\nwho was helping him in his work, the mother of one of his pupils, Marie\nBaumgarten, \"that I have in store a loftier destiny. I can make use of\nPhilology, but I am more than a Philologist. 'I misrepresent myself.'\nSuch was the persistent theme of my last ten years. Now that a year\nof retired life has made everything so visible and so clear (I cannot\nexpress how rich I feel and how much of a creator of joy, _in spite_ of\nevery affliction, as soon as I am left alone with myself), now, I tell\nyou with complete confidence that I am not returning to Basle to stay\nthere. How will it come about? I do not know, but my liberty (Ah! how\nmodest my material necessities are; little matters to me), my liberty,\nI shall conquer it for myself.\"\n\nHis sister came to join him at Basle and lived with him. At first his\npleasure was great, but he soon recognised that he could not talk with\nthis girl who was altogether a Wagnerian and quite devoted to the ideas\nof Bayreuth. Paul R\u00e9e was the only man whose company he liked; but Paul\nR\u00e9e was detained in North Germany by considerations of health, and\ncould not, as Nietzsche had hoped, come to Basle.\n\n\"I hope that I shall soon learn,\" he wrote to him, \"that the evil\ndemons of sickness are leaving you in peace. All that I wish for you\nin the New Year is that you remain as you are, and that you remain\nfor _me_ as you have been.... Let me tell you that friendship has\nnever been so sweet to me as in this last year, thanks to you....\nWhen I hear of your work, my mouth waters, for I desire to be with\nyou so much. We have been made to understand each other aright; we\nalways come together, I think, like good neighbours, to whom the idea\noccurs, at the same moment, that they should pay each other a visit,\nand who meet on the confines of their lands.... When shall we have a\ngood conversation upon human affairs, a personal, not an epistolary\nconversation?\"\n\nIn December he wrote to R\u00e9e: \"Ten times a day I wish to be near you.\"\nNevertheless he finished his book, or, to be more accurate, he did not\nfinish it, for he preserved the attractive freedom of his notes. It was\nthus that they came to him, one after another, without any connection;\nand it pleased him that they should thus remain. His deplorable\nhealth prevented him from putting a weft across them, from imposing\nan order upon them. And what did it matter? He recalled those French\nwriters whose loyalty he loved: Pascal, Larochefoucauld, Vauvenargues,\nMontaigne. He wished to leave, after their example, some disorder and\nsome discontinuity in his thoughts. He wished to write a simple book\nwhich should call the most urgent enthusiasts back to prudence. Round\nWagner and Bayreuth, \"beautiful souls\" were innumerable. Friedrich\nNietzsche, who had just missed being one of these, wished, by talking\nin the manner of old Socrates, to make them feel the absurdity of their\nfaith. _Human, All Too Human,_ was the title which he had chosen. Right\nat the end of his conscious life, he recounted the object of his book.\n\n\"A torch in my hand,\" he writes, \"and the light not smoky,[1] I have\ncast a lively light upon this subterranean world of the Ideal. It\nis war, but war without powder and without smoke, without war-like\nattitudes, without pathos, without dislocated limbs--all that would\nstill be 'idealism.' Error after error, I took them and placed them\non the ice, and the ideal was not even refuted--it froze. Here, for\nexample, freezes 'the Genius'; in this other corner freezes 'the\nSaint'; beneath a thick stopper of frozen ice 'the Hero'; and, lastly,\nit is 'the Faith' which freezes, she who is named 'Conviction';\nand then here is 'Pity,' which notably grows cold--in fact, nearly\neverywhere freezes 'the thing in itself.'\"\n\nCertainly this work is paradoxical. No one is so ardent as Friedrich\nNietzsche, no one has such a belief in his work, in his mission, in\nthe sublime ends of life; and yet he labours to scoff at them. He\nreverses every thesis that he has hitherto upheld. _Pereat Veritas,\nfiat vita!_--he had once written. Now he writes, _Pereat vita, fiat\nVeritas!_ Above poetry he places science; above \u00c6schylus, that same\nSocrates whom he had at other times denounced. No doubt it is only a\npretence, and he knows it. The ideas which he expresses are not really\nhis own. He arms himself with irony for a combat which will be short:\nfor he is not an ironist. He wants to find, and is convinced that he\nwill find, an unknown lyricism which shall inspire his great works.\n_Human, All Too Human,_ is the sign of a time of crisis and of passage,\nbut what a surprising crisis, what a difficult passage! \"The book is\nthere,\" wrote Nietzsche, \"to the great astonishment of the prostrate\ninvalid.\"\n\nOn January 3, 1879, he received the poem _Parsifal,_ which Richard\nWagner sent him. He read it, and could better measure the always\nincreasing distance which separated him from his old master. He wrote\nto the Baron von Seydlitz:\n\n\"Impression from the first reading: more Liszt than Wagner; the spirit\nof the counter-reformation; for me who am too accustomed to the Greek\nand human atmosphere, all this belongs to a too limited Christianity;\nthe psychology is fantastic; there is no flesh and far too much blood\n(the Last Supper especially has far too much blood about it for me); I\ndo not like hysterical chambermaids. The style seems like a translation\nfrom a foreign language. But the situations and their developments--are\nthey not in a vein of the greatest poetry? Never did a musician propose\na higher task to his music.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche, in this letter, did not speak all his thoughts.\nCertain features of it _(no flesh and far too much blood)_ let us\ndivine, as already active and vehement within him, that repugnance\nwhich he was to express ten years later. Nevertheless he loved this\nincomparable master, and for the first time he was obliged to put\nclearly to himself the problem of the rupture. He had received the poem\n_Parsifal;_ should he reply, and, if so, in what terms? or should he\ntake the more frank and simple course of leaving it unanswered?\n\nHis doubts and vexations increased. It is not easy to gauge his\ncondition at this time. He scarcely confided in his sister. His letters\nto Paul R\u00e9e, which would no doubt enlighten us, are not printed.\n\nSince Christmas, 1877, Friedrich Nietzsche had more leisure, his\nprofessional work having been reduced by some hours. He took advantage\nof this to leave Basle every week and wander alone in the neighbouring\nregions. He did not go to the high mountains; he had little taste for\nthese \"monsters\" and preferred the Jura, the Black Forest, whose wooded\nheights reminded him of the places of his childhood.\n\nWhat were his thoughts? We may conjecture that he was occupied solely\nwith Wagner and his book. One month, two months had passed, and he had\nnot acknowledged the receipt of _Parsifal. Human, All Too Human_ was\nprinted, and the publisher was waiting. But how should he forewarn the\nmaster, how prepare him for this surprising document? His disciples\nhad accustomed him to the most obsequious homage, the most profound\nintellectual deference. Nietzsche knew that his independent work\nwould scandalise the dovecot of Bayreuth. When the moment for his\npronouncement came he took fright. He was as much concerned for the\npublic as for Wagner himself. He was ashamed of the philosophy which\nhe was giving forth as his own. He had written these pages, and he\nregretted nothing; he had followed, as he had the right to follow, the\nvital logic which ruled his mind. But he also knew that this same logic\nwould bring him back one day towards a new lyricism, and it would have\nsuited him to disguise somewhat the interlude of his years of crisis.\nHe then conceived a singular idea: he would not sign his book; he would\npublish it in an enigmatical manner, anonymously; Richard Wagner alone\nwould know the mystery and know that _Human, All Too Human_ was the\nwork of his friend, of his disciple, who at the bottom of his soul\nremained still faithful. He wrote out a long draft of a letter which is\npreserved to us:\n\n\"I send you this book: _Human, All Too Human;_ and at the same time\nI tell you, you and your noble companion, in complete confidence, my\nsecret; it suits me that it should be also yours. The book is mine....\n\n\"I find myself in the condition of mind of an officer who has carried a\nredoubt. Though wounded he is upon the heights and waves his standard.\nMore joy, far more joy than sorrow, though the neighbouring spectacle\nbe terrible.\n\n\"I have told you that I know no one who is really in agreement with me\nin thought. And yet I fancy that I have thought, not as an individual,\nbut as the representative of a group; the most singular sentiment of\nsolitude and of society....\n\n\"... The swiftest herald who does not know precisely if the cavalry is\ncoming behind him, or even if it exists.\"\n\nThe publisher rejected the proposal and Nietzsche had to abandon it. At\nlast his mind was made up. Europe was about to celebrate, in May, 1878,\nthe hundredth anniversary of Voltaire's death. Friedrich Nietzsche\ndecided that he would publish his book at this time, and he would\ndedicate it to the memory of the great pamphleteer.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"In Norway those periods during which the sun remains all day beneath\nthe horizon are called _times of obscurity,\"_ he wrote in 1879; \"during\nthat time the temperature goes down slowly and incessantly. What a\nmarvellous symbol for all thinkers for whom the sun of man's future\nhas been obscured for a time!\" Nietzsche knew his _time of obscurity._\nErwin Rohde disapproved of his book, Richard Wagner made no reply;\nbut Nietzsche knew how he was being judged in the master's circle.\n\"The caricaturist of Bayreuth,\" said they, \"is either an ingrate\nor a madman.\" An unknown donor (Gersdorff, was it not?) sent from\nParis a box in which Friedrich and Lisbeth Nietzsche found a bust of\nVoltaire and a short note: _The soul of Monsieur Voltaire presents his\ncompliments to Monsieur Friedrich Nietzsche._ Lisbeth Nietzsche could\nnot tolerate the idea that her brother, pure German at heart, should\nrange himself under the banner of a Frenchman, and of such a Frenchman!\nShe wept.\n\nNo doubt some of his friends passed a different judgment. \"Your book,\"\nsaid Jacob Burckhardt, \"enlarges the independence of the mind.\" \"Only\none book,\" wrote Paul R\u00e9e, \"has suggested as many thoughts to me as\nhas yours--the conversations of Goethe and Eckermann.\" Peter Gast\nremained faithful, Overbeck and his wife were sure friends. Nietzsche\ndid not feel his defeat the less for it \"_Human, All Too Human_\" had no\nsuccess. Richard Wagner, it was said, was amused by the smallness of\nthe sales. He chaffed the publisher: \"Ah, ah! now you see Nietzsche is\nread only when he defends our cause; otherwise, no.\"\n\nIn August, 1878, _Human, All Too Human_ was judged and condemned in the\n_Journal_ of Bayreuth. \"Every German professor,\" wrote the anonymous\nauthor, in whom Nietzsche recognised, or believed that he recognised,\nRichard Wagner, \"has to write once in his life a book to consecrate\nhis fame. But as it is not given to all the world to find a truth,\none contents oneself, to obtain the desired effect, with proving the\nradical nonsense of the views of a predecessor, and the effect is so\nmuch the greater when the predecessor who is put to shame was the more\nconsiderable man.\"\n\nThis low style of judgment grieved Friedrich Nietzsche. He now proposed\nto explain, in a tone of serenity and respect, his attitude in respect\nto his old masters, Schopenhauer and Wagner. Only it seemed to him\nthat the time for courtesies had gone by, and, after reconsidering\nhis Sorrento notes, he undertook to write a sequel to the thoughts of\n_Human, All Too Human._\n\nHis sister had left him; in September he was leading a painful and\nmiserable life, a few features of which we can apprehend. He was\navoided, for his agitated condition gave alarm. Often, on coming out\nof the University, he would meet Jacob Burckhardt. The wise historian\nwould slip off by a clever man\u0153uvre; he esteemed his colleague, but\ndreaded him. In vain Nietzsche sought to gather new disciples around\nhim. \"I am hunting for men,\" he wrote, \"like a veritable corsair, not\nto sell them into slavery, but to carry them off with me to liberty.\"\nThis unsociable liberty which he proposed failed to seduce the young\nmen. A student, Herr Schaffler, has recorded his recollections: \"I\nattended Nietzsche's lectures,\" says he; \"I knew him very slightly.\nOnce, at the end of a lecture, he chanced to be near me, and we walked\nout side by side. There were light clouds passing over the sky. 'The\nbeautiful clouds,' he said to me, 'how rapid they are!' 'They resemble\nthe clouds of Paul Veronese,' I answered. Suddenly his hand seized my\narm. 'Listen,' said he; 'the holidays are coming; I am leaving soon,\ncome with me, and we shall go together to see the clouds at Venice.'\n... I was surprised, I stammered out some hesitating words; then I saw\nNietzsche turn from me, his face icy and rigid as death. He moved away\nwithout saying a word, leaving me alone.\"\n\nThe break with Wagner was his great and lasting sorrow. \"Such a\nfarewell,\" he wrote, \"when one parts because agreement is impossible\nbetween one's manner of feeling and one's manner of judging, puts us\nback in contact with that other person, and we throw ourselves with\nall our strength against that wall which nature has set up between\nus and him.\" In February, 1879, Lisbeth Nietzsche wrote to Cosima\nWagner: had her brother advised her to make the overture? Did he know\nof it? Did he approve of it? We cannot say. Cosima answered with an\nimperial and sweet firmness. \"Do not speak to me of _Human, All Too\nHuman,\"_ she wrote. \"The only thing that I care to remember in writing\nto you is this, that your brother once wrote for me some of the most\nbeautiful pages that I know.... I bear no malice against him: he has\nbeen broken by suffering. He has lost the mastery of himself, and this\nexplains his felony.\" She added, with more spirit than sense, \"To say\nthat his present writings are not definitive, that they represent the\nstages of a mind that seeks itself, is, I think, curious. It is almost\nas if Beethoven had said: 'See me in my third manner!' Moreover, one\nrecognises as one reads that the author is not convinced by his work;\nit is merely sophism without impulse, and one is moved to pity.\"\n\n_Miscellaneous Opinions and Apophthegms,_ which formed the sequel to\n_Human, All Too Human,_ appeared in 1879. But the offence which this\nsecond volume might have given was attenuated and, as it were, warded\noff, by reason of the pity which Nietzsche now inspired in those who\nhad formerly known him. His state of health grew worse. His head, his\nstomach, his eyes, tormented him without intermission. The doctors\nbegan to be disquieted by symptoms which they could not ascertain,\nby an invalid whom they could not cure. It appeared to them that his\neyesight, and perhaps his reason, were threatened. He divined their\nalarms. Peter Gast waited at Venice, called to him from there; but\nNietzsche was forced to abandon the project of a voyage; he had to\nshut himself up in his room at Basle behind closed shutters and drawn\ncurtains.\n\nWhat was to become of him? Rohde, Gersdorff, touched by the wreck of\nthis man of whom they had hoped so much, wrote to Overbeck: \"They\nsay that Nietzsche is lost, advise us.\" \"Alas,\" replied Overbeck,\n\"his condition is desperate.\" Even Richard Wagner remembered and was\ntouched. \"Can I forget him,\" he wrote to Overbeck, \"my friend who\nseparated from me with such violence? I clearly see that it would not\nhave been right to demand conventional considerations from a soul\ntorn by such passions. One must be silent and have pity. But I am in\nabsolute ignorance of his life, and of his sufferings; this afflicts\nme. Would it be indiscreet if I asked you to write me news of my\nfriend?\"\n\nApparently Nietzsche did not know of this letter. He had written, a few\nmonths earlier, among other notes: \"Gratitude is a bourgeois virtue;\nit cannot be applied to a man like Wagner.\" His happiness would have\nbeen great, had he been able to read the identical thought, written\nby his master, \"It would not have been right to demand conventional\nconsiderations from a Nietzsche.\"\n\nOverbeck and his wife attended the invalid. They wrote to his sister\nthat she ought to be at his side. She came at once and scarcely\nrecognised the stooping, devastated man, aged in one year by ten years,\nwho thanked her for coming with a gesture of his hand.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche gave up his professorship; he sent in his\nresignation, which was accepted. In recompense for his services he was\nto receive a pension of three thousand francs.\n\nLisbeth took him away. He thought himself a lost man, and expressed\nhis last wishes. \"Make me a promise, Lisbeth; let my friends only\naccompany my corpse; let none who are merely indifferent or curious be\npresent. I shall no longer be able to defend myself, and you must do\nit. Let no priest, let no one come and speak insincere words over my\ncoffin. See that I am buried like a loyal pagan, with no lies told.\"\n\nHe longed for the most desert and silent places, for the most complete\nsolitude; she brought him to the valleys of the Upper Engadine. At that\ntime very few people went up there. Nietzsche discovered this remote\nSwitzerland and derived an unexpected comfort from the light and pure\nquality of the air, and the kindly light of the meadows, which soothed\nhis worn-out eyes. He liked the scattered lakes, which recalled a\nFinland, the villages with their singing names, the fine peasant race,\nwhich proclaimed the presence of Italy beyond the glaciers. \"This\nnature is familiar to me,\" he wrote to R\u00e9e; \"it does not astonish me,\nthere is an understanding between us.\" With a convalescent's surprise\nhe began to live again. He wrote scarcely any letters; he wrote for\nhimself, and it is in his work that we must seek the information which\nhis correspondence formerly gave us. This is how he narrates his ascent\ntowards the Engadine.\n\n_\"Et in Arcadia ego._--Above the hills which take the shape of waves,\nacross the austere pines and the old fir-trees, I have turned my gaze\nupon a little lake whose water is green and milky. Around me were rocks\nof every contour, a soil painted in discordant colours with grasses\nand flowers. Before me a flock moved, now scattering, now closing up\nits ranks; some cows, grouped afar-off, below a forest of pines, stood\nout in relief under the evening light; others, nearer, more sombre;\nand everything calm in the peace of the approaching twilight. My watch\nregistered half-past five. The monarch of the herd was walking in the\nfoam-white brook; he stepped out slowly, now stemming the fierce tide,\nnow giving way to it: no doubt he found a kind of ferocious delight\nin so doing. Two human beings, brown skinned, of Bergamesque origin,\nwere the shepherds of this flock: the young girl dressed almost like\na boy. To the right, above a large belt of forest, edges of rocks,\nfields of snow; to the left, two enormous prongs of ice, far over me,\nin a veil of clear mist. Everything grand, calm, luminous. This beauty,\nthus suddenly perceived, thrilled, so as to bring into the soul a mute\nadoration of this moment of revelation. Into this world of pure light\nand sharp outline (exempt from disquiet and desire, expectation and\nregret), one was tempted to introduce Grecian heroes--involuntarily, as\nthough it were the most natural thing. One had to feel in the manner of\nPoussin and his pupils; in a thoroughly heroic and idyllic manner. And\nit is thus that certain men have lived, thus that they have felt life,\nlastingly, within and without themselves; and I recognise among them\none of the greatest of all men, one who discovered a style of heroic\nand idyllic philosopher: Epicurus.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche stayed in the Engadine, poorly lodged, sparingly\nfed, till September came; but he was satisfied, though deprived of\nfriends, with his music and books. His sufferings were not intolerable:\nhe could work and had soon filled six copybooks with pencil notes of\nhis calmer thoughts, which, though always sceptical, were not bitter,\nbut seemed, as it were, tempered by the unexpected indulgence. He had\nno illusions concerning this respite which he had received. It was a\nrespite and no more, and he did not hope. Nevertheless he rejoiced\nthat, before his breakdown, he had the opportunity of saying what\nhappiness had been procured him by the simple contemplation of things,\nof human nature, of the mountains and the sky; he hastened to harvest\nthis last felicity. At the beginning of September, 1879, he sent his\ncompleted work to Peter Gast.\n\n\"My dear, dear friend,\" he wrote, \"when you receive these lines my\nmanuscript will be in your hands. Perhaps you will feel a little of\nthe pleasure which I have myself when I think of my work that is now\ncompleted. I am at the end of my thirty-fifth year, 'the middle of\nlife,' they used to say some thousand years ago: it is the age at which\nDante had his vision, as he tells us in the first verses of his poem.\nI am now in this middle of life, and on all sides so hard pressed by\ndeath, that at any hour it may take me; my life is such that I must\nforesee a _rapid_ death, in spasms.... So I feel like a very old man,\nand the more because I _have done_ the work of my life. I have poured\nout a good drop of oil, I know it, it will be accounted to me. I\nhave experienced my manner of life to the full; many will experience\nit after me. My continual, my bitter sufferings have not altered my\nhumour up to the present. On the contrary, it seems to me that I feel\ngayer, more kindly, than ever I was: whence comes this influence which\nfortifies me and ameliorates my condition? Not from men, for all\nbut a few are provoked against me,[2] and do not grudge the trouble\nof letting me know it. Dear friend, read this last manuscript from\nend to end, and see if any trace of suffering or of depression is\nthere disclosed. I _think not,_ and this very conviction assures me\nthat there must be some hidden strength in my thoughts, and not that\nlassitude, that powerlessness, which those who do not approve of me\nwould like to find in them.\"\n\nAt this instant of his life Nietzsche made ready to die. How? It is not\ntoo hazardous to guess. He was waiting for that \"rapid end in spasms,\"\nwhich had swept off his father in madness, and a pious sentiment\nbrought him back to the domestic hearth. Released from the obligations\nwhich kept him at Basle, free to choose his retreat, he resisted the\ncall of Peter Gast from Venice. It was no time for learning to know and\nto love a new beauty. \"No,\" said he, \"in spite of Overbeck, in spite\nof my sister, who press me to rejoin you, I shall not go. In certain\ncircumstances, as I think, it is fitting that one should be closer to\none's mother, one's hearth, one's souvenirs of childhood....\"\n\nIt was to Naumburg, therefore, that he proceeded. He wished to lead\nthere a life of entire peace, and to distract himself from thought by\nmanual labour. In a tower of the old ramparts he hired a great room.\nBelow the old wall there extended an unused piece of land, and this he\ntook on lease and cultivated. \"I have ten fruit trees,\" he wrote, \"and\nroses, lilacs, carnations, strawberries, goose-berry bushes, and green\ngooseberries. At the beginning of next year I shall have ten rows of\nvegetables growing.\"\n\nBut the invalid was soon obliged to abandon these plans. The winter was\nrigorous. Friedrich Nietzsche could not withstand either the glare of\nthe snow which dazzled his eyes, or the humid air which depressed and\nshattered his nerves. In a few weeks he had lost the benefit derived\nfrom his visit to the Engadine.\n\n_The Traveller and his Shadow,_ the proofs of which Peter Gast had\ncorrected, was published. Apparently it was better understood than the\npreceding collections had been. Rohde wrote Nietzsche a letter which\npleased him. Certainly he did not express unqualified admiration. \"This\nclear but never emotional view of humanity,\" said he, \"pains him who\nloves you and who hears the friend in every word.\" But, on the whole,\nhe admired.\n\n\"What you give to your readers,\" he wrote, \"you can scarcely surmise,\nfor you live in your own mind. But a voice like yours is one which\nwe never hear, either in life or in books. And, as I read you, I\ncontinue to experience what I experienced at your side in the time of\nour comradeship: I feel myself raised into a higher order of things,\nand spiritually ennobled. The conclusion of your book penetrates the\nsoul. You can and you should, after these discordant harmonies, give us\nyet softer, yet diviner strains.... Farewell, my dear friend, you are\nalways he who gives, I am always he who receives....\"\n\nNietzsche was happy. \"Thanks, dear friend,\" he wrote on the 28th\nof December, 1879; \"your old affection sealed anew--it is the most\nprecious gift which these Christmas days have brought me.\" But his\nanswer was brief, and the last two lines of his letter give the reason:\n\"My condition has again become terrible, my tortures are atrocious;\n_sustineo, abstineo;_ and I am astonished at it myself.\"\n\nThis very strong language contains no exaggeration. His mother and\nsister, who saw him suffer, bear witness to the awful days through\nwhich he passed. He accepted suffering as a test, as a spiritual\nexercise. He compared his destiny to that of men who were great in\nsorrow--Leopardi, for instance. But Leopardi was not brave, for, in\nhis sickness, he defamed life, and--Nietzsche discovered this hard\ntruth--an invalid has not the right to be a pessimist. Or the Christ.\nBut even Christ weakened upon the cross. \"Father, Father!\" He cried\nout, \"why hast Thou forsaken Me?\" Friedrich Nietzsche had no God, no\nfather, no faith, no friends. Every prop he had taken from himself,\nand yet he did not bend. To complain, even in a passing manner, would\nbe to avow defeat. He refused to make the avowal. Suffering did not\noverwhelm him; on the contrary, it instructed him, and animated his\nthought.\n\n\"The enormous tension of the intellect, bent on the mastery of pain,\"\nhe writes, \"shows everything in a new light: and the unspeakable\ncharm of every new light is often powerful enough to overcome all the\nallurements of suicide, and to make the continuance of life appear as\nmost desirable to the sufferer. Scornfully he reviews the warm and\ncomfortable dream-world, wherein the healthy man moves unthinkingly;\nscornfully he reviews the noblest and dearest of the illusions in which\nhe formerly indulged; this contempt is his joy, it is the counterpoise\nwhich enables him to hold his own against physical pain, a counterpoise\nthe necessity of which he now feels.... Our pride revolts as it never\ndid before: joyfully does it defend life against such a tyrant as pain,\nthat tyrant that would force us to testify against life. To stand for\nlife in the face of this tyrant is a task of infinite fascination.\"[3]\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche supposed that his end was close at hand. On the\n14th of January, wishing to give a last indication of his thought\nto some friend, he wrote Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug a letter which is a\nfarewell and a spiritual testament. What an effort it must have cost\nhim!\n\n\"Although to write is one of the fruits which is most strongly\nforbidden me, still I want you to have one more letter from me, you\nwhom I love and venerate like a beloved sister--it will be the last!\nFor the awful and almost incessant martyrdom of my life gives me a\nthirst for death, and, according to certain signs, I am now near\nenough to that access of fever, which shall save me, to be permitted\nto hope. I have suffered so much, I have renounced so many things that\nthere is no ascetic, of any time, to whose life I have not the right to\ncompare my life in this last year. Nevertheless I have acquired a great\ndeal. My soul has gained in purity, in sweetness, and I no longer need\nreligion or art for that. (You will remark that I have some pride; that\nis because in my state of entire abandonment I have been able finally\nto discover my intimate sources of consolation.) I think that I have\ndone the work of my life as a man may to whom no time is left. But I\nknow that for many men I have poured out a drop of good oil, that many\nmen will be guided by me towards a higher, a more serene, and lucid\nlife. I give you this supplementary information: when my _humanity_\nshall have ceased to be, men will say so. No sorrow has been or will be\nable to induce me to give false evidence on life, as I know it.\n\n\"To whom should I say all this if not to you? I think--but it is\nimmodest to say so--that our characters resemble each other. For\ninstance: both of us are brave, and neither distress nor contempt\nhas been able to turn us from the path which we recognised as the\nright path. And both of us have known, in us, around us, many a\ntruth, the dazzling splendour of which few of our contemporaries have\nperceived--we hope for humanity and, silently, offer ourselves in\nsacrifice for it, do we not?\n\n\"Have you good news of the Wagners? For three years I have heard\nnothing of them. They, too, have forsaken me. I knew for long that\nWagner would separate from me as soon as he should have recognised the\ndifference of our efforts. I have been told that he writes against me.\nLet him: all means must be used to bring the truth to light! I think\nof him with a lasting gratitude, for I owe him some of the strongest\nincitements towards spiritual liberty. Madame Wagner, as you know,\nis the most sympathetic woman whom I have met. But our relations are\nended, and assuredly I am not the man to resume them. It is too late.\n\n\"Receive, dear friend, who are a sister to me, the salutation of a\nyoung old man to whom life has not been cruel, although it has come\nabout that he desires to die.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe lived, nevertheless. Paul R\u00e9e came to see him, read to him, and\nsucceeded in distracting his thoughts. The weather, which had tried\nhim so severely, grew warmer, and the snow, which had dimmed his\neyesight, melted. Peter Gast, living as in the previous year at Venice,\nsteadily wrote and called to him. In the middle of February he felt,\nwith surprise, a reawakening of strength; his desires, his curiosities\nreturned to him, and he set out at once.\n\nHe stayed for a month on the shores of Lake Garda, at Riva, and the\nimprovement in his letters gave his relatives some hope. On the 13th of\nMarch he was at Venice: from that day the end of this crisis and his\nconvalescence must be dated.\n\nHe had not yet loved Italy. What parts of it did he know? The Lakes:\nbut their somewhat oppressive tepidity was ill-suited to him, and\nhe did not relish their over-soft harmonies. Naples and its Gulf:\nbut he was repelled by the Neapolitan crowd; the splendour of the\nspectacle had no doubt conquered, but it had scarcely charmed him. No\nintimate union had been established between this dazzling scenery and\nhis spiritual passions. But from the first moment he yielded to the\nfascination of Venice. In Venice he found, at a glance, without effort,\nwhat his Greek masters--Homer, Theognis, Thucydides--had formerly given\nhim: the sensation of a lucid intellect, which lived without dreams or\nscruples. Against dreams, against scruples, against the prestige of a\nromantic art, he had been fighting for four years. The beauty of Venice\nwas his deliverance. He remembered his agonies and smiled at himself.\nHad he not flattered himself in supposing that he was the most wretched\nof men? What man who suffered has not had this thought, this childish\nconceit?\n\n\"When a first dawn of assuagement, of recovery, supervenes,\" he wrote,\n\"then we ungratefully humiliate the pride which formerly made us\nbear our sorrow, we deal with ourselves like na\u00efve simpletons--as if\nsomething unique had happened to us! Again we look around at men and at\nnature, with desire; _the tempered lights_ of life recomfort us; again\nhealth plays its magical tricks with us. We contemplate the spectacle\nas if we were transformed, benevolent and still fatigued. In this\ncondition one cannot hear music without weeping.\"\n\nPeter Gast attended him with touching kindness. He accompanied him in\nhis walks, read to him, played him his favourite music. At this period\nFriedrich Nietzsche liked Chopin above all musicians; he discovered a\ndaring, a freedom of passion in his rhapsodies, which is seldom the\ngift of German art. Doubtless we must think of Chopin in reading those\nlast words, \"In this condition one cannot hear music without weeping.\"\n\nPeter Gast also played the part of secretary, for Nietzsche had\nrecovered his ardour for work. Day by day he dictated his thoughts. He\nchose, immediately, the title for a new collection (he gave up the idea\nquickly), _L'Ombra di Venezia._ Indeed, did he not owe to the presence\nof Venice this richness, this force, this subtlety of his mind? He\nessayed new researches. Was it true, as he had written, that a cold\ncalculation of interest determines the actions of men? that a mean\ndesire for safety, for ease, for happiness, had created that excessive\nbeauty to which Venice stands witness? Venice is unique; nevertheless,\nshe exists and must be explained. A spiritual portent must explain the\nphysical marvel. What, then, are the hidden springs which determine\nour acts? Life, Schopenhauer used to say, is a pure _Will to Live;_\nevery being desires to persevere in being. We may go further, thinks\nFriedrich Nietzsche, and say that life aspires ever to extend and\nsurpass itself. Its desire is, not conservation, but growth; a\nprinciple of conquest and of exaltation must be linked to its essence.\nHow is this principle to be formulated? Nietzsche did not yet know; but\nthe idea was with him, and importunate. He felt that he was on the eve\nof a discovery, on the threshold of an unknown world; and he wrote, or\ndictated, to his friend:\n\n\"Actions are never what they appear to be. We have had such difficulty\nin learning that external things are not what they appear to us. Well,\nit is the same with the internal world! Deeds are in reality 'something\nother'--more we cannot say of them, and all deeds are essentially\nunknown.\"\n\nIn July he tried the waters of Marienbad. He lived in a little inn,\nsituated opposite the wood, where he walked all the length of the day.\n\n\"I am absorbed, and excavate zealously in my moral mines,\" he wrote\nto Peter Gast, \"and it seems to me that I have become an altogether\nsubterranean being--it seems to me, at this moment, that I have found a\npassage, an opening; a hundred times I shall be thus persuaded and then\ndeceived.\"\n\nIn September he was at Naumburg; he seemed to be in a joyful and\ntalkative humour; his sister Lisbeth recognised on his face that\nexpression of cheerful sweetness which denotes good mental work, a\nplenitude and an afflux of thoughts. On the 8th of October, fearing the\nfogs, he descended towards Italy. He stopped at Stresa, on the shore of\nthe Lake Maggiore. But the climate did not agree with his nerves, and\nunsettled his meditations. It was with terror that he recognised once\nmore that the tyranny of external influences held him at its mercy.\nHe took fright; could he, if he lived always in a state of suffering,\nexpress those innumerable ideas, philosophical and lyrical, which\npressed on him? To acquire health was, he thought, his first duty. He\nleft Stresa and travelled towards Sorrento.\n\nGenoa was on his road, and there he stopped. The place charmed him\nat first sight. Its people were vigorous, frugal, and gay; the\ntemperature, in November, almost that of summer. In Genoa was combined\nthe double energy of mountain and of sea. Nietzsche liked those robust\npalaces that stood athwart the little streets. Such monuments had been\nraised by Corsair merchants to their own glory, by men whose instincts\nwere fettered by no scruples. And his visionary spirit evoked them,\nfor he stood in need of those Italians of a former time who were so\nlucid, so grasping, and who had in them so little of the Christian; who\nlied to others, but were frank towards themselves, without sophistry.\nHe needed them in order to repress that romantic reverie which was\nnot to be extinguished in him. He desired, like Rousseau, a return to\nnature. But Rousseau's Europe was one thing, and Nietzsche's another.\nRousseau's offended against the sentiments of piety, against human\nsympathy, against goodness; Nietzsche's was a sluggish Europe under the\ndomination of the herd, and it offended against other sentiments; very\ndifferent, too, was the oppressed nature which he exalted and in which\nhe sought the cure and the refreshment of his soul.\n\nHe wished to make a stay at Genoa. After some trouble he found a\nperfect home: a garret, with a very good bed, at the top of a staircase\nof a hundred and four steps, in a house which looked out on a path\nso steep and stiff that no one passed that way, and that grass grew\nbetween the paving stones--Salita delle Battistine, 8.\n\nHe arranged his life in a manner as simple as his domicile, and thus\nrealised one of his many dreams. Often he used to say to his mother:\n\"How do the common people live? I would like to live like them.\" His\nmother would laugh. \"They eat potatoes and greasy meat; they drink\nbad coffee and alcohol....\" Nietzsche sighed: \"Oh, those Germans!\" In\nhis Genoese house, with its poor inmates, customs were different. His\nneighbours lived soberly. He imitated them and ate sparely; his thought\nwas quicker and livelier. He bought a spirit lamp, and, under his\nland-lady's teaching, learnt how to prepare his own risotto, and fry\nhis own artichokes. He was popular in the big house. When he suffered\nfrom headaches, he had many visitors, full of concern for him. \"I need\nnothing,\" he would say, simply: \"_Sono contento._\"\n\nIn the evening, in order to rest his eyes, he would lie stretched out\non his bed, without light in the room. \"It is poverty,\" opined the\nneighbours; \"the German professor is too poor to burn candles.\" He was\noffered some: he was grateful, smiled, and explained the circumstances.\nThey called him _Il Santo, il piccolo Santo._ He knew it, and it amused\nhim. \"I think,\" he wrote, \"that many among us, with their abstemious,\nregular habits, their kindliness and their clear sense, would, were\nthey transported into the semi-barbarism of the sixth to the tenth\ncenturies, be revered like Saints.\" He conceived and drew up a rule of\nlife:\n\n\"An independence which offends no one; a mollified, veiled pride, a\npride which does not discharge itself upon others because it does not\nenvy their honours or their pleasures, and is able to stand the test\nof mockery. A light sleep, a free and peaceful bearing, no alcohol, no\nillustrious or princely friendships, neither women nor newspapers, no\nhonours, no society--except with superior minds; in default of them,\nthe simple people (one cannot dispense with them; to see them is to\ncontemplate a sane and powerful vegetation); the dishes which are most\neasily prepared, and, if possible, prepared by oneself, and which do\nnot bring us into contact with the greedy and lip-smacking rabble.\"\n\nFor Friedrich Nietzsche health was a fragile possession, and the\nmore precious in that it must be incessantly conquered, lost, and\nreconquered. Every favourable day made him feel that surprise which\nconstitutes the happiness of convalescents.\n\nOn jumping from his bed, he equipped himself, stuffed into his pouch a\nbundle of notes, a book, some fruit and bread; and then started out on\nthe road. \"As soon as the sun is risen,\" he wrote, \"I go to a solitary\nrock near the waves and lie out on it beneath my umbrella, motionless\nas a lizard, with nothing before me but the sea and the pure sky.\"\nThere he would remain for a long time, till the very last hours of\nthe twilight. For these hours were kindly to those weak eyes of his,\nthat were so often deprived of light and so often blinded by it--those\nmenaced eyes, the least of whose joys was a delight.\n\n\"Here is the sea,\" he wrote, \"here we may forget the town. Though\nits bells are still ringing the Angelus--that sad and foolish, yet\nsweet sound at the parting of day and night--only another minute! Now\nall is hushed! There lies the broad ocean, pale and glittering, but\nit cannot speak. The sky is glistening in its eternal mute evening\nglory, in red, yellow, green hues; it cannot speak either. The small\ncliffs and crags, projecting into the sea--as though trying to find\nthe most lonely spot--not any of them can speak. This eternal muteness\nwhich suddenly overcomes us is beautiful and awful; it makes the heart\nswell....\"[4]\n\nHow often has he celebrated this hour, when, as he says, the humblest\nfisherman \"rows with golden oars.\" Then he collected the fruits of\nthe day; he wrote the thoughts which had come to him, clothed in the\nform and the music of their words. He continued the researches which\nhe had begun at Venice. What is human energy? What is the drift of its\ndesires? How are the disorders of its history, the quagmire of its\nmanners, to be explained? He now knows the answer, and it is this, that\nthe same cruel and ambitious force thrusts man against man, and the\nascetic against himself. Nietzsche had to analyse and to define this\nforce in order to direct it; this was the problem which he set himself,\nand he was confident that he would one day resolve it. Willingly he\ncompared himself to the great navigators, to that Captain Cook who for\nthree months navigated the coral-reefs, fathom-line in hand. In this\nyear 1881, his hero was the Genoese, Christopher Columbus, who, when\nno land had yet appeared, recognised on the waves meadow grasses which\nhad been carried into the open sea by some unknown river, the waters of\nwhich were milky and still free from salt.\n\n\"Whither do we wish to go?\" he wrote. \"Do we long to cross the sea?\nWhither does this powerful desire urge us which we value above all our\nother passions? Why this mad flight towards that place where every sun\nhas hitherto _sunk_ and _perished?_ Will they, perhaps, one day, relate\nof us that we also steered westward, hoping to reach an unknown India,\nbut that it was our fate to suffer shipwreck on the Infinite? Or else,\nmy brothers, or else?\"\n\nNietzsche liked this lyrical page; he placed it at the end of his book\nas a final hymn. \"What other book,\" he wrote, \"concludes with an Or\nElse?\"\n\nBy the end of January he had finished his work. But he was not able\nto re-copy his manuscript; his hand was too nervous, his eyesight too\nweak. He sent it on to Peter Gast. On the 13th of March the copy was\nready, and Nietzsche announced it to the publisher.\n\n\"Here is the manuscript, from which I find it hard to part.... Now,\nhurry, hurry, hurry! I shall leave Genoa as soon as the book is out,\nand till then I shall live on cinders. Be quick, hurry up the printer!\nCan't he give you a written promise that by the end of April, at the\nlatest, I shall have my book in hand, ready, complete? ... My dear Herr\nSchmeitzner, let us all, for this once, do our best. The contents of my\nbook are so important! It is a matter involving our honour that it be\nfaulty in nothing, that it come into the world worthy and stainless.\nI conjure you, do that for me; no advertising. I could tell you a\ngreat deal more about it, but you will be able to understand it all by\nyourself when you have read my book.\"\n\nThe publisher read the manuscript, but understood it ill; he displayed\nno enthusiasm. In April, Nietzsche, still at Genoa, was still waiting\nfor his proofs. He had hoped to surprise his friends by despatching an\nunexpected piece of work, and had said nothing to anyone, Peter Gast\nexcepted. At last he renounced the pleasure of having a secret. \"Good\nnews!\" he wrote to his sister. \"A new book, a big book, a decisive\nbook! I cannot think of it without a lively emotion....\" In May, he\nrejoined Peter Gast in a village of Venetia, Recoaro, at the foot of\nthe Alps. His impatience grew every day. The delays of his publisher\nprevented him from clearing up the new thoughts which already pressed\nhard on him.\n\n_The Dawn of Day_--this was the title which he finally\nselected--appeared at the most unfavourable time of the year, in July.\n\n\n[1] Lit. torchlike.\n\n[2] This is an evangelical reminiscence, thinks Peter Gast. Scriptural\nsuggestions are frequent in the language and thought of Nietzsche.\n\n[3] _The Dawn of Day,_ cxiv. This book, published in June, 1881, gives\nvery reliable autobiographical indications on the period here studied.\n\n[4] _The Dawn of Day,_ p. 301. This passage is taken from Miss Johanna\nVolz's translation. London: T. Fisher Unwin.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nTHE LABOUR OF ZARATHUSTRA\n\n\nI\n\n_The Conception of the Eternal Return_\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche regarded _The Dawn of Day_ as the exercise of a\nconvalescent who amuses himself with desires and ideas, and finds in\neach a malicious or a delightful pleasure. It had been a game which\nmust have an end. I must now choose from among these half-perceived\nideas, he thought, I must lay hold of one, express it in its full\nforce, and close my years of retreat and hesitation. \"In times of\npeace,\" he had written, \"the man of warlike instinct turns against\nhimself.\" Hardly done with his combats, he sought a new occasion for\nbattle.\n\nHe had remained, up to mid-July, in Venetia, on the lower slopes of\nthe Italian Alps. He had to seek a cooler refuge. He had not forgotten\nthose high Alpine valleys which had given him, two years earlier, in\nhis ill-health a respite and a rapid joy. He went up towards them and\ninstalled himself in a rustic fashion in the Engadine, at Sils-Maria.\nHe had, for one franc a day, a room in a peasant house; a neighbouring\ninn furnished him with his meals. Passers by were rare, and Nietzsche,\nwhen he found himself in talkative humour, used to visit the cur\u00e9\nor the schoolmaster. These good people always remembered this very\nsingular German professor who was so learned, so modest, and so good.\n\nHe was then reflecting on the problems of naturalistic philosophy.\nSpencer's system had just come into vogue. Friedrich Nietzsche despised\nthis cosmogony which affected to supplant Christianity and yet remained\nin submission to it. Spencer ignored Providence, yet believed in\nprogress. He preached the reality of a concert between the movements\nof things and the aspirations of humanity. He preserved the Christian\nharmonies in a God-less universe. Friedrich Nietzsche had been a pupil\nat more virile schools; he heard Empedocles, Heraclitus, Spinoza,\nGoethe, thinkers who with a calm regard could study Nature without\nseeking in her some assent to their longings. He remained obedient to\nthese masters, and he felt growing and ripening in him a great and a\nnew idea.\n\nWe can divine from his letters the emotion with which he was seized. He\nneeded to be alone, and energetically defended his solitude. Paul R\u00e9e,\nwho admired _The Dawn,_ wished to go to him and tell him so. Friedrich\nNietzsche learnt this and was in despair.\n\n\"MY GOOD LISBETH,\" he wrote to his sister, \"I cannot make up my mind\nto telegraph to R\u00e9e not to come. Nevertheless, I must consider him an\nenemy who comes to interrupt my summer's work, my work in the Engadine,\nthat is to say my duty itself, my 'one thing necessary.' A man here, in\nthe middle of all these thoughts which gush out from all sides within\nme--it would be a terrible thing; and if I cannot defend my solitude\nbetter, I leave Europe for many years, I swear it! I have no more time\nto lose.\"\n\nFr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche forewarned Paul R\u00e9e, who abandoned his project.\n\nAt length he found it, the idea, the presentiment of which had agitated\nhim with such violence. One day, when he was going across the wood\nof Sils-Maria as far as Silvaplana, he sat down not far from Surlei\nat the foot of a pyramidal rock; at this moment and in this place\nhe conceived the Eternal Return. He thought: Time, whose duration\nis infinite, must bring back, from period to period, an identical\ndisposition of things. This is necessary; therefore it is necessary\nthat all things return. In a number of days that is unforeseeable,\nimmense, yet limited, a man like to me in everything, myself in fact,\nseated in the shade of this rock, will again find in this very place\nthis very idea. And this very idea will be rediscovered by this man not\nonce only, but an infinite number of times, for this movement which\nbrings things back is infinite. Therefore we must throw all hope aside\nand think resolutely: no celestial world will receive men, no better\nfuture will console them. We are the shadows of a blind and monotonous\nnature, the prisoners of every moment. But beware! this redoubtable\nidea which forbids hope ennobles and exalts every minute of our lives;\nthe moment is no longer a passing thing, if it come back eternally;\nthe least thing is an eternal monument endowed with infinite value,\nand, if the word \"divine\" has any sense, divine. \"Let everything return\nceaselessly,\" he wrote, \"it is the extreme _rapprochement_ of a world\nof becoming with a world of being: summit of meditation.\"[1]\n\nThe emotion of the discovery was so strong that he wept, and remained\nfor a long time bathed in tears. So his effort had not been in vain.\nWithout weakening before reality, without withdrawing from pessimism,\nbut, on the contrary, leading the pessimistic idea to its final\nconsequences, Nietzsche had discovered this doctrine of the Return,\nwhich, by conferring eternity on the most fugitive things, restores\nin each of them the lyrical power, the religious value necessary to\nthe soul. In a few lines he formulated the idea, and dated it: \"the\nbeginning of August, 1881, at Sils-Maria, 6,500 feet above the sea and\nfar more than that above all human things!\"\n\nHe lived for some weeks in a condition of rapture and of anguish: no\ndoubt the mystics knew similar emotions, and their vocabulary suits his\ncase. He experienced a divine pride; but simultaneously recoiled in\nfear and trembling, like those prophets of Israel before God receiving\nfrom Him the function of their mission. The unhappy man, who had been\nso wounded by life, faced with an indescribable horror the perpetuity\nof the Return. It was an insupportable expectation, a torment; but he\nloved this torment, and he forced this idea of the Eternal Return on\nhimself as an ascetic does martyrdom. \"Lux mea crux,\" he wrote in his\nnotes, \"crux mea lux! Light my cross, cross my light!\" His agitation,\nwhich time did not appease, became extreme. He grew alarmed, for he was\nnot unaware of the danger which lay over his life.\n\n\"On my horizon thoughts rise, and what thoughts!\" he wrote to Peter\nGast on the 14th of August. \"I did not suspect anything of this kind.\nI say no more of it, I wish to maintain a resolute calm. Alas, my\nfriend, presentiments sometimes cross my mind. It seems to me that I\nam leading a very dangerous life, for my machine is one of those which\nmay GO SMASH! The intensity of my sentiments makes me shudder and laugh\n--twice already I have had to stay in my room, and for a ridiculous\nreason; my eyes were inflamed, why? Because while I walked I had cried\ntoo much; not sentimental tears, but tears of joy; and I sang and\nsaid idiotic things, being full of a new idea which I must proffer to\nmen....\"\n\nThen he conceived a new task. All that he had hitherto done was but\nan awkward experiment or research; the time was come when he should\nerect the structure of his work. Of what work? He hesitated: his gifts\nas an artist, as a critic, as a philosopher, seduced him in various\ndirections. Should he put his doctrine in the form of a system? No, it\nwas a symbol and must be surrounded with poetry and rhythm. Could he\nnot renew that forgotten form which was created by the thinkers of the\nmost ancient Greece? Lucretius had handed down the model. Friedrich\nNietzsche welcomed this idea; it would please him to translate his\nconception of nature into poetic language, into musical and measured\nprose. He sought, and his desire for a rhythmical language, for a\nliving and, as it were, palpable form, suggested a new thought to him:\ncould he not introduce at the centre of his work a human and prophetic\nfigure, a hero? A name occurred to him; Zarathustra, the Persian\napostle, the mystagogue of fire. A title, a subtitle, four lines\nrapidly written, announced the poem:\n\n\nMIDDAY AND ETERNITY\n\n_Sign of a New Life_\n\n\"Zarathustra, born on the borders of Lake Urumiyah, left his country\nwhen thirty years old, went towards the province of Aria, and in ten\nyears of solitude composed the Zend-Avesta.\"\n\nHenceforward his walks and meditations were no longer solitary.\nFriedrich Nietzsche never ceased to hear and gather the words of\nZarathustra. In three distiches of a soft and almost tender seduction\nhe tells how this companion entered into his life:\n\n_Sils-Maria_\n\nI sat there waiting--waiting for nothing, Enjoying, beyond good and\nevil, now The light, now the shade; there was only The day, the lake,\nthe noon, time without end. Then, my friend, suddenly one became\ntwo--And Zarathustra passed by me.\n\nIn September the weather suddenly became cold and snowy. Friedrich\nNietzsche had to leave the Engadine.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe intemperate weather had tried him; he lost his exaltation, and a\nlong period of depression set in. He constantly thought of the Eternal\nReturn, but now, having lost courage, he only felt a horror of it. \"I\nhave lived again through the days at Basle,\" he wrote to Peter Gast.\n\"Over my shoulder death looks at me.\" His complaints are brief; a word\nis enough to let us divine the abysses. Thrice, during these weeks of\nSeptember and October, he was tempted to suicide. \"Whence came this\ntemptation? It was not that he wished to avoid suffering; he was brave.\nDid he then wish to prevent the ruin of his intellect? This second\nhypothesis is perhaps the true one.\n\nHe stopped at Genoa. The damp winds and the lowering skies of the\ncapricious autumn continued to try him. He bore impatiently with the\nabsence of light. A melancholy of another kind complicated his trouble:\n_The Dawn of Day_ had had no success. The critics had ignored the work,\nhis friends had read it with difficulty; Jacob Burckhardt had expressed\na polite but prudent judgment. \"Certain parts of your book,\" he wrote,\n\"I read like an old man, with a feeling of vertigo.\" Erwin Rohde, the\ndearest, the most esteemed, had not acknowledged the receipt of the\nbook. Friedrich Nietzsche wrote to him from Genoa on October 21st:\n\n\"DEAR OLD FRIEND,--No doubt some embarrassment delays you. I pray you,\nin all sincerity, not to write! There will be no change in our mutual\nsentiments; I cannot bear to think that in sending a book to a friend I\nexercise upon him a sort of pressure. What matters a book! What I have\nstill to do matters more--or why should I live? The moment is bitter, I\nsuffer much. Cordially your \"F. N.\"\n\nErwin Rohde did not answer even this letter. How explain the want of\nsuccess of _The Dawn?_ Doubtless it is a very old story, the constant,\nthe universal, the irremediable misadventure of the unrecognised\ngenius because he is a genius, a novelty, a surprise, and a scandal.\nNevertheless we may, perhaps, grasp some definite reasons. Nietzsche,\nsince he had withdrawn from the Wagnerian circle, had no more friends;\nand a group of friends is the most indispensable intermediary between\na great mind which is trying its skill and the mass of the public. He\nis alone before unknown readers, who are disconcerted by his incessant\nvariations. He hopes that the lively form of his work will capture\nand conquer them. But even the form is unfavourable. No book has so\ndifficult an address as a collection of aphorisms and brief thoughts.\nThe reader must give all his attention to every page and decipher an\nenigma; lassitude comes quickly. Besides, it is probable that a German\npublic, with little feeling for the art of prose, unskilful in grasping\nits features, accustomed to slow and sustained effort, was ill-prepared\nto understand this unforeseen work.\n\nNovember was fine; Friedrich Nietzsche recovered his spirits. \"I lift\nmyself above my disasters,\" he wrote He wandered over the mountains of\nthe Genoese coast, he returned to the rocks on which had come to him\nthe prose of _The Dawn. _ Such was the mildness of the weather that he\ncould bathe in the sea. \"I feel so rich, so proud,\" he wrote to Peter\nGast, \"altogether _'principe Doria._ I miss only you, dear friend, you\nand your music!\"\n\nSince the representations of the _Nibelungen_ at Bayreuth--that is,\nfor five years--Friedrich Nietzsche had deprived himself of music.\n_Cave musicam!_ he wrote. He feared that if he abandoned himself to\nthe delight in sound he would be recaptured by the magic of Wagnerian\nart. But he was finally delivered from these fears. His friend Peter\nGast had played him, in June, at Recoaro, songs and choruses which he\nhad amused himself in composing on the epigrams of Goethe. Paul R\u00e9e\nhad said one day, \"No modern musician would be capable of putting to\nmusic such slight verses.\" Peter Gast had taken up the challenge and\nwon, thought Nietzsche, who was ravished by the vivacity of the rhythm.\n\"Persevere,\" he advised his friend; \"work against Wagner the musician,\nas I work against Wagner the philosopher. Let us try, R\u00e9e, you and\nI, to free Germany. If you succeed in finding a music suited to the\nuniverse of Goethe (it does not exist), you will have done a great\nthing.\" This thought reappears in each of his letters. His friend is\nat Venice, he is at Genoa, and he hopes that this winter Italy will\ninspire in them both, the two uprooted Germans, a new metaphysic and a\nnew music.\n\nHe took advantage of his improved health to go to the theatre.\nHe listened to the _Semiramis_ of Rossini, and four times to the\n_Juliette_ of Bellini. One evening he was curious to hear a French\nwork, the author being unknown to him:\n\n\"Hurrah! dear friend,\" he wrote to Peter Gast, \"another happy\ndiscovery, an opera of Georges Bizet (who is he, then?), _Carmen._ It\nis like a story of M\u00e9rim\u00e9e's, clever, powerful, sometimes touching. A\ntrue French talent which Wagner has not misguided, a frank disciple\nof Berlioz.... I almost think that _Carmen_ is the best opera which\nexists. As long as we live it will remain in all the repertoires of\nEurope.\"\n\nThe discovery of _Carmen_ was the event of his winter. Many times he\nspoke of it, many times he returned to it; when he heard this frank and\nimpassioned music, he felt better armed against the romantic seductions\nwhich were always powerful in his soul. \"_Carmen_ delivers me,\" he was\nto write.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche again found the happiness which he had enjoyed\nin the preceding year; a like happiness, but sustained by a graver\nkind of emotion: the full midday of his thought rose after the dawn.\nTowards the end of December he passed a crisis and surmounted it. A\nsort of poem in prose commemorated this crisis. We will translate it\nhere. It is the consequence of his meditations, of those examinations\nof conscience which he used to write down, as a young man, each Saint\nSylvester's Day:\n\n\"_For the New Year._--I still live, I still think: I must still live,\nfor I must still think. _Sum, ergo cogito: cogito, ergo sum._ This is\nthe day upon which every one is permitted to express his desire and\nhis dearest thought: I, too, shall then express the inner wish which I\nform to-day, and say what thought I take to heart, this year, before\nall other--what thought I have chosen as the reason, guarantee, and\nsweetness of my life to come! I wish to try each day to see in all\nthings necessity as a beauty--thus shall I be one of those who make\nthings beautiful. _Amor fati,_ let that be henceforward my love! I\ndo not wish to go to battle against the hideous. I do not wish to\naccuse, I do not even wish to accuse the accusers. _To avert my\ngaze,_ let that be my sole negation. In a word, I wish to be, in every\ncircumstance, a Yea-Sayer!\"\n\nThe thirty days of January passed without a cloud appearing in the\nsky. He was to dedicate to this fine month, as a sign of gratitude,\nthe fourth book of the _Gay Science,_ which he entitled _Sanctus\nJanuarius;_ an admirable book rich in critical thought, in intimate\nrefinements, and from the first to the last line dominated by a sacred\nemotion--_Amor fati._\n\nIn February Paul R\u00e9e, passing through Genoa, stayed some days with his\nfriend, who showed him his favourite walks and brought him to those\nrocky creeks \"where in some six hundred years, some thousand years,\" he\nwrote gaily to Peter Gast, \"they will raise a statue to the author of\n_The Dawn\"_ Then Paul R\u00e9e went on to Rome, where Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug\nwas waiting for him. He had a curiosity to penetrate into the Wagnerian\nworld there, which was greatly excited in expectation of _Parsifal;_\nit was in July, at Bayreuth, that the Christian mystery was to be\npresented. Friedrich Nietzsche did not wish to accompany Paul R\u00e9e, and\nthe approaching performance of the _Parsifal_ only made his ardour\nfor work the more active. Had he not--he, too--a great work which he\nmust ripen? Had he not to write his anti-Christian mystery, his poem\nof the Eternal Return? It was his constant thought. It procured him a\nhappiness, thanks to which he could recall with less torturing regret\nthe master of by-gone days. Richard Wagner seemed very far and very\nnear; very far as regards his ideas, but what are ideas worth to a\npoet? Very near in sentiments, desires, lyrical emotion; and were\nnot these the essential things? All disaccord between poets is only\na question of shades, for they inhabit the same universe, they work\nwith a like heart to give a significance and a supreme value to the\nmovements of the human soul. Reading this page which Nietzsche then\nwrote, it is easier to understand the condition of his mind:\n\n\"_Stellar Friendship._--We were friends, and we have become strangers\nto each other. Ah, yes; but it is well so, and we wish to hide nothing,\nto disguise nothing from one another; we have nothing to be ashamed\nof. We are two ships, each with a bourne and a way. By chance we have\ncrossed paths; we have made holiday together--and then our two good\nships have so tranquilly reposed in the one port and under the same\nsun, that it seemed as though they had both attained their bourne. But\nthe all-powerful force of our mission has driven us afresh towards\ndivers seas and suns--and perhaps we shall not meet, or recognise one\nanother again: the divers seas and suns will have transformed us! We\nhad to become strangers; a reason the more why we should mutually\nrespect ourselves! No doubt there exists a far off, invisible and\nprodigious cycle which gives a common law to our little divagations:\nlet us uplift ourselves to this thought! But our life is too short,\nour vision too feeble; we must content ourselves with this sublime\npossibility. And if we must be enemies upon earth, in spite of all we\nbelieve in our stellar friendship.\"\n\nWhat form did the poetical exposition of the Eternal Return then take\nin his soul? We do not know. Nietzsche did not care to talk about his\nwork; he liked to complete it before making announcements. However,\nhe wished that his friends should know the new movement in which his\nthought was engaged. He addressed to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug a letter in\nwhich Wagner was treated without deference, then he added a mysterious\nenough promise: \"If I am not illusioned as to my future, it is by my\nwork that what is best in the work of Wagner will be continued--and\nhere, perhaps, is the comical side to the adventure.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the beginning of spring Friedrich Nietzsche, following out a\ncaprice, made a bargain with the captain of an Italian sailing\nvessel bound for Messina and crossed the Mediterranean. The passage\nwas a terrible one, and he was sick to death. But his stay was at\nfirst happy: he wrote verses, a pleasure which he had not known for\nseveral years. They are impromptus and epigrams, perhaps inspired by\nthose Goethean sallies which Peter Gast had put to music. Nietzsche\nthen sought for a corner of nature and of humanity favourable to\nthe production of his great work: Sicily, \"Curb of the world where\nHappiness has her habitation,\" as old Homer teaches, struck him as\nan ideal refuge, and, suddenly forgetting that he could not bear the\nheat, he decided to stay in Messina for the whole summer. Some days of\nsirocco, towards the end of April, prostrated him, and he prepared for\ndeparture. It was in these circumstances that he received a message\nfrom Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug, who urged him very keenly to stop at\nRome. Rome was a natural stage on his journey, and he accepted. Why\nwas Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug thus insistent? We know. This excellent\nwoman had never been resigned to the unhappiness of the friend whose\ndestiny she had vainly sought to sweeten. She knew the delicacy, the\ntenderness of his heart, and often wished to find him a companion; had\nhe not written to her, \"I tell you in confidence, what I need is a\ngood woman\"? In the spring of this year she thought that she had found\nher.[2]\n\nThis accounted for her letter. It was Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug's habit to\ndo good, and her taste; but perhaps she sometimes forgot that goodness\nis a difficult art in which the results of defeat are cruel.\n\nThe girl whom Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug had met was called Lou Salom\u00e9.\nShe was scarcely twenty years old; she was a Russian and admirable as\nregards her intelligence and intellectual ardour; her beauty was not\nperfect, but the more exquisite for its imperfections, and she was\nfascinating in the extreme. Sometimes it happens that there arises,\nin Paris, in Florence, in Rome, some excited young lady, a native of\nPhiladelphia, of Bucharest, or of Kief, who comes with a barbarous\nimpatience to be initiated into culture and to conquer a hearth in our\nold capital. The lady in question was of rare quality assuredly; her\nmother followed her across Europe, carrying the cloaks and the shawls.\n\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug conceived an affection for her. She gave her\nNietzsche's works; Lou Salom\u00e9 read them and seemed to understand.\nShe talked to her at great length of this extraordinary man who had\nsacrificed friendship with Wagner for the maintenance of his liberty:\nHe is a very rugged philosopher, she said, but he is the most\nsensitive, the most affectionate friend, and, for those who know him,\nthe thought of his solitary life is a source of sadness. Miss Salom\u00e9\ndisplayed a great deal of enthusiasm and longing; she declared that she\nfelt vowed to a spiritual share in such a life, and that she wished to\nmake Nietzsche's acquaintance. In concert with Paul R\u00e9e, who, it seems,\nhad known her for a longer time, and also appreciated her, Fr\u00e4ulein von\nMeysenbug wrote to Friedrich Nietzsche.\n\nHe arrived, he heard the praises of Miss Lou sung; she was a woman\nof elevated feeling, shrewd and brave; intransigent in research and\nin affirmation; a heroine in the manner of her childhood; it was the\npromise of a great life. He agreed to see her. One morning, at St.\nPeter's, she was presented to him and conquered him at once. He had\nforgotten, during his long months of meditation, the pleasure of being\nlistened to and of talking. \"The young Russian\" (it is thus that he\ncalls her in his letters) listened deliciously. She spoke little, but\nher calm look, her assured and gentle movements, her least words, left\nno doubt as to the quickness of her mind and to the presence of a soul.\nVery quickly, perhaps at first sight, Nietzsche liked her. \"There's a\nsoul,\" he said to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug, \"which has made a little body\nfor itself with a breath.\"[3] Miss Salom\u00e9 did not let herself be thus\nenticed. Nevertheless, she felt the singular quality of the man who\ntalked to her; she had long conversations with him, and the violence of\nhis thought troubled her even in her sleep. The adventure--it was in\nfact a drama--commenced at once.\n\nA few days after this first interview, Miss Salom\u00e9 and her mother left\nRome. The two philosophers, Nietzsche and R\u00e9e, went with her, both of\nthem enthusiasts for the young girl. Nietzsche said to R\u00e9e:\n\n\"There's an admirable woman, marry her.\" \"No,\" answered R\u00e9e; \"I am a\npessimist, and the idea of propagating human life is odious to me.\nMarry her yourself; she is the companion that you want....\" Nietzsche\ndismissed this idea. Perhaps he said to his friend, as he had said\nto his sister: \"I marry! Never, I would have to be a bar somewhere\nor other.\" Miss Salom\u00e9's mother examined these two men who were\nso attentive to her child; Friedrich Nietzsche perplexed her; she\npreferred Paul R\u00e9e.\n\nThe two friends and the two philosophers stopped at Lucerne. Friedrich\nNietzsche wished to show his new friend that house at Triebschen where\nhe had known Richard Wagner. Who was not then thinking of the master?\nHe brought her as far as the poplars whose high foliage enclosed the\ngardens. He recounted to her the unforgettable days, the gaieties,\nthe magnificent angers of the great man. Seated by the border of the\nlake, he talked in a low, contained voice, and turned his face a\nlittle away, for it was troubled by the memory of those joys of which\nhe had deprived himself. Suddenly he grew silent, and the young girl,\nobserving him, saw that he wept.\n\nHe confessed all his life to her; his childhood, the pastor's house,\nthe mysterious grandeur of the father who had been so quickly taken\naway; the pious years, the first doubts, and the horror of this world\nwithout a God in which one must resolve to live; the discovery of\nSchopenhauer and of Wagner, the religious feeling which they had\ninspired in him and which had consoled him for the loss of his faith.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he (Miss Salom\u00e9 reports these words), \"my adventures began\nin this manner. They are not ended. Where will they lead me? Whither\nshall I adventure again? Should I not come back to the faith? to some\nnew belief?\"\n\nHe added gravely: \"In any case a return to the past is more likely than\nimmobility.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche had not yet avowed his love; but he felt its force\nand no longer resisted. Only he feared to declare himself. He begged\nPaul R\u00e9e to speak in his name, and withdrew.\n\nOn the 8th of May, settled for some days in Basle, he saw the\nOverbecks and confided in them with a strange exaltation. A woman has\ncome into his life; it is a happiness for him; it will benefit his\nthought, which will henceforward be livelier, richer in its shades and\nemotion. Assuredly he would prefer not to marry Miss Lou, he disdains\nall fleshly ties; but perhaps he ought to give her his name for her\nprotection against scandalmongers, and from this spiritual union would\nbe born a spiritual son: the prophet Zarathustra. He is poor; this is a\nvexation, an obstacle. But could he not sell all his future work in a\nlump to some publisher for a considerable sum? He thought of doing so.\nThese out-bursts did not fail to trouble the Overbecks, who augured ill\nof a liaison so bizarre and of an enthusiasm so ready.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche at last received Lou Salom\u00e9's reply: she did not\nwish to marry. An unhappy love affair, which had just crossed her life,\nleft her, she said, without strength to conceive and nourish a new\naffection. She therefore refused Nietzsche's offer. But she was able to\nsweeten the terms of this refusal: the only thing of which she could\ndispose, her friendship, her spiritual affection, she offered.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche returned at once to Lucerne. He saw Lou Salom\u00e9\nand pressed her to give a more favourable reply; but the young girl\nrepeated her refusal and her offer. She was to be present in July at\nthe Bayreuth festivals, from which Nietzsche wished to abstain. She\npromised to rejoin him when they were over and to stay for some weeks\nat his side. She would then listen to his teaching, she would confront\nthe last thought of the master with that of the liberated disciple.\nNietzsche had finally to accept these conditions, these limits which\nthe young girl placed on their friendship. He advised her to read\none of his books, _Schopenhauer as Educator._ He was always glad to\nacknowledge this work of his youth, this hymn to the bravery of a\nthinker and to voluntary solitude. \"Read it,\" he said to her, \"and you\nwill be ready to hear me.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche left Basle and re-entered Germany, desirous of\nbecoming reconciled to his country. He was, as we know, accustomed to\nsuch absorbing and unexpected desires. A Swiss, whom he had met at\nMessina, had praised the beauty of Grunewald, near Berlin; he wished to\nsettle there, and wrote to Peter Gast, to whom, six weeks earlier, he\nhad suggested as a summer residence Messina.\n\nHe went to visit this Grunewald, which pleased him well enough; but he\nsaw, on the same occasion, Berlin and a few Berliners, who displeased\nhim extremely. He perceived that his last books had not been read, and\nthat his thought was ignored. He was only known as the friend of Paul\nR\u00e9e, and no doubt his disciple. This he did not like. He went without\ndelay to spend some weeks in Naumburg, where he dictated the manuscript\nof his coming book, _La Gaya Scienza_[4]. To his own people, it seems,\nto his mother and to his sister, he spoke discreetly of the new friend.\nHis gaiety amazed them: they did not discern its cause. They did not\nknow that their strange Friedrich had in his heart a sentiment, a hope\nof happiness, which Lou Salom\u00e9 had been far from discouraging.\n\nThe representation of _Parsifal_ was fixed for the 27th July. Friedrich\nNietzsche went to stay in a village of the Thuringian forests,\nTautenburg, not far from Bayreuth, where all his friends were to\nforegather: the Overbecks, the Seydlitzs, Gersdorff, Fr\u00e4ulein von\nMeysenbug, Lou Salom\u00e9, Lisbeth Nietzsche. He alone was absent from\nthe rendezvous. At this moment a word from the master would perhaps\nhave sufficed to bring him back; perhaps he waited for and hoped\nfor this word. Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug wished to make an attempt at\nreconciliation: she dared to name Nietzsche in Wagner's presence.\nWagner told her to be silent and went out of the room banging the door.\n\nSo Friedrich Nietzsche, who no doubt never knew of this overture,\nremained in those forests in which he had spent such hard days in\n1876. How miserable he had then been and now how rich he was! He had\nrepressed his doubts; a great thought animated his mind, a great\naffection his heart. Lou Salom\u00e9 had just dedicated to him, as a sign of\nspiritual sympathy, a beautiful poem.\n\n\n    TO SORROW.\n\n    _Wer kann dich fliehn, den du ergriffen hast,_\n    _Wenn du die ernsten Bliche auf ihn richtest?_\n    _Ich will nicht fl\u00fcchten, wenn du mich erfasst,_\n    _Ich glaube nimmer, dass du nur vernichtest!_\n\n    _Ich weiss, durch jedes Erden--Dasein muss du gehn,_\n    _Und nichts bleibt unber\u00fchrt von dir auf Erden:_\n    _Das Leben ohne dich--es w\u00e4re sch\u00f6n,_\n    _Und doch--auch, du bist werth, gelebt zu werden._[5]\n\n\nPeter Gast, having read these verses, thought they were Nietzsche's,\nwho rejoiced over his error.\n\n\"No,\" he wrote to him, \"this poetry is not by my hand. It is one of the\nthings which exercise upon me a tyrannical power, I have never been\nable to read it without tears; it has the accent of a voice which I\nmight have waited for, expected since my childhood. My friend Lou, of\nwhom you have not yet heard, has written it. Lou is the daughter of a\nRussian general, she is twenty years old; her mind is as piercing as an\neagle's vision, she has the courage of a lion, and yet she is a very\nfeminine child, who, perhaps, will hardly live....\"\n\nHe re-read his manuscript for the last time and sent it to the printer.\nHe hesitated a little at the moment of publishing this new collection\nof aphorisms. His friends, as he knew, would find fault with these\ntoo numerous volumes, these too brief essays, these scarcely formed\nsketches. He listened to them, heard what they had to say, answered\nthem with an apparent good will. No doubt his modesty was feigned; he\ncould not bring himself to believe that his essays, short though they\nwere, his sketches, which were so weak in form, were not worth being\nread.\n\nHe thought much of the Bayreuth festivals, but he dissembled or only\nhalf avowed his regrets. \"I am well content that I cannot go,\" he wrote\nto Lou Salom\u00e9. \"And, nevertheless, if I could be at your side, in good\nhumour to talk; if I could say in your ear this, that, well, I could\nendure the music of the _Parsifal_ (otherwise I could not).\"\n\n_Parsifal_ triumphed. Nietzsche mockingly welcomed the news. \"Long live\nCagliostro!\" he wrote to Peter Gast. \"The old enchanter has again had a\nprodigious success; the old gentlemen sobbed.\"\n\nThe \"young Russian\" came to rejoin him as soon as the festivals were\nover; Lisbeth Nietzsche accompanied her. The two ladies installed\nthemselves in the hotel where Friedrich Nietzsche awaited them; then\nhe undertook to initiate his friend.\n\nShe had heard the Christian mystery at Bayreuth, the history of human\nsorrow traversed like an ordeal and consoled at last by beatitude.\nFriedrich Nietzsche taught her a more tragic mystery: sorrow is our\nlife and our destiny itself; let us not hope to traverse it; let us\naccept it more entirely than the Christians ever did! Let us espouse\nit; let us love it with an active love; let us be, like it, ardent and\npitiless; hard to others as to ourselves; cruel, let us accept it;\nbrutal, let us accept it. To lessen it is to be cowardly; and let us\nmeditate on the symbol of the Eternal Return to practise our courage.\n\"Unforgettable for me are those hours in which he revealed to me his\nthoughts,\" wrote Miss Salom\u00e9. \"He confided them to me, as though they\nwere a mystery unspeakably hard to tell; he only spoke of them in a low\nvoice, with every appearance of the most profound horror. And truly\nlife had been for him such bitter suffering that he suffered from\nthe Eternal Return as from an atrocious certainty.\" That Miss Salom\u00e9\nlistened to these confessions with great intelligence and real emotion,\nthe pages which she afterwards wrote assure us.\n\nShe conceived a brief hymn which she dedicated to Friedrich Nietzsche:\n\n\n    \"As friend loves friend,\n    So love I thee, life surprising!\n    Do I weep or joy in thee,\n    Givest thou me joy or suffering,\n    I love thee with thy joy and pain.\n    And if thou must destroy me,\n    I shall suffer, leaving thee.\n    As the friend who teareth himself from the arms of the friend,\n    I caress thee with my whole strength:\n    Hast thou no other joy for me?\n    So be it, I have still--thy suffering.\"\n\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche, delighted with the gift, wished to reply to it\nby another gift. For eight years he had forbidden himself musical\ncomposition, which enervated and exhausted him. He undertook to compose\na sorrowful dithyramb on the verses of Miss Salom\u00e9. This work was\ntoo moving and caused him great pain: neuralgia, crises of doubt,\nbarrenness and satiety. He had to take to his bed. Even from his room\nhe addressed short notes to Lou Salom\u00e9. \"In bed, terrible attack. _I\nscorn life_.\"\n\nBut these weeks at Tautenburg had their secret history of which we know\nlittle. Lou Salom\u00e9, writes Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche, was never the sincere\nfriend of her brother; he roused her curiosity, but her passion,\nher enthusiasm, were only feigned, and she was often wearied by his\nterrible agitation. She wrote to Paul R\u00e9e, from whom Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche\nwas surprised to receive a very singular message: \"Your brother,\" he\nsaid, \"tires our friend; shorten, if it be possible, the meeting.\"\n\nWe are inclined to think that Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche was jealous of this\ninitiation which she had not received, jealous, too, of this young\nSlav, whose charm was tinged with mystery, and that we must take what\nshe has to say with caution.\n\nNo doubt, Nietzsche alarmed Lou Salom\u00e9 by the violence of his passions\nand by the loftiness of his demands. She had not foreseen, in offering\nto be his friend, the crises of a friendship ruder than a stormy love.\nHe demanded an absolute assent to each of his thoughts. The young girl\nrefused such assent: may the intellect, like the heart, be given?\nNietzsche could not brook her proud reserve, and reproached her, as\nthough it were a fault, for the independence which she wished to\npreserve. A letter to Peter Gast gives us a glimpse into these disputes.\n\n\"Lou remains another week with me,\" he wrote, on the 20th of August,\nfrom Tautenburg. \"She is _the most intelligent of all women._ Every\nfive days a little tragical scene arises between us. All that I have\nwritten to you about her is absurd, and not less absurd, no doubt, than\nwhat I now write to you.\"\n\nThis somewhat cautious and reticent phrasing does not suggest that the\nheart had escaped its captivity. Lou Salom\u00e9 left Tautenburg; Friedrich\nNietzsche continued to write letters to her, many of which are known\nto us. He confided his work and projects to Lou Salom\u00e9: he wished to\ngo to Paris or Vienna to study the physical sciences and deepen his\ntheory of the Eternal Return; for it was not enough that it should be\nfascinating and beautiful, Nietzsche wished that it should be true.\nThus we saw him, and always will see him, hampered by his critical\nspirit when he pursues a lyrical inspiration; hampered by his lyrical\ngenius when he pursues a critical analysis. He related to her the happy\nsuccess of the _Hymn to Life_ which her verses had inspired, and which\nhe was submitting to the judgment of his musical friends. An orchestral\nconductor gave him hope of a hearing: ready for hope as he was, he\ncommunicated the news. \"By this little path,\" he writes, \"we can reach\nposterity _together_--all other paths remaining open.\" On September\n16th he wrote from Leipsic to Peter Gast. \"Latest news: on the 2nd of\nOctober Lou comes here; two months later we leave for Paris; and we\nshall stay there, perhaps for years. Such are my projects.\"\n\nHis mother and sister blamed him; he knew it, and their hostility did\nnot displease him: \"All the virtues of Naumburg are against me,\" he\nwrote, \"it is well that it is so ...\"\n\nTwo months later, the friendship was broken. Perhaps we may perceive\nwhat had happened. Lou Salom\u00e9 came to find Nietzsche at Leipsic, as\nshe had promised; but Paul R\u00e9e accompanied her. No doubt she wished\nNietzsche to understand once and for all the nature of a friendship\nwhich was always open to him: free, not slavish; sympathy, not\nintellectual devotion. Had she well weighed the difficulties of such an\nenterprise, the dangers of such an attempt? These two men were in love\nwith her. What was her attitude between them? May she not have yielded,\nwhen she tried to keep them both by her, to some instinct, perhaps an\nunconscious one, of intellectual curiosity, of conquest and feminine\ndomination? Who can say, who will ever know?\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche became melancholy and suspicious. One day he\nimagined that his companions, talking together under their breath, were\nlaughing at him. A piece of gossip reached him, and upset his mind.\nThe story, puerile though it be, must be told. R\u00e9e, Nietzsche, and Lou\nSalom\u00e9 had been photographed together. Lou Salom\u00e9 and R\u00e9e had said to\nNietzsche: \"Get into this child's cart: we will hold the shafts; it\nwill be a symbol of our union.\" Nietzsche had answered: \"I refuse; Miss\nLou will be in the cart; we will hold the shafts, Paul R\u00e9e and I.\" This\nMiss Lou did. And she (according to the story repeated to him) sent the\nphotograph to numerous friends, as a symbol of her supremacy.\n\nA more cruel thought soon began to torture Friedrich Nietzsche: Lou\nand R\u00e9e are in agreement against me, he thought; their agreement\ncondemns them, they love one another and are deceiving me. Then all\nbecame poor and vile around him. A miserable strife terminated the\nspiritual adventure of which he had dreamed. He lost his strange and\nseductive disciple; he lost the best and most intelligent friend of his\nlast eight years. Finally, affected and impaired by these humiliating\nconditions, he himself did a wrong to friendship and denounced R\u00e9e to\nLou.\n\n\"He has a marvellous mind,\" he said, \"but it is feeble and aimless.\nHis education is the cause of the trouble: every man should have been\nbrought up in some sort for a soldier. And every woman, in some sort,\nfor a soldier's wife.\"\n\nNietzsche had neither the experience nor the necessary resolution to\ndecide an infinitely painful situation. His sister, who detested Miss\nSalom\u00e9, encouraged his suspicions and his rancours. She intervened in\na brutal manner, and, it seems, without authorisation, wrote the young\ngirl a letter which determined the rupture. Miss Salom\u00e9 was angry.\nWe have the rough draft of the last letter which Friedrich Nietzsche\naddressed to her; it throws little light on the detail of these\ndifficulties.\n\n\"But, Lou, what letters yours are! A little angry schoolgirl writes in\nthis way. What have I got to do with these bickerings? Understand me: I\nwish you to rise in my opinion; not to sink again.\n\n\"I only reproach you for this: you ought to have sooner given an\naccount of what I expected from you. At Lucerne I gave you my essay on\nSchopenhauer--I told you that my views were essentially there, and that\nI believed that they would also be yours. Then you should have read\nand said: No (in such matters I hate all _superficiality_). You would\nhave spared me much! Your poem, 'Sorrow,' written by you, is a profound\ncounter-truth.\n\n\"I believe that no one thinks more good things of you than I do, or\nmore bad. Do not defend yourself: I have already defended you, to\nmyself and to others, better than you could do it. Creatures like you\nare only bearable to others when they have a _lofty object_.\n\n\"How poor you are in veneration, in gratitude, in piety, in courtesy,\nin admiration, in delicacy--I do not speak of higher things. How would\nyou answer if I asked you: Are you brave? Are you incapable of treason?\n\n\"Do you not then feel that when a man like myself approaches you, he\nneeds to constrain himself very greatly? You have had to do with one of\nthe most for-bearing and benevolent of men possible: but against petty\negoism and little weaknesses, my argument, know it well, is _disgust._\nNo one is so easily conquered by disgust as I. I have not deceived\nmyself again on any point whatsoever; I saw in you that holy egoism\nwhich forces us to serve what is highest in us. I do not know by what\nsorcery's aid you have exchanged it for its contrary, the egoism of the\ncat, which only desires life.\n\n\"Farewell, dear Lou, I shall not see you again. Protect your soul from\nlike deeds, and succeed better with others in regard to things that, so\nfar as I am concerned, are irreparable.\n\n\"I have not read your letter to the end, but I have read too much of\nit. Your,\n\n\"F. N.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche left Leipsic.\n\n\n[1] This formula is given in the _Wille zur Macht,_ paragraph 286.\n\n[2] This intimate history has never been known except to a few people,\nwho are now, for the most part, out of our ken. Two women survive: one,\nFrau F\u00f6rster-Nietzsche, has published some accounts which one would\nwish were more lucid and tranquil; the other, Miss Salom\u00e9, has written\na book on Friedrich Nietzsche in which some facts are indicated and\nsome letters cited; she has refused to enter into polemics on a subject\nwhich, as she considers, concerns herself alone. Oral traditions are\nnumerous and contradictory. Some, rife in Roman society, where the\nadventure took place, are less favourable to Miss Salom\u00e9; she appears\nas a sort of Marie Bashkirtseff, an intellectual adventuress who was\nsomewhat too enterprising. Others, rife in Germany among Miss Salom\u00e9's\nfriends, are very different. We have heard all these traditions. The\nfirst have influenced the account which we have given in the _Cahiers\nde la quinzaine,_ the second volume of the tenth series, pp. 24 _et\nseq._; the second, which we learned later, we now prefer. But all hope\nof certainty must be adjourned.\n\n[3] \"Da ist eine Seele welche sich mit einen Hauch eine K\u00f6rperchen\ngeschaffen hat.\"\n\n[4] The _y_ in the word _Gaya_ does not seem to be Italian. We follow\nNietzsche's orthography.\n\n[5] \"Who that hath once been seized by thee can fly, if he hath felt\nthy grave look turned on him? I shall not save myself, if thou takest\nme, I shall never believe thou dost naught but destroy. Yea, thou must\nvisit all that liveth upon earth, nothing upon earth can evade thy\ngrip: life without thee--it were beautiful, yet--thou too art worthy to\nbe lived.\"\n\n\n\nII\n\n\n_Thus Spake Zarathustra_\n\n\nHis departure was prompt, like a flight. He passed through Basle and\nstopped with his friends the Overbecks, who listened to his plaint.\nHe had awakened from his last dream; everyone had betrayed him: Lou,\nR\u00e9e, feeble and perfidious; Lisbeth, his sister, who had acted grossly.\nOf what betrayal did he complain, and of what act? He did not say,\nand continued his bitter complaints. The Overbecks wished him to stay\nwith them for some days. He escaped them; he wished to work, and\nsurmount alone the sadness of having been deceived, the humiliation of\nhaving deceived himself. Perhaps he also wished to put to profit that\ncondition of paroxysm and the lyrical _sursum_ whither his despair had\ncarried him. He left. \"To-day,\" said he to his friends, \"I enter into a\ncomplete solitude.\"\n\nHe left, and stopped in the first instance at Genoa. \"Cold, sick. I\nsuffer,\" he wrote briefly to Peter Gast. He left this town, where\nhe was importuned perhaps by memories of a happier time, and moved\naway along the coast. At the time of which we speak, Nervi, Santa\nMargherita, Rapallo, Zoagli, were places unknown to the tourist, market\ntowns inhabited by fishermen who, each evening, drew in their barques\nto the recesses of the coves and sang as they mended their nets.\nFriedrich Nietzsche discovered these magnificent spots, and chose, to\nhumiliate his misery there, the most magnificent of them, Rapallo. He\nrelates, in simple language, the circumstances of his sojourn:\n\n\"I spent my winter, 1882 to 1883, in the charming and quiet bay of\nRapallo that is hollowed out by the Mediterranean not far from Genoa,\nbetween the promontory of Portofino and Chiavari. My health was not of\nthe best; the winter was cold, rainy; a little inn,[6] situated at the\nvery edge of the sea, so near it that the noise of the waves prevented\nme sleeping at night, offered me a shelter very unsatisfactory from\nall points of view. Nevertheless--and it is an instance of my maxim\nthat all that is decisive comes 'nevertheless '--it was during this\nwinter and in this discomfort that my noble Zarathustra was born. In\nthe morning I would climb towards the south by the magnificent mountain\nroad, towards Zoagli, among the pines and dominating the immense sea;\nin the evening (according as my health permitted it) I would go round\nthe bay of Santa Margherita as far as Portofino.... On these two\nroads came to me all the first part of Zarathustra (_fiel mir ein_);\nand more, Zarathustra himself, as type; more exactly he fell upon me\n(_\u00fcberfiel mich_)....\"\n\nIn ten weeks he conceived and completed his poem. It is a new work and,\nif one affects to follow the genesis of his thought, a surprising one.\nNo doubt, he meditated a lyrical work, a sacred book. But the essential\ndoctrine of this work was to be given by the idea of the Eternal\nReturn. Now, in the first part of Zarathustra, the idea of the Eternal\nReturn does not appear. Nietzsche follows a different and opposing\nidea, the idea of the Superman, the symbol of a real progress which\nmodifies things, the promise of a possible escape beyond chance and\nfatality.\n\nZarathustra announces the Superman, he is the prophet of good tidings.\nHe has discovered in his solitude a promise of happiness, he bears this\npromise; his strength is sweet and benevolent, he predicts a great\nfuture as the reward of a great work. Friedrich Nietzsche, in other\ntimes, will put a more bitter speech into his mouth. If one reads\nthis first part, and takes care not to confound it with those which\nimmediately follow, one will feel the sanctity, the frequent suavity of\nthe accent.\n\nWhy this abandonment of the Eternal Return? Nietzsche does not write\na word which throws light upon this mystery. Miss Lou Salom\u00e9 tells\nus that at Leipsic, during his short studies, he had realised the\nimpossibility of founding his hypothesis in reason. But this did not\ndiminish the lyrical value of which he knew how to take advantage\na year later; and this cannot explain, in any case, the appearance\nof a contrary idea. What are we to think? Perhaps his stoicism was\nvanquished by the betrayal of his two friends. \"_In spite of all,_\" he\nwrote on December 3rd to Peter Gast, \"I would not like to live these\nlatter months over again.\" We know that he never ceased to experience\nin himself the efficacy of his thoughts. Incapable of enduring the\ncruel symbol, he did not think that he could sincerely offer it to men,\nand he invented a new symbol, Uebermensch, the Superman. \"I do not\ndesire a recommencement,\" he writes in his notes (_ich will das leben\nnicht wieder)._ \"How was I able to endure the idea? In creating, in\nfixing my view on the Superman, who says _yea_ to life, I have myself\ntried to say _Yea_--alas!\"\n\nTo the cry of his youth: _Ist Veredlung m\u00f6glich?_ (Is the ennobling\nof man possible?) Friedrich Nietzsche desires to reply, and to reply\n_Yes._ He wishes to believe in the Superman, and succeeds in doing\nso. He can grasp this hope; it suits the design of his work. What\ndoes he propose to himself? Among all the inclinations which urge\nhim, this one is strong: to answer the _Parsifal,_ to oppose work to\nwork. Richard Wagner desired to depict humanity drawn from its languor\nby the Eucharistie mystery, the troubled blood of men renovated by\nthe ever poured out blood of Christ. Friedrich Nietzsche wishes to\ndepict humanity saved from languor by the glorification of its own\nessence, by the virtues of a chosen and willing few which purify and\nrenew its blood. Is this all his desire? Surely not. _Thus Spake\nZarathustra_ is more than an answer to the _Parsifal._ The origins of\nNietzsche's thoughts are always grave and distant. What is his last\nwish? He desires to guide and direct the activity of men; he wishes to\ncreate their morals, assign to the humble their tasks, to the strong\ntheir duties and their commandments, and to raise them all towards a\nsublime destiny. As a child, as a youth, as a young man, he had this\naspiration; at thirty-eight years of age, at this instant of crisis and\nof decision, he finds it again and desires to act. The Eternal Return\nno longer satisfies him: he cannot consent to live imprisoned in a\nblind nature. The idea of the Superman on the contrary captivates him:\nit is a principle of action, a hope of salvation.\n\nWhat is the import of this idea? Is it a reality or a symbol? It is\nimpossible to say. Nietzsche's mind is rapid and always oscillating.\nThe vehemence of the inspiration which carries him along leaves\nhim neither leisure nor strength to define. He hardly succeeds in\nunderstanding the ideas which agitate him, and interprets them himself\nin divers ways. At times, the Superman appears to him as a very serious\nreality. But more often, it seems, he neglects or disdains all literal\nbelief, and his idea is no more than a lyrical phantasy with which he\ntrifles for the sake of animating base humanity. It is an illusion,\na useful and beneficent illusion, he would say, were he still a\nWagnerian, dared he to re-adopt the vocabulary of his thirtieth year.\nThen he had liked to repeat the maxim from Schiller: _Dare to dream\nand to lie._ We may believe that the Superman is chiefly the dream and\nfalsehood of a lyrical poet. Every species has its limits which it\ncannot transgress. Nietzsche knows this and writes it.\n\nIt was a painful labour. Friedrich Nietzsche, ill-disposed to conceive\na hope, had frequent revolts against the task which he imposed on\nhimself. Every morning on awakening from a sleep which chloral had\nrendered sweet, he rediscovered life with frightful bitterness.\nConquered by melancholy and rancour, he wrote pages which he had at\nonce to re-read attentively, to correct or erase. He dreaded these bad\nhours in which anger, seizing him like a vertigo, obscured his best\nthoughts. Then he would evoke his hero, Zarathustra, always noble,\nalways serene, and seek from him some encouragement. Many a passage of\nhis poem is the expression of this agony. Zarathustra speaks to him:\n\n\n    \"Yea: I know thy danger. But by my love and hope,\n    I conjure thee: reject not thy love and thy hope.\n\n    \"The noble one is always in danger of becoming an\n    insolent, a sneering one and a destroyer. Alas, I have\n    known noble ones who lost their highest hope. Then\n    they slandered all high hopes.\n\n    \"By my love and my hope I conjure thee; do not cast\n    away the hero in thy soul! believe in the holiness of thy\n    highest hope.\"\n\n\nThe struggle was always perceptible; nevertheless Friedrich Nietzsche\nadvanced his work. Every day he had to learn wisdom anew, and to\nmoderate, crush, or deceive his desires. He succeeded in this rude\nexercise and managed to bring back his soul into a calm and fecund\ncondition. He completed a poem which was but the opening of a vaster\npoem. Zarathustra, returning towards the mountains, abandons the world\nof men. Twice again, before he dictates the tables of his law, he is\nto descend to it. But what he says suffices to give us a glimpse of\nthe essential forms of a humanity obedient to its \u00e9lite. It consists\nof three castes: at the bottom, the popular caste, allowed to retain\nits humble beliefs; above, the caste of the chiefs, the organisers and\nwarriors; above the chiefs themselves, the sacred caste, the poets who\ncreate the illusions and dictate the values. One recalls that essay by\nRichard Wagner on art, religion, and politics, formerly so much admired\nby Nietzsche: in it a similar hierarchy was proposed.\n\nIn its ensemble the work is serene. It is Friedrich Nietzsche's finest\nvictory. He has repressed his melancholy; he exalts force, not\nbrutality; expansion, not aggression. In the last days of February,\n1882, he wrote these final pages, which are perhaps the most beautiful\nand the most religious ever inspired by naturalistic thought.\n\n\"My brethren, remain faithful to the earth, with all the force of your\nlove! Let your great love and your knowledge be in accord with the\nmeaning of the earth. I pray you and conjure you.\n\n\"Let not your virtue fly far from terrestrial things, and beat its\nwings against the eternal walls! Alas! there is always so much virtue\ngone astray!\n\n\"Like myself, bring back towards the earth the virtue which goes\nastray--yea, towards the flesh and towards life; that it may give a\nmeaning to the earth, a human meaning....\"\n\nWhilst he completed the composition of this hymn on the Genoese\ncoast, Richard Wagner died in Venice. Nietzsche learnt the news\nwith a grave emotion, and recognised a sort of providential accord\nin the coincidence of events. The poet of _Siegfried_ was dead; so\nbe it! humanity would not be for a moment deprived of poetry, since\nZarathustra had already spoken.\n\nFor more than six years he had given no sign of life to Cosima Wagner;\nnow he had to tell her that he had forgotten nothing of past days and\nthat he shared her sorrows. \"You will approve of me in this, I am sure\"\nhe wrote to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug.[7]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the 14th of February he wrote to Schmeitzner, the publisher:\n\n\"To-day I have some news for you: I have just taken a decisive step--I\nmean, one profitable to you. It concerns a little work, scarcely\n100 pages long, entitled: _Thus Spake Zarathustra,_ a book for all\nand none. It is a poem or it is a Fifth Gospel, or something which\nhas no name; by far the most serious, and also the most happy, of my\nproductions and one that is open to all.\"\n\nHe wrote to Peter Gast and to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug: \"This year,\" said\nhe, \"no society. I shall go straight from Genoa to Sils!\" Thus did\nZarathustra, who left the great city and returned to the mountains. But\nFriedrich Nietzsche is not Zarathustra; he is feeble, solitude exalts\nand frightens him. Some weeks passed. Schmeitzner, the publisher,\nwas slow: Nietzsche grew impatient and modified his projects for the\nsummer; he wished to hear the sound of human speech. His sister, at\nRome with Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug, guessed that he was accessible and\nweary, and seized this opportunity of a reconciliation. He did not\ndefend himself and promised to come.\n\nHere he was at Rome. His old friend immediately introduced him into a\nbrilliant society. Lenbach was there, and also that Countess D\u00f6nhoff,\nto-day Princess von Buelow, an amiable woman and a great musician.\nFriedrich Nietzsche felt with vexation how different he was from these\nhappy talkers, how he belonged to another world, how they misunderstood\nhim. A curious, a singular man, they think; a very eccentric man. A\ngreat mind? No one ventured to pass this rash judgment. And Friedrich\nNietzsche, so proud when he was alone, was astonished, disturbed, and\nhumiliated. It seemed that he had not the strength to despise these\npeople who did not hearken to him; he was disquieted and began to fear\nfor his well-beloved son, Zarathustra.\n\n\"They will run through my book,\" he wrote to Gast, \"and it will be a\nsubject of conversation. That inspires me with disgust. Who is serious\nenough to hear me? If I had the authority of old Wagner, my affairs\nwould be in a better way. But at present _no one_ can save me from\nbeing delivered over to 'literary people.' To the devil!\"\n\nOther vexations affected him: he had taken to chloral, during the\nwinter, in order to combat his insomnia. He deprived himself of it and\nrecovered, not without difficulty, his normal sleep. Schmeitzner, the\npublisher, did not hurry to print _Thus Spake Zarathustra;_ what was\nthe cause of the delay? Nietzsche enquired and was told: Five hundred\nthousand copies of a collection of hymns had first to be printed for\nthe Sunday-schools. Nietzsche waited some weeks, received nothing,\nasked again; another story: the collection of hymns was published, but\na big lot of anti-Semitic pamphlets had to be printed and thrown upon\nthe world. June came: _Zarathustra_ had not yet appeared. Friedrich\nNietzsche lost his temper and suffered for his hero, who was thwarted\nby the two platitudes, Pietism and anti-Semitism.\n\nHe was discouraged and ceased to write; he left his luggage at the\nstation with the books and manuscripts which he had brought: one\nhundred and four kilos of paper. Everything in Rome harassed him: the\nnasty people, a mob of illegitimates; the priests, whom he could not\ntolerate; the churches, \"caverns with unsavoury odours.\" His hatred\nof Catholicism is instinctive and has far-off origins; always when he\napproaches it, he shudders. It is not the philosopher who judges and\nreproves; it is the son of the pastor, who has remained a Lutheran: who\ncannot endure the other Church, full of incense and idols.\n\nThe desire came to him to leave this town. He heard the beauty of\nAquila praised. Friedrich von Hohenstaufen, the Emperor of the\nArabs and the Jews, the enemy of the popes, resided there; Friedrich\nNietzsche wished to reside there, too. Still, the room which he\noccupied was a fine and well-situated one, Piazza Barberini, at the\nvery top of a house. There one could forget the town: the murmur of\nwater falling from a triton's horn stilled the noise of humanity and\nsheltered his melancholy. There it was that, one evening, he was to\nimprovise the most poignant expression of his despair and solitude:\n\n\"I am light; alas if I were night! But this is my solitude, to be\nalways surrounded by light.\n\n\"Alas that I am not shadow and gloom! How I would drink from the\nbreasts of light!\n\n\"... But I live in my own light, I drink the flames which escape from\nme!\"\n\n_Thus Spake Zarathustra, a Book for All and None,_ at last appeared\nduring the first days of June.\n\n\"I am very much on the move,\" wrote Nietzsche. \"I am in agreeable\nsociety, but as soon as I am alone I feel moved as I have never been.\"\nHe soon knew the fate of his book. His friends spoke to him very little\nof it; the newspapers, the reviews, did not mention it; no one was\ninterested in this Zarathustra, the strange prophet who in a biblical\ntone taught unbelief. \"How bitter it is!\" said Lisbeth Nietzsche and\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug; these two women, Christians at heart that they\nwere, took offence. \"And I,\" wrote Nietzsche to Peter Gast, \"I who find\nmy book so gentle!\"\n\nThe heat dispersed this Roman society. Friedrich Nietzsche knew\nnot where to go. He had hoped for such different days! He had been\npersuaded that he would move lettered Europe, that he would at last\nattract readers to himself, or (more precisely perhaps) that he would\nattract, not towards his feeble self, but towards Zarathustra, who was\nso strong, disciples or even servitors. \"For this summer,\" he wrote in\nMay to Peter Gast, \"I have a project: to choose, in some forest, some\ncastle formerly fitted up by the Benedictines for their meditations,\nand to fill it with companions, chosen men ... I must go on a quest for\nnew friends.\" About the 20th June, thunderstruck by the loss of his\nhopes, he went up towards his favourite retreat, the Engadine.\n\nLisbeth Nietzsche, who was returning to Germany, accompanied him. Never\nhad she seen him more brilliant or more gay, she said, than during\nthese few hours of travel. He improvised epigrams, _bouts-rimes,_ the\nwords of which his sister suggested; he laughed like a child, and, in\nfear of troublesome people who would have disturbed his delight, he\ncalled and tipped the guard at every station.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche had not seen the Engadine since that summer of\n1881 in which he had conceived the Eternal Return and the words\nof Zarathustra. In the clutch of these memories and of the sudden\nsolitude, carried away by a prodigious movement of inspiration, he\nwrote in ten days the second part of his work.\n\nIt was bitter. Friedrich Nietzsche could no longer repress the\nrancours, the menace of which he had felt last winter; he could\nno longer unite force to sweetness; \"I am not a hunter of flies,\"\nZarathustra used to say, and he disdained his adversaries. He had\nspoken as a benefactor, and he had not been heard. Nietzsche put\ninto his mouth another speech: \"Zarathustra the judge,\" he wrote in\nhis short notes; \"the manifestation of justice in its most grandiose\nform; of justice which fashions, which constructs, and which, as a\nconsequence, must annihilate.\"\n\nZarathustra the judge has only insults and lamentations upon his lips.\nHe sings this nocturnal chant which Nietzsche, at Rome, had one evening\nimprovised for himself alone:\n\n\"I am light; alas if I were night! But this is my solitude, to be\nalways surrounded by light.\"\n\nThis is no longer the hero whom Friedrich Nietzsche had created so\nsuperior to all humanity; it is a man in despair, it is Nietzsche, in\nshort, too weak to express anything beyond his anger and his plaints.\n\n\"Verily, my friends, I walk among men as among the fragments and\nmembers of man.\n\n\"To see men broken and scattered as though they lay over a butcher's\nshambles, this is to my eye the most frightful thing.\n\n\"And when my eye fleeth from the present to the past, it ever findeth\nthe same: fragments, members, and frightful catastrophes--but no men!\n\n\"The present and the past upon the earth--alas, my friends, these are\nto _me_ the most unbearable things; and I could not live were I not a\nvisionary of what must come.\n\n\"A visionary, a creator, the future itself and a bridge unto the\nfuture--alas! in some sort also, a cripple upon this bridge:\nZarathustra is all this.... I walk among men, the fragments of the\nfuture: of the future which I contemplate in my visions.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche derided the moral commandments which had upheld\nancient humanity: he wished to abolish them and to establish his own.\nShall we know it at length, this new law? He delays in telling it to\nus. \"The qualities of the Superman become more and more visible,\"\nhe writes in his notes. He would wish that it were so; but can he,\nabsorbed as he is in discontent and bitterness, enunciate, define a\nform of virtue, a new good, a new evil, as he had promised? He tries.\nHe is the prey of a bitter and violent mood, and the virtue which he\nexalts is naked force undisguised, that savage ardour which moral\nprescriptions have always wished to attenuate, vary, or overcome. He\nyields to the attraction which it exercises upon him.\n\n\"With delight I regard the miracles which the ardent sun brings to\nbirth, says Zarathustra. They are tigers, palm-trees, rattlesnakes....\nVerily, there is a future even for evil, and the hottest noon has not\nyet been discovered for man.... One day there will come to the world\nthe greatest dragons.... Thy soul is so far from what is great that\nthou wouldst find the Superman awful in his goodness.\"\n\nThere is emphasis upon this page. The words are noisy rather than\nstrong. Perhaps Nietzsche disguises in this way an embarrassment of\nthought: he does not insist upon this gospel of evil, and prefers\nto adjourn the difficult moment in which his prophet will announce\nhis law. Zarathustra must first complete his duties as judge, the\nannihilator of the weak. He must strike: with what weapon? Here\nNietzsche again takes up the idea of the Eternal Return which he\nhad withdrawn from his first section. He modifies the sense and the\napplication of it. It is no longer an exercise of spiritual life,\na process of internal edification; it is a hammer, as he says, an\ninstrument of moral terrorism, a symbol which disperses dreams.\n\nZarathustra assembles his disciples and wishes to communicate to them\nthe doctrine, but his voice falters; he is silent. Suddenly he is moved\nby pity, and the prophet himself suffers as he evokes the terrible\nidea. He hesitates at the moment that he is about to destroy these\nillusions of a better future, these expectations of another life and\nof a spiritual beatitude which veil from men the misery of their state.\nHe grows anxious. A hunchback, who divines this, interpolates with a\nsneer: \"Why doth Zarathustra speak unto his disciples otherwise than\nhe speaketh unto himself?\" Zarathustra feels his fault and seeks a new\nsolitude. The second part is thus completed.\n\nOn the 24th June of this year, 1882, Nietzsche was installed at Sils;\nbefore the 10th of July he wrote to his sister:\n\n\"I beg you instantly to see Schmeitzner and engage him orally or by\nwriting, as you think best, to give the second part of _Zarathustra_ to\nthe printer as soon as the manuscript is delivered. This second part\nexists to-day: try to imagine it, the vehemence of such a creation;\nyou will scarcely be able to exaggerate it. There is the danger. In\nHeaven's name, arrange things with Schmeitzner; I am too irritable\nmyself.\"\n\nSchmeitzner promised and kept his word; in August the proofs arrived.\nNietzsche had not strength enough to correct them and left the work to\nPeter Gast and his sister. The terrible things which he had said, the\nmore terrible things which he had yet to say, bruised him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOther vexations were added to the melancholy of his thought. An awkward\nstep on his sister's part awoke again the dissensions of the previous\nsummer. In the spring, during their reconcilement, he had said to her,\naware of her quarrelsome nature: \"Promise me never to go back on the\nstories of Lou Salom\u00e9 and of Paul R\u00e9e.\" For three months she had kept\nher peace, then she broke her word and spoke. What did she say? We\ndo not know; we are again in the obscurity of this obscure history.\n\"Lisbeth,\" he wrote to Madame Overbeck, \"absolutely wants to avenge\nherself on the young Russian.\" No doubt she reported to him some fact,\nsome observation of which he was ignorant. A sickening irritation laid\nhold of him. He wrote to Paul R\u00e9e, and this is the letter, a sketch of\nwhich has been found. (Was it sent as we read it? It is not certain.)\n\n\"Too late, almost a year too late, I learn of the part which you took\nin the events of last summer, and my soul has never been so overwhelmed\nwith disgust as it is at present, to think that an insidious individual\nof your kind, a liar and a knave, had been able to call himself my\nfriend for years. It is a crime, in my opinion, and not only a crime\nagainst me, but above all against friendship, against this very empty\nword, friendship.\n\n\"Fie, sir! So you are the calumniator of my character, and Miss Salom\u00e9\nhas only been the mouthpiece, the very unsatisfactory mouthpiece, of\nthe judgment which you passed on me; so it is you who, in my absence,\nnaturally, spoke of me as though I were a vulgar and low egoist, always\nready to plunder others; so it is you who have accused me of having,\nso far as concerned Miss Salom\u00e9, pursued the most filthy designs under\na mask of idealism; so it is you who dare to say of me that I was mad\nand did not know what I wanted? Now, of a surety, I understand better\nthe whole of this business which has made men whom I venerated and many\nwhom I esteemed, as my nearest and dearest, strangers to me.... And I\nthought you my friend; and nothing, perhaps, for seven years has done\nmore harm to my prospects than the trouble that I took to defend you.\n\n\"It seems then that I am not very well advanced in the art of knowing\nmen. That furnishes you no doubt with matter for mockery. What a fool\nyou have made of me! Bravo! As regards men of your stamp, rather than\nunderstand them, I had rather they mocked me.\n\n\"I would have great pleasure in giving you a lesson in practical\nmorals with a pair of pistols; I would succeed perhaps, under the most\nfavourable circumstances, in interrupting once and for all your works\non morals: one needs clean hands for that, Dr. Paul R\u00e9e, not dirty\nones!\"\n\nThis letter cannot be considered sufficient to condemn Paul R\u00e9e.\nFriedrich Nietzsche wrote it in a moment of anger upon information\ngiven by his sister, who was often more impassioned than accurate. It\nis a precious witness to his impression; to the ill-known data of the\ncause, it is a mediocre witness. What was the conduct of Paul R\u00e9e?\nWhat were the rights and wrongs? In April, 1883, six months after the\ndifficulties of Leipsic, he had offered Nietzsche the dedication of a\nwork on the origins of the moral conscience, a work altogether inspired\nby Nietzschean ideas. Nietzsche had refused this public compliment: \"I\nno longer want,\" he wrote to Peter Gast, \"to be confounded with any\none.\" A letter written by George Brandes in 1888 shows us Paul R\u00e9e\nliving in Berlin with Miss Salom\u00e9, as \"brother and sister,\" according\nto both their accounts. There is no doubt that R\u00e9e helped Miss Salom\u00e9,\ntowards 1883, to write her book on Friedrich Nietzsche: a very\nintelligent and a very noble book. We incline to believe that between\nthese two men there was only the misfortune of a common love which the\nsame woman inspired in them.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche wrote long and febrile letters. He complained of\nbeing alone at forty years, betrayed by his friends. Franz Overbeck\ngrew anxious and went up to Sils-Maria to distract him from the\nsolitude which wounded and consumed him. His sister, a prudent lady,\nand bourgeois in her tastes, advised him in answer to his complaints:\n\"You are alone, it is true,\" said she to him; \"have you not sought\nsolitude? Get an appointment in some University: when you have a title\nand pupils, you will be recognised and people will cease to ignore\nyour books.\" Nietzsche listened indulgently, but did listen, and wrote\nto the Rector of Leipsic, who, without hesitation, dissuaded him from\nmaking any overtures, no German University being in a position to allow\nan atheist, a declared anti-Christian, among its teachers. \"This reply\nhas given me courage!\" wrote Nietzsche to Peter Gast; to his sister he\nsent a strong letter whose thrusts she felt.\n\n\"It is necessary that I be misunderstood, better still, I go to meet\ncalumny and contempt. My 'near ones' will be the first against me: last\nsummer I understood that, and I was magnificently conscious that I was\nat last on my road. When it comes to me to think, 'I can no longer\nendure solitude,' then I experience an unspeakable _humiliation before\nmyself_--I feel myself in revolt against what there is of highest in\nme....\"\n\nIn September he directed his steps towards Naumburg, where it was his\nintention to stay some weeks. His mother and sister inspired in him a\nmixed feeling, which baffles analysis. He liked his own people because\nthey were his own, and because he was tender, faithful, infinitely\nsensible to memories. But every one of his ideas, every one of his\ndesires, drew him from them, and his mind despised them. Nevertheless\nthe old house of Naumburg was the only place in the world where there\nwas, so long as he stayed there for a short time only, some sweetness\nof life for him.\n\nMother and daughter were quarrelling. Lisbeth loved a certain F\u00f6rster,\nan agitator, an idealogue of Germanist and anti-Semitic views, who was\norganising a colonial enterprise in Paraguay. She wished to marry him\nand to follow him; her despairing mother wished to retain her. Madame\nNietzsche welcomed her son as a saviour and related to him the mad\nprojects which Lisbeth was forming. He was overwhelmed; he knew the\nperson and his ideas, he despised the low and dull passions which the\npropaganda excited, and suspected him of having spoken maliciously of\nhis work. That Lisbeth, the companion of his childhood, should follow\nthis man was more than he could allow. He called her, spoke violently\nto her. She answered him bravely. There was little that was delicate\nor subtle in this woman's composition, but she had energy. Friedrich\nNietzsche, so weak in the depth of his soul, valued in her the quality\nwhich he lacked. He might sermonise, scold, but he could not get his\nway.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe late autumn came, and Naumburg was covered with fogs. Nietzsche\nleft and went to Genoa. These quarrels had lessened his self-respect.\n\n\"Things go badly with me, very badly,\" he wrote in October to Fr\u00e4ulein\nvon Meysenbug; \"my visit in Germany is the cause. I can live only at\nthe seaside. Every other climate depresses me, destroys my nerves and\neyes, makes me melancholy, puts me into a black humour--that awful\ntare; I have had to combat it in my life more than the hydras and other\ncelebrated monsters. In trivial ennui is hidden the most dangerous\nenemy; great calamity adds to one's stature....\"\n\nTowards mid-November he left Genoa, and, circling the western coast,\nbegan the quest for a winter residence. He passed by San Remo, Mentone,\nMonaco, and stopped at Nice, which enchanted him. There he found that\nkeen air and that plenitude of light, that multitude of bright days\nwhich he needed: \"Light, light, light,\" he wrote'; \"I have regained my\nequilibrium.\"\n\nThe cosmopolitan city displeased him, and at first he rented a room\nin a house of the old Italian city, not Nice, but Nizza, as he always\nwrote. For neighbours he had quite simple people, workmen, masons,\nemploy\u00e9s, who all spoke Italian. It was in similar conditions that in\n1881 he had enjoyed at Genoa a certain happiness.\n\nHe chased away his vain thoughts and made an energetic effort to\ncomplete _Zarathustra._ But then arose the greatest of his misfortunes:\nthe difficulty of his work was extreme, perhaps insurmountable. To\ncomplete _Zarathustra_--what did that imply? The work was immense:\nit had to be a poem which would make the poems of Wagner forgotten;\na gospel which should make the Gospel forgotten. From 1875 to 1881,\nduring six years, Friedrich Nietzsche had examined all the moral\nsystems and shown the illusion which is at their foundation; he had\ndefined his idea of the Universe: it was a blind mechanism, a wheel\nwhich turned eternally and without object. Yet he wished to be a\nprophet, an enunciator of virtues and of purposes: \"I am he who\ndictates the values for a thousand years,\" he said in those notes in\nwhich his pride bursts forth. \"To imprint his hand on the centuries, as\non soft wax, write on the will of millennia as upon brass, harder than\nbrass, more noble than brass, there,\" Zarathustra was to say, \"is the\nbeatitude of the Creator.\"\n\nWhat laws, what tables, did Nietzsche wish to dictate? What values\nwould he choose to honour or depreciate? and what right had he to\nchoose, to build up an order of beauty, an order of virtue, in nature,\nwhere a mechanical order reigns? He had the right of the poet, no\ndoubt, whose genius, the creator of illusions, imposes upon the\nimagination of man this love or that hatred, this good or that evil.\nThus Nietzsche would answer us, but he did not fail to recognise the\ndifficulty. On the last pages of the second part of his poem he avowed\nit.\n\n\"This, this is my danger,\" says Zarathustra, \"that my glance throweth\nitself to the summit, whereas my hand would fain grasp and rest\nupon--the void.\"\n\nHe wished to bring his task to a head. He had felt, this very summer,\nas something very close and urgent, the tragic menace that hung over\nhis life. He was in haste to complete a work which he could at last\npresent as the expression of his final desires, as his final thought.\nHe had intended to complete his poem in three parts; three were written\nand almost nothing was said. The drama was not sketched. Zarathustra\nhad to be shown at close quarters with men, announcing the Eternal\nReturn, humiliating the feeble, strengthening the strong, destroying\nthe ancient ways of humanity; Zarathustra as lawgiver dictating his\nTables, dying at last of pity and of joy as he contemplates his work.\nLet us follow his notes:--\n\n\"Zarathustra reaches at the same moment the most extreme distress and\nhis greatest happiness. At the most terrible moment of the contrast, he\nis broken.\n\n\"The most tragical history with a divine d\u00e9nouement.\n\n\"Zarathustra becomes gradually more grand. His doctrine develops with\nhis grandeur.\n\n\"The Eternal Return shines like a sun setting on the last catastrophe.\"\n\n\"In the last section great synthesis of him who creates, who loves, who\ndestroys.\"\n\nIn the month of August, Nietzsche had indicated a d\u00e9nouement. His\ncondition of mind was then very bad, and his work suffered in\nconsequence. He now took up the draft again, and tried to make the best\nof it.\n\nIt was a drama which he had the ambition to write. He places his\naction in an antique frame, in a city devastated by the pest. The\ninhabitants wish to commence a new era. They seek a lawgiver; they call\nZarathustra, who descends among them, followed by his disciples.\n\n\"Go,\" said he to them, \"announce the Eternal Return.\"\n\nThe disciples are afraid and avow it.\n\n\"We can endure thy doctrine,\" they say, \"but can this multitude?\"\n\n\"We must make an experiment with truth!\" answers Zarathustra. \"And if\nthe truth should destroy humanity, so be it!\"\n\nThe disciples hesitate again. He commands: \"I have put in your hands\nthe hammer which must strike men; strike!\"\n\nBut they fear the people and abandon their master. Then Zarathustra\nspeaks alone. The crowd as it hears him is terrified, loses its temper\nand its wits.\n\n\"A man kills himself: another goes mad. A divine pride of the poet\nanimates him: everything _must_ be brought to light. And at the moment\nthat he announces the Eternal Return and the Superman together, he\nyields to pity.\n\n\"Everyone disowns him. 'We must,' they say, 'stifle this doctrine and\nkill Zarathustra.'\n\n\"'There is now no soul on the earth who loves me,' he murmurs; 'how\nshall I be able to love life?'\n\n\"He dies of sadness on discovering the suffering which is his work.\n\n_\"'Through love I have caused the greatest sorrow;_ now I yield to the\nsorrow which I have caused.'\n\n\"All go, and Zarathustra, left alone, touches his serpent with his\nhand: 'Who counsels wisdom to me?'--The serpent bites him. The eagle\ntears the serpent to bits, the lion throws itself upon the eagle. As\nsoon as Zarathustra sees the combat of the animals, he dies.\n\n\"Fifth Act: The Lauds.\n\n\"The league of the faithful who sacrifice themselves upon the tomb\nof Zarathustra. They had fled: now, seeing him dead, they become the\ninheritors of his soul and rise to his height.\n\n\"Funeral ceremony: 'It is we who have killed him.'--The Lauds.\n\n\"The great Noon. Midday and eternity.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche abandoned this plan, which yet gives glimpses of\ngreat beauty. Did he dislike displaying the humiliation of his hero?\nProbably, and we shall note his search for a triumphant d\u00e9nouement.\nBut it is chiefly to be noted that he has dashed against a fundamental\ndifficulty, the nature of which he perhaps does not plainly conceive:\nthe two symbols on which he bases his poem, the Eternal Return and the\nSuperman, in conjunction create a misunderstanding which renders the\ncompletion of the work impossible. The Eternal Return is a bitter truth\nwhich suppresses all hope. The Superman is a hope, an illusion. From\none to the other there is no passage, the contradiction is complete.\nIf Zarathustra teaches the Eternal Return, he will fail to excite in\nmen's souls an impassioned belief in superhumanity. And if he teaches\nthe Superman, how can he propagate the moral terrorism of the Eternal\nReturn? Nevertheless, Friedrich Nietzsche assigns him these two tasks;\nthe breathless disorder of his thoughts drives him to this absurdity.\n\nDoes he clearly perceive the problem? We do not know. These real\ndifficulties against which he breaks are never avowed. But if he\nperceives them ill, at least he feels the inconvenience and seeks by\ninstinct some way of escape.\n\nHe writes a second sketch which is certainly skilful: the same scene,\nthe same fever-stricken city, the same supplication to Zarathustra,\nwho comes among a decimated people. But he comes as a benefactor and\nis careful about announcing the terrible doctrine. First, he gives\nhis laws and has them accepted. Then, and only then, will he announce\nthe Eternal Return. What are these laws which he has given? Friedrich\nNietzsche indicates them. Here is one of the very rare pages, in which\nwe discern the order which he has dreamed.\n\n\"_(a)_ The day divided afresh: physical exercises for all the ages of\nlife. Competition as a principle.\n\n         .      .      .      .      .     .\n\n\"_(b)_ The new nobility and its education. Unity. Obtained by\nselection. For the foundation of each family, a festival.\n\n\"_(c)_ The _experiments._ (With the _wicked, punishments._) Charity\nin a new form, based on a concern for the generations to come. The\nwicked respectable so far as they are destroyers, for destruction is\nnecessary. And also as a source of strength.\n\n\"To let oneself be taught by the wicked, not to deny them competition.\nTo utilise the degenerate.--Punishment justifiable when the criminal is\nutilised for experimental purposes (for a new aliment). Punishment is\nthus made holy.\n\n\"_(d)_ To save woman by keeping her woman.\n\n\"_(e)_ The _slaves_ (a hive). The humble and their virtues. To teach\nthe enduring of repose. Multiplication of machines. Transformation of\nthe machines into beauty.\n\n\"'For you faith and servitude!'\n\n\"The times of _solitude._ Division of the times and days. Food.\nSimplicity. A feature of union between the poor and the rich.\n\n\"Solitude necessary from time to time, that the being may examine\nhimself and concentrate.\n\n         .      .      .      .      .     .\n\n\"The _ordinance of festivals,_ founded on a system of the Universe:\nfestival of cosmic relations, festival of the earth, festival of\nfriendship, of the great Noon.\"\n\nZarathustra explains his laws, he makes them loved by all; he repeats\nhis sermons nine times, and finally announces the Eternal Return. He\nspeaks to the people; his words have the accent of a prayer.\n\n_The great question:_\n\n\"The laws have already been given. Everything is ready for the\nproduction of the Superman--grand and awful moment! Zarathustra reveals\nhis doctrine of the Eternal Return--which may now be endured; he\nhimself, for the first time, endures it.\n\n\"_Decisive moment:_ Zarathustra interrogates all this multitude\nassembled for the festival.\n\n\"'Do you wish,' he says, 'the return of it all?' All reply: Yes!\n\n\"He dies of joy.\n\n\"Zarathustra dying holds the earth locked in his arms. And although no\none said a word, they all knew that Zarathustra was dead.\"\n\nIt is a fine issue: Nietzsche was soon to find it too easy, too fine a\none. This Platonic aristocracy, rather quickly established, left him\nin doubt. It corresponded exactly to his desires; did it correspond to\nhis thoughts? Nietzsche, ready in the destruction of all the ancient\nmoralities, did not find that he had the right of proposing another\nso soon? _All answered: Yes!_ Was that conceivable? Human societies\nwould always draw after them an imperfect mass which would have to be\nconstrained by force or by laws. Friedrich Nietzsche knew it: \"I am a\nseer,\" he wrote in his notes; \"but my conscience casts an inexorable\nlight upon my vision, and I am myself the doubter.\" He gave up this\nlast plan. Never was he to recount the active life and the death of\nZarathustra.\n\nNo document admits us to the secret of his sadness. No letter, no\nword presents us with the expression of it, We may, surely, take this\nvery silence as the avowal of his distress and humiliation. Friedrich\nNietzsche had always wished to write a classical work, a history,\nsystem, or poem, worthy of the old Greeks whom he had chosen for\nmasters. And never had he been able to give a form to this ambition.\n\nAt the end of this year 1883 he had made an all but despairing attempt;\nthe abundance, the importance of his notes let us measure the vastness\nof a work which was entirely vain. He could neither found his moral\nideal nor compose his tragic poem; at the same moment he fails in his\ntwo works and sees his dream vanish. What is he? An unhappy soul,\ncapable of short efforts, of lyrical songs and cries.\n\nThe year 1884 opened sadly. Some chance fine weather in January\nreanimated him. Suddenly he improvised: no city, no people, no laws; a\ndisorder of complaints, appeals, and moral fragments which seem to be\nthe debris left over from the ruin of his great work. It is the third\npart of Zarathustra. The prophet, like Friedrich Nietzsche, lives alone\nand retired upon his mountain. He speaks to himself, deceives himself,\nforgets that he is alone; he threatens, he exhorts a humanity which\nneither fears nor hearkens to him. He preaches to it the contempt\nof customary virtues, the cult of courage, love of strength and of\nthe nascent generations. But he does not go down to it, and no one\nhears his predication. He is sad, he desires to die. Then, Life, who\nsurprises his desire, comes to him and raises his courage.\n\n\"O Zarathustra!\" says the goddess, \"do not crack thy whip so terribly.\nThou knowest, noise murdereth thought. And even now I have very tender\nthoughts. Hear me, thou art not faithful enough unto me, thou lovest me\nnot nearly as much as thou sayst, I know, for thou thinkest of leaving\nme....\"\n\nZarathustra listens to the reproach, smiles and hesitates. \"True,\" he\nsays at last, \"but thou also knowest. ...\" They gaze at each other,\nand he tells her something in her ear, among all her confused, stupid\nyellow tresses. \"What though I die?\" he says; \"nothing can separate,\nnothing can reconcile, for every moment has its return, every moment is\neternal.\"\n\n\"What,\" answers the goddess, \"that thou knowest, Zarathustra? That no\none knoweth.\"\n\nTheir eyes meet. They look at the green meadow over which the cool of\nevening was spreading; they weep, then, in silence, they listen, they\nunderstand the eleven sayings of the old bell which strikes midnight in\nthe mountain.\n\n_One!_ Oh man! Lose not sight!\n\n_Two!_ What saith the deep midnight?\n\n_Three!_ I lay in sleep, in sleep;\n\n_Four!_ From deep dream, I woke to light.\n\n_Five!_ The world is deep,\n\n_Six!_ And deeper than ever day thought it might.\n\n_Seven!_ Deep is its woe--\n\n_Eight!_ And deeper than woe--delight.\n\n_Nine!_ Saith woe: Pass, go!\n\n_Ten!_ Eternity's sought by all delight--_Eleven!_ Eternity deep by\nall delight.[8]\n\n_Twelve!_\n\n         .      .      .      .      .     .\n\nThen Zarathustra rises: he has recovered his security, his sweetness,\nand his strength. He takes up his staff and sings as he goes down\ntowards men. A similar versicle completes the seven strophes of his\nhymn:\n\n\n    \"Never yet have I found the woman by whom I would like to\n    have children, if it be not the woman whom I love: for I\n    love thee, oh Eternity!\n\n    \"For I love thee, oh Eternity!\"\n\n\nAt the opening of the poem Zarathustra entered the great town--the\nMulti-coloured Cow he names it--and began his apostolate. At the end of\nthe third part Zarathustra descends to the great town to recommence his\napostolate there. Friedrich Nietzsche, a vanquished warrior, after two\nyears of labour, has quailed. In 1872 he sent to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug\nthe interrupted series of his lectures on the future of Universities:\n\"It gives one a terrible thirst,\" he said to her, \"and, in the long\nrun, nothing to drink.\" The same words apply to his poem.\n\n\n[6] Albergo la Poata (information given by M Lanzky).\n\n[7] An unpublished letter, communicated by M. Romain Rolland.\n\n[8] Translation published by T. Fisher Unwin.\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\n_Heinrich von Stein_\n\nIn April, 1884, the third and fourth sections (of _Zarathustra)_ were\npublished simultaneously. For the moment Nietzsche seems to have been\nhappy.\n\n\"Everything comes in its own good time,\" he wrote to Peter Gast on\nMarch 5th. \"I am forty and I find myself at the very point I proposed,\nwhen twenty, to reach at this age. It has been a fine, a long, and a\nformidable passage.\"\n\n\"To you,\" he wrote to Rohde, \"who are _homo litteratus,_ I need not\nhesitate to avow that in my opinion I have with this _Zarathustra_\nbrought the German language to its pitch of perfection. After Luther\nand Goethe a third step remained to be taken--and consider, my old and\ndear comrade, were ever strength, subtlety, and beauty of sound so\nlinked in our language? My style is a dance; I trifle with symmetries\nof all sorts, and I play on these symmetries even in my selection of\nvowels.\"\n\nThis joy lasted only for a little while. Without fresh work to hand\nNietzsche's ardour had no purpose and turned to ennui. Should he\narrange his system methodically, draw up a \"philosophy of the future\"?\nHe considers this, but finds that he is weary of thought and of\nwriting. What he needs is rest and the refreshment of music; but the\nmusic which he could love does not exist. Italian music is flabby,\nGerman music preachy, and his taste is for the live and the lyrical;\nfor something grave and delicate; something rhythmical, scornful, and\npassionate. _Carmen_ pleases him well enough, and yet to _Carmen_ he\nprefers the compositions of his disciple, Peter Gast. \"I need your\nmusic,\" he wrote to Gast.\n\nPeter Gast was at this time in Venice, where Nietzsche wished to join\nhim. But Venice was damp, and he dared not leave Nice before mid-April.\nClearly an invalid's exigencies are becoming each year more and more\nurgent. A gloomy day lowers his spirits, a week without the sun\nprostrates him.\n\nOn the 26th of April he arrived in Venice. Peter Gast found rooms for\nhim not far from the Rialto, with windows that opened on the Grand\nCanal. He had not been in Venice for four years, and it was with a\nchild's pleasure that he remade the acquaintance of the loved city. He\nstayed in the labyrinth of Venice; Venice--whose spirit is compounded\nof the magic of sun and water, the gracefulness of a gay and tactful\npeople, and glimpses of unexpected gardens with flowers and mosses\nspringing among the stones. \"One hundred profound solitudes,\" he notes,\n\"compose Venice--hence her magic. A symbol for the men of the future.\"\nFor four or five hours every day he walked the little streets as he had\nwalked the hills, sometimes isolating himself, sometimes moving with\nthe Italian crowd.\n\nHe was endlessly reflecting upon the difficulties of his task. What\nshould he write next? He had thought of annotating some verses of\nhis poem by means of a series of pamphlets, but then no one had read\nthe words of Zarathustra. Those friends to whom they had been sent\npreserved a melancholy silence which constantly astonished him. A young\nauthor, Heinrich von Stein, was almost alone in sending him a word of\nwarm congratulation. Nietzsche therefore gave up the idea, feeling that\nit would be ridiculous to comment upon a Bible which the public ignored.\n\nVery seriously he considered a \"philosophy of the future.\" His\nintention was to give up, or at least to defer, further work on his\npoem; he would confine himself to long study--\"five, six years of\nmeditation and of silence, maybe\"--and formulate his system in a\nprecise and definite manner. Various projects were in his mind when,\ntowards the middle of June, he left Venice for Switzerland. He wished\nfirst to read certain books on historical and natural science in the\nlibraries of Basle, but his stay in that town was brief, for he found\nthe heavy heat oppressive and his friends there failed to please him.\nEither they had not read _Thus Spake Zarathustra_ or they had read it\nvery badly. \"I might have been among cows,\" he wrote to Peter Gast,\nand returned to the Engadine.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the 20th of August Heinrich von Stein wrote that he was coming.\n\nStein was at this time a very young man, scarcely twenty-six years\nof age. But there was no German writer of whom greater things were\nexpected than of him. In 1878 he had published a little volume called\n_The Ideals of Materialism, Lyrical Philosophy._ Friedrich Nietzsche\nmade the acquaintance of the author, in whose essay he recognised a\nresearch analogous to his own. He thought that he had found a kindred\nspirit, a comrade in his task; but this hope deceived him. Fr\u00e4ulein\nvon Meysenbug had prided herself on bringing Heinrich von Stein under\nWagner's influence. It was her defect to be always more benevolent than\nfar-sighted. Thanks to her good offices, Wagner's house was opened to\nStein as it had been opened ten years earlier to Nietzsche, and there\nStein lived in spite of Nietzsche's warning, \"You admire Wagner, and it\nis right that you should do so--provided your admiration does not last\nlong.\" Wagner talked, and Stein, who could neither free himself from\nthe master's influence nor oppose it, listened. His intellectual quest,\nwhich had hitherto been unquiet but fruitful, now came to an end. He\nclosed his notebooks; he was conquered by a man too great for him,\nsucked in and sucked dry.\n\nThe works which he published--he died at thirty--are temperate and\nacute, but they lack one quality, precisely that which gives a high\nvalue to his first essays--audacity, daring, the charm of a nascent\nthought, ill-expressed but intense.\n\nNietzsche continued to interest himself in Stein, and superintended the\nyoung man's work and his friendships. \"Heinrich von Stein,\" he wrote\nin July to Madame Overbeck, \"is at present the adorer of Miss Salom\u00e9.\nMy successor in that employment as in much else.\" The danger that Stein\nran caused him a great deal of uneasiness. Stein, however, read and\nappreciated his books, as Nietzsche rejoiced to know.\n\nHe was strangely moved on receiving the letter, for Stein had seemed\nto understand _Thus Spake Zarathustra,_ and it might be that a longing\nfor liberty was the explanation of his visit. Stein would make up to\nhim for all the friends that he had lost; and what a revenge, moreover,\nif he should conquer this disciple of Wagner's, this philosopher\nfrom Bayreuth! He hastily sent a welcome, signed \"The Solitary of\nSils-Maria.\"\n\nThere is a possible interpretation of Stein's movements which never\noccurred to Nietzsche.\n\nIt must be remembered that Stein was the intimate and faithful friend\nof Cosima Wagner; and certainly he did not now come to Nietzsche\nwithout first consulting this shrewd woman and receiving her\napprobation. Moreover, Nietzsche himself had not yet attacked, but had\nmerely withdrawn from Wagner. In July, 1882, he had seemed favourable\nto a reconciliation. Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug's endeavours, whether he\nhad authorised them or no, caused him to consider the possibility; and\nin February, 1883, after Wagner's death, he wrote to Cosima Wagner. He\nhad so far been able to avoid saying anything irreparable, and all his\nlater work, even the very end of _Zarathustra,_ with its very vague\nlyricism, did not close the door on the hope of an understanding. This\nwas Stein's own impression, and he wrote to Nietzsche:\n\n\"How I long for you to come this summer to Bayreuth and hear\n_Parsifal._ When I think of that work I imagine a poem of pure beauty,\na spiritual adventure that is purely human, the development of a youth\nwho becomes a man. I can find in _Parsifal_ no pseudo-Christianity of\nany sort and fewer tendencies than in any other of Wagner's works. If\nI write to you--in a spirit at once audacious and timid--it is not\nbecause I am a Wagnerian, but because I wish for _Parsifal_ such a\nhearer as you, and for such a hearer as you I wish _Parsifal._\"\n\nCosima Wagner's judgments were sound, and she knew Nietzsche's worth.\nShe now carried the heavy burden of Wagner's fame; she had a tradition\nto prolong, a heritage to maintain. By recalling Nietzsche to her side\nshe would aid an extraordinary man, a rare soul that was wasting itself\nin solitary effort, and she would aid herself at the same time--or so\nshe may have thought. One does not like to say in so many words that\nshe chose Heinrich von Stein as emissary and conciliator. But one may\nbe certain that she knew of, and did not disapprove, the young man's\nattempt.\n\nIf there was such a thing as a Wagnerian equal to the enterprise, it\nwas Heinrich von Stein. He was the most open-minded of the disciples.\nFor him that mysticism of doubtful quality which _Parsifal_ propagated\nwas not the last word in religion. He included Schiller, Goethe, and\nWagner in one tradition as the creators of myths and the educators\nof their age and race. For him the theatre of Bayreuth was not an\napotheosis, but a promise, an instrument for the future, the symbol of\na lyrical tradition.\n\nStein was anxious to acquit himself well of his mission, but he spoke\nlittle. It was Nietzsche himself, the man, to whom he appealed, who\nspoke, and who saw that he was heard. We may perhaps picture the\ninterview and Nietzsche's words:\n\n\"You admire Wagner? Who does not? As well as you and better than\nyou have I known, revered, and hearkened to him. I learnt from him\nnot the style of his art, but the style of his life--his valour and\nenterprise. I am aware that I have been accused of ingratitude, which\nis a word I ill understand. I have continued my work. In the best sense\nof the word, I am his disciple. You frequent Bayreuth, which is very\nagreeable for you, too agreeable. Wagner offers you for your delight\nall the legends, all the beliefs of the past--German, Celtic, pagan,\nand Christian. You should leave him for the same reason that I left\nhim, because this delight is destructive to the spirit which seeks\ntruth. Mark you, I say no word against art or religion. I believe that\ntheir day will be again. Not one of the old values will be abandoned.\nThey will re-appear, transfigured no doubt, and more powerful and more\nintense, in a world thoroughly illuminated to its depths by science.\nWe shall rediscover all the things that we loved in our childhood and\nin our adolescence, all that has upheld and exalted our fathers--a\npoetry, a goodness, the most sublime virtues, the humblest, too, each\nin its glory and its dignity. But we must accept the darkness, we must\nrenounce and search. ... The possibilities are unheard of, but alone I\nam weak. Help me, therefore; stay or come back here, six thousand feet\nabove Bayreuth!\"[9]\n\nStein listened. His diary reveals the growing vividness of his\nimpressions:\n\n\"24 viii. '84. Sils-Maria. Evening with Nietzsche.\n\n\"27. His freedom of intellect, the imagery of his speech, a great\nimpression. Snow and winter winds. Headaches. At night I watch him\nsuffer.\n\n\"29. He has not slept, but has all the ardour of a young man. A sunny\nand magnificent day!\"\n\nAfter three days, the too-youthful emissary left, greatly moved by what\nhad passed, and promising to rejoin Nietzsche at Nice, as the latter,\nat least, understood. Nietzsche felt that he had greatly carried the\nday. \"Such an encounter as ours must have an early and far-reaching\nimportance,\" he wrote to Stein a few days after his departure. \"Believe\nme, you now belong to that little band whose fate, for good or ill, is\nlinked to mine.\" Stein answered that the days at Sils-Maria were to him\na great memory, a grave and solemn moment of his life; and then, rather\nprudently, went on to speak of the binding conditions imposed on him\nby his works and his profession. What he did _not_ say was, \"Yes, I am\nyours.\"\n\nWas Nietzsche's mind open enough to perceive the reservation? One\ncannot tell. He was making marvellous plans, and dreamt anew of an\n\"ideal cloister.\" To Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug he made the na\u00efve proposal\nthat she should come to Nice and spend the winter near him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nChance permits us to discover the depths of his soul. He had gone down\nto Basle in September, and there Overbeck visited him at his hotel, and\nfound him in bed, suffering from a sick headache, very low in himself,\nand at the same time exceedingly talkative. His excited speech troubled\nOverbeck, who was initiated into the mystery of the \"Eternal Return.\"\n\"One day we shall be here together again in this very place; I again,\nas I now am, sick; you again, as now you are, amazed at my words.\" He\nspoke in a low and trembling voice, and his face was troubled--this is\nthe Nietzsche that Lou Salom\u00e9 has described. Overbeck listened gently,\nbut avoided argument of any sort, and left with evil forebodings. Not\nuntil the tragic meeting in Turin in January, 1889, was he again to see\nhis friend.\n\nNietzsche merely passed through Basle. His sister, whom he had not\nseen since the quarrel of the previous autumn, gave him a rendezvous\nat Z\u00fcrich. It was to announce her marriage, which had taken place in\nsecret some months before. She was now no longer Fr\u00e4ulein Nietzsche\nbut Madame F\u00f6rster, ready to leave for Paraguay with the colonists who\nwere under the charge of her husband. Recrimination would therefore\nhave been a waste of time. The step had been taken; Nietzsche did not\ndiscuss it, and did his best to be pleasant once again to the sister\nwho was lost to him. \"My brother,\" wrote Madame F\u00f6rster, \"seems to be\nin a very satisfactory condition. He is bright and charming; we have\nbeen together for six weeks, talking, laughing over everything.\"\n\nShe has left us a record of these days which she supposes--or\npretends to suppose--were happy. Nietzsche came upon the works of one\nFreiligrath, a mediocre and popular poet. On the cover of the volume\nwas inscribed _Thirty--eighth Edition._ With comical solemnity he\nexclaimed, \"Here, then, we have at last a true German poet. The Germans\nbuy his verse!\" He decided to be a good German for the day, and bought\na copy. He read and was hugely diverted--\n\n\n    \"W\u00fcstenk\u00f6nig ist der L\u00f6we;\n    Will er sein Gebiet durchfliegen.\"\n\n   (King of deserts is the Hon:\n    Will he traverse his dominion.)\n\n\nHe declaimed the pompous hemistiches. The Z\u00fcrich hotel resounded with\nhis childish laughter as he amused himself improvising verses on every\nsubject in the manner of a Freiligrath.\n\n\"Hullo!\" said an old general to the brother and sister. \"What is\namusing you two? It makes one jealous to hear you. One wants to laugh\nlike you.\"\n\nIt is unlikely that Nietzsche had much cause for laughter. One wonders\nwhether he could contemplate those thirty-eight editions of Freiligrath\nwithout bitterness. During his stay in Z\u00fcrich he went to the library to\nlook through the files of the newspapers and reviews for his name. It\nwould have meant a good deal to him to have read a capable criticism of\nhis work, to have seen his thought reflected in another's; but no voice\never answered his labours.\n\n\"The sky is beautiful, worthy of Nice, and this has lasted for days,\"\nhe wrote to Peter Gast on September 30th. \"My sister is with me, and it\nis very agreeable for us to be doing each other good when for so long\nwe had been doing harm only. My head is full of the most extravagant\nlyrics that ever haunted a poet's skull. I have had a letter from\nStein. This year has brought me many good things, and one of the most\nprecious of its gifts has been Stein, a new and a sincere friend.\n\n\"In short, let us be full of hope; or we may better express it by\nsaying with old Keller--\n\n\n    \"'Trinkt, O Augen, was die Wimper h\u00e4lt\n    Von dem goldnen Ueberfluss der Welt! '\"\n\n\nBrother and sister left Z\u00fcrich, the one bound for Naumburg, the other\nfor Nice. On the way Nietzsche stopped at Mentone. Hardly had he\nsettled down there than he wrote: \"This is a magnificent place. I have\nalready discovered eight walks. I hope that no one will join me. I need\nabsolute quiet.\"\n\nIt is possible that the project which he had formed at the beginning of\nthe summer, when he spoke of six years of meditation and of silence,\nwas again in his mind. But he lacked the force of will which long and\nsilent meditation demands. He was, however, deeply moved by the hope of\na friend and by the loss of a sister, and his lyric impatience broke\nthe bonds. Yielding to instinct he composed poems off-hand--songs,\nshort stanzas, epigrams. Practically all the poems which are to\nbe found in his later works--the light verse, the biting distich,\ninserted in the second edition of the _Gaya Scienza,_ the grandiose\nDionysian chants--were finished or conceived during these few weeks.\nAnd once more he began to think of the still incomplete _Thus Spake\nZarathustra._ \"A fourth, a fifth, a sixth part are inevitable,\" he\nwrites. \"Whatever happens I must bring my son Zarathustra to his noble\nend. Alive, he leaves me no peace.\"\n\nAt the end of October Nietzsche left Mentone. The sight of so many\ninvalids disturbed him, and he set out for Nice.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere an unexpected companion, Paul Lanzky by name, soon joined\nhim. Lanzky was an \"intellectual,\" by birth a German and by taste a\nFlorentine, who lived a wandering life. Chance had put the works of\nNietzsche into his hands; and he had understood them. Applying to\nSchmeitzner, the publisher, for the author's address, he was told--\"\nHerr Friedrich Nietzsche lives a very lonely life in Italy. Write\nto Poste Restante, Genoa.\" The philosopher replied promptly and\ngraciously, \"Come to Nice this winter and we will talk!\" So Nietzsche\nwas not so unsociable and solitary after all! This correspondence took\nplace during the autumn of 1883, but Lanzky was not free at the moment,\nand begged to be excused. In October, 1884, he reached the rendezvous.\nMeanwhile he had had the opportunity of acquainting himself with the\ntwo last sections of _Zarathustra,_ and had published very intelligent\nsummaries of them in a Leipsic magazine and in the _Rivista Europea_ of\nFlorence.\n\nOn the very morning of his arrival in Nice there was a knock at his\ndoor. A gentle-looking man entered the room and came towards him\nsmiling. \"Also Sie sind gekommen!\" said Nietzsche. \"So here you are!\"\nHe took him by the arm, and examined curiously this student of his\nworks. \"Let's see what you are made of!\"\n\nNietzsche's eyes were fixed upon him; those eyes which had once been\nbeautiful, and were, at moments, still beautiful, clouded though they\nnow were by reason of prolonged suffering. Lanzky was astonished. He\nhad come to do honour to a redoubtable prophet, and here was the most\naffable, the simplest, and, as it seemed to him, the most modest of\nGerman professors.\n\nAs the two men went out together, Lanzky avowed his surprise--\"\nMaster,\" he began....\n\n\"You are the first to call me by that name,\" said Nietzsche with a\nsmile. But he let the word pass, for he knew that he was a master.\n\n\"Master,\" continued Lanzky, \"what a mistaken idea of you one gathers\nfrom your books; tell me ...\"\n\n\"No, no, not to-day. You do not know Nice. I will do the honours, and\nshow you this sea, these mountains, these walks.... Another day we\nshall talk, if you will.\"\n\nBy the time they returned it was six o'clock in the evening, and Lanzky\nhad discovered how tireless a walker was his prophet.\n\nThey organised their life in common. At six o'clock in the morning it\nwas Nietzsche's custom to make himself a cup of tea, which he took\nalone; towards eight Lanzky would knock at his door and ask how he had\npassed the night--Nietzsche often slept badly--and how he intended to\nemploy his morning. Usually Nietzsche began the day by skimming the\nnewspapers in a public reading hall; he then went to the shore, where\nLanzky either joined him or respected his desire for a solitary walk.\nBoth of them lunched in their pension. In the afternoon they walked\nout together. At night, Nietzsche wrote or Lanzky read to him aloud,\noften from some French book, such as the _Letters_ of the Abb\u00e9 Galiani,\nStendhal's _Le Rouge et le Noir, La Chartreuse, L'Armance._\n\nTo live courteously, yet withhold from ordinary gaze the secret of\none's life, is a whole art in itself; and this art Nietzsche had\nmastered. Indeed, as regards the scheme of manners that he had composed\nfor himself, this solitary of the table d'h\u00f4te was, deliberately,\nhypocritical and almost cunning. More than once Lanzky was nonplussed.\nOne Sunday a young lady asked Nietzsche had he been to church.\n\n\"To-day, no,\" he replied courteously.\n\nTo Lanzky, who admired his prudence, he explained that every truth was\nnot good for everyone. \"If I had troubled that girl's mind,\" he added,\n\"I should be horrified.\"\n\nOccasionally it amused him to announce his future greatness. He would\ntell his neighbours during meals that in forty years' time he would be\nillustrious throughout Europe.\n\nThey would say: \"Well, then lend us your books.\"\n\nHe refused their requests most positively, and again explained to\nLanzky that his writings were not for the man in the street.\n\n\"Master,\" asked Lanzky, \"why do you print them?\"\n\nIt appears that no answer was given to this reasonable question.\n\nNietzsche, however, dissembled even with Lanzky. The formation of a\nsociety of friends, of an idealistic phalanstery similar to that in\nwhich Emerson lived--this old dream of his he loved to repeat and\nelaborate for him.\n\nHe often led Lanzky to the peninsula of Saint-Jean. \"Here,\" he would\nsay in Biblical phrase--\"Here we shall pitch our tents.\" He went so far\nas to select a group of little villas which seemed to be suitable for\nhis purpose. But the members were not yet decided upon, and the name of\nHeinrich von Stein, the only friend, the only disciple whom he really\nwanted, was never mentioned in Lanzky's presence.\n\nThere was no news of Stein's coming, nor of his plans. To Nietzsche\nhe gave no sign. We may assume that he had gone to Sils-Maria to\nconciliate, if possible, the two masters. But one of them had said that\nhe must choose between the two: perhaps he had been disturbed for a\nmoment. He returned, however, to his Germany, and there he saw Cosima\nWagner again. Nietzsche had required that he should choose, and he\nremained faithful to Wagner.\n\nNietzsche anticipated a new desertion. He was afraid, and, yielding to\na humble and mournful impulse, wrote, in the form of a poem, an appeal\nwhich he addressed to the young man:\n\n\n    O midday of life! O solemn time!\n    O garden of summer!\n    Unquiet happiness I am there: listening, waiting!\n    Night and day, living in hope of the friend;\n   \"Where are ye, friends? Come! It is time, it is time!\"[10]\n\n\nHeinrich von Stein felt it incumbent upon him to reply. He wrote: \"To\nan appeal such as yours there is but one suitable reply. It is that I\nshould come and give myself entirely to you, vowing, as to the noblest\nof tasks, all my time to the understanding of the new Gospel which you\nhave to preach. But this is forbidden me. An idea, however, strikes me.\nEvery month I entertain two friends and read with them some article\nfrom the Wagner-Lexicon. It is taken as text, and, on it, I speak to\nthem. These conversations are becoming more and more lofty and free.\nLatterly we have found this definition of \u00e6sthetic emotion--a passage\nto the impersonal through very fulness of personality. I think that our\nmeetings would please you. And how if Nietzsche should now and again\nsend us the text? Would you communicate with us in this way? Would you\nnot see in such a correspondence an introduction, a step towards your\nidea of a cloister?\"\n\nThis letter was obviously the letter of an excellent pupil, and it\nexasperated Nietzsche. Wagner was named, doubtless intentionally, and\nthe Wagnerian Encyclopedia, the sum of an absurd and puerile theology,\nwas indicated as the text of Stein's meditations. Here was the old\nadversary again standing in the way, Wagner, the quack of thought, the\nseducer of young men. F\u00f6rster, who was taking his sister from him, was\na Wagnerian; and Heinrich von Stein, on Wagner's account, refused him\nhis devotion. It was a cruel liberty that he had won, alone and at the\ncost of a struggle whose wounds he still bore. He wrote to his sister:\n\n\"What a foolish letter Stein has written me in answer to such poetry!\nI am painfully affected. Here I am ill again. I have recourse to the\nold means [chloral], and I utterly hate all men, myself included, whom\nI have known. I sleep well, but on waking I experience misanthropy and\nrancour. And yet there can be few men living who are better disposed,\nmore benevolent than I!\"\n\nLanzky remarked Nietzsche's trouble of mind without suspecting the\ncause. The crisis was very severe, but Nietzsche did not allow himself\nto be crushed by it and laboured energetically. More often now than\nheretofore he walked alone, and Lanzky would watch him trip as lightly\nas a dancer across the Promenade des Anglais or over the mountain\npaths. He would leap and gambol at times, and then suddenly interrupt\nhis capers to write down a few words with a pencil. What was the new\nwork on which he was busy? Lanzky had no idea.\n\nOne morning in March he entered, as was his custom, the little room\nwhich the philosopher occupied, to find him in bed notwithstanding the\nadvanced hour. He made anxious enquiries.\n\n\"I am ill,\" said Nietzsche; \"I have just had my confinement.\"\n\n\"What's that you say?\" asked Lanzky, much perturbed.\n\n\"The fourth part of _Zarathustra_ is written.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThis fourth section does not enable us to discover at length an advance\nin the work, an attained precision of thought. It is merely a singular\nfragment, an \"interlude,\" as Nietzsche called it. It illustrates a\nstrange episode in the life of the hero, one which has disconcerted\nmany a reader. We may perhaps best understand it if we consider the\ndeception to which Nietzsche has just been subjected.\n\nThe superior men go up to Zarathustra and surprise him in his\nmountainous solitude: an old pope, an old historian, an old king,\nunhappy beings who are suffering from their abasement and wish to ask\nsuccour of a sage whose strength they feel. Was it not thus that Stein,\nthat distinguished young man, etiolated by Bayreuth, went to Nietzsche?\n\nZarathustra admits these superior men to his presence, and keeping\nin check his savage humour, makes them sit down in his cave, is sorry\nfor their disquietude, listens and talks to them. Was it not thus that\nNietzsche had received Stein?\n\nZarathustra's soul is in its depths less hard than it should be, and\nhe allows himself to be seduced by the morbid charm and delicacy of\nthe superior men; he takes pity on them and, forgetting that their\nmisery is irremediable, yields to the pleasures of hope. He had looked\nfor friends, and, perhaps, with these \"superior men\" they have come at\nlast. Had not Nietzsche hoped for some help from Stein?\n\nZarathustra leaves his friends for a moment, and ascends alone to the\nmountain. He returns to his cave to find the \"superior men,\" all of\nthem prostrate before a donkey. The aged pope is saying Mass before the\nnew idol. In this posture Stein, interpreting a Wagnerian bible with\ntwo friends, had been surprised by Nietzsche.\n\nZarathustra hunts his guests away, and calls for new workmen for a new\nworld. But will he ever find them?\n\n\"My children, my pure-blooded race, my beautiful new race; what is it\nthat keeps my children upon their isles?\n\n\"Is it not time, full time--I murmur it in thine ear, good spirit of\nthe tempests,--that they should return to their father? do they not\nknow that my hair grows gray and whitens in waiting?\n\n\"Go, go, spirit of the tempests, indomitable and beneficent! Leave thy\ngorges and thy mountains, precipitate thyself upon the seas and bless\nmy children before the night has come.\n\n\"Bear them the benediction of my happiness, the benediction of that\ncrown of happy roses! Let these roses fall upon their isles, let\nthem remain fallen there, as a sign, which asks: 'Whence can such a\nhappiness come?'\n\n         .      .      .      .      .     .\n\n\"Then they shall ask: 'Still lives he, our father Zarathustra? What,\ncan our father Zarathustra be still alive? Does our old father,\nZarathustra, still love his children?'\n\n\"The wind breathes, the wind breathes, the moon shines bright--Oh my\nfar-off, far-off children, why are ye not here, with your father? The\nwind breathes no cloud passes over the sky, the world sleeps. Oh, joy!\nOh, joy!\"\n\nNietzsche omitted this page from his work. Perhaps he felt ashamed of\nso plain and so melancholy an avowal.\n\nThe fourth part of _Zarathustra_ found no publisher. A few months\nearlier Schmeitzner had informed Nietzsche that \"the public would not\nread his aphorisms.\" He now contented himself with stating that the\npublic had chosen to ignore _Zarathustra;_ and there the matter rested,\nso far as he was concerned.\n\nNietzsche then made certain overtures which only hurt his pride and had\nno result; then he took a more dignified course and had the manuscript\nprinted at his own expense in an edition limited to forty copies.\nTo tell the truth, his friends were not so numerous. He found seven\nconsignees--none of whom were truly worthy. If we may guess, these were\nthe seven: his sister--whose loss he never ceased to deplore; Overbeck\n-a strict friend, an intelligent reader, but cautious and reserved;\nBurckhardt, the Basle historian--who always replied to Nietzsche's\nmessages, but was too polite to be easily fathomed; Peter Gast--the\nfaithful disciple whom, no doubt, Nietzsche found too faithful and\nobedient; Lanzky--his good companion of the wintertide; Rohde--who\nscarcely disguised the ennui that these forced readings gave him.\nThese were the seven, we may presume, who received copies of the work,\nand not all of them troubled to read this fourth and last section,\nthe interlude which ends, and yet does not complete, _Thus Spake\nZarathustra._\n\n\n[9] Phrase in a passage from _Ecce Homo._\n\n[10]\n\n    \"Oh Lebens Mittag! Feierliche Zeit!\n    Oh Sommergarten!\n    Unruhig Gl\u00fcck im Stehn und Spahn und Warten!\n    Der Freunde harr' Ich, Tag und Nacht bereit;\n    Wo bleibt ihr, Freunde? Kommt! s'ist Zeit! s'ist Zeit!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nTHE FINAL SOLITUDE\n\n\nI\n\n_Beyond Good and Evil_\n\nThe lyrical work was abandoned. At moments Friedrich Nietzsche was\nto regret and wish to resume it; but these were brief velleities.\n\"Henceforth,\" he wrote (this time the assurance is exact), \"I shall\nspeak, and not Zarathustra.\"\n\nThe work remained in an incomplete condition. Nietzsche knew it, and\nthe mass of thoughts which he had not expressed saddened him like a\nremorse. He was about to attempt another test. It was without joy that\nhe returned to philosophy and strove to express in abstract terms what,\nas poet, he had failed to utter. He opened new notebooks, he essayed\ntitles: _The Will to Power, a new interpretation of Nature ... The Will\nto Power, an essay towards a new interpretation of the universe ..._.\nThese formulas, the first that he had found, were to stand. Nietzsche\nresumed and developed here the Schopenhauerian datum. The foundation of\nthings, he thinks, is not a blind _will to live;_ to live is to expand,\nit is to grow, to conquer: the foundation of things may be better\ndefined as a blind _will to power,_ and all the phenomena that arise in\nthe human soul may be interpreted as a function of this will.\n\nIt was an immense work of prudent reflection which Nietzsche envisaged\nwith fear. How should one discern in the soul of men what is power and\nwhat is, without doubt, weakness? Perhaps the anger of Alexander is\nweakness, and the mystic's exaltation power. Nietzsche had hoped that\ndisciples, philosophers or physiologists, would have made the necessary\nanalyses for him. Heinrich von Stein's help would have been precious.\nBut, being alone, he had to assume every task. He grew sad. Denuded\nof lyricism, thought had no attraction for him. What does he love?\nInstinctive strength, finesse, grace, ordered and rhythmical sounds--he\nloves Venice and dreams of the fine weather which will allow him to fly\nfrom this Nice pension where the food and the company are so bad. On\nthe 30th of March he writes to Peter Gast:\n\n\"DEAR FRIEND,--It seldom happens that I consider a removal with\npleasure. Bat on this occasion:--when I think that I shall soon be at\nVenice, and near you, I grow animated, am ravished; it is like the hope\nof cure after a long and terrible sickness. I have made this discovery:\nVenice remains till to-day the only place which is always sweet and\ngood to me.... Sils-Maria as a place of passage suits me very well; but\nnot as a residence. Ah! if I could contrive to live there worthily as a\nhermit or solitary! But--Sils-Maria becomes fashionable!\n\n\"My dear friend and maestro, you and Venice are linked for me. Nothing\ngives me more pleasure than your persistent taste for this town. How\nmuch I have thought of you in these times! I was reading the memoirs\nof old De Bross\u00e9 (1739-40) on Venice and on the maestro who was then\nadmired there, Hasse (il detto Sassonne). Do not get angry, I haven't\nthe least intention of making disrespectful comparisons between you.\n\n\"I have just written to Malvida: thanks to Peter Gast, our friends the\nlow comedians, the self-styled geniuses of music, gone hence very soon,\nwill cease to corrupt taste. 'Gone hence very soon'--is, perhaps, a\ngross exaggeration. In a _democratic_ period few men discern beauty:\n_pulchrum paucorum est hominum,_ I rejoice that for you I am one of\nthese 'few.' The profound and joyous men who please me, _avec des\names m\u00e9lancoliques et folles_[1] like my defunct friends Stendhal and\nthe Abb\u00e9 Galiani, could not have stayed on the earth if they had not\nloved some musician of joy (Galiani without Puccini, Stendhal without\nCimarosa and Mozart).\n\n\"Ah, if you knew how alone I am in the world at present! and how I must\nplay a comedy to prevent myself from spitting, now and again, in some\none's face, out of satiety. Happily some of the courteous manners of my\nson Zarathustra exist also in his rather crazed father.\n\n\"But when I shall be with you, and in Venice, then, for a time, there\nwill be an end of 'courtesy' and 'comedy' and 'satiety' and of all the\nmalediction of Nice, won't there, my good friend?\n\n\"Not to be forgotten: we shall eat _ba\u00efcoli_!\n\n\"Cordially,\n\n\"F. N.\"\n\nIn April and May Nietzsche sojourned at Venice, and found the joy\nfor which he had hoped. He wandered through the little sheltered and\nmurmurous streets, he contemplated the beautiful town. He listened to\nthe music of his friend. The galleries of St. Mark's Square shaded\nhis walks and he compared them to those porticoes of Ephesus whither\nHeraclitus went to forget the agitation of the Greeks and the sombre\nmenace of the Persian Empire. \"How easily,\" he thinks, \"one here\nforgets the sombre Empire--our own; let us not defame our Europe;\nshe still offers us beautiful refuges! It is my finest workroom,\nthis Piazza San Marco....\" This shortlived happiness awoke the\npoetic impulse in him. He wished to chant the triumph and death of\nZarathustra, now for some hours drawn from oblivion. He wrote out a\nsketch, but soon abandoned it; it was his last.\n\nJune brought him back to the Engadine. The chances of hotel life\nprocured him a secretary; a certain Madame R\u00f6der, otherwise unknown,\noffered to help him. He dictated and tried to grasp his problem more\nclosely. What was his end? To criticise that multitude of moral\njudgments, prejudices and routines which fetter modern Europeans; to\nappraise their vital value, that is to say, the quantity of energy\nwhich they express, and thus to fix a hierarchy of virtues. He wished\nfinally to realise the _Umwerthung aller Werthe_ (he found this\nformula), \"the transvaluation of all values.\" \"All,\" he writes; his\npride was not content with less. He then recognised, and succeeded in\ndefining, certain modes of virtue which the professional moralists\nknew not how to observe: mastery over oneself, dissimulation of one's\nintimate sentiments, politeness, gaiety, exactitude in obedience and\ncommand, deference, exigence of respect, taste for responsibilities and\nfor dangers. Such were the usages, the tendencies, to-day depreciated,\nof the old aristocratic life, the sources of a morality more virile\nthan our own.\n\nIt is probable that he then undertook some serious enough readings. He\nstudied the _Biological Problems_ of Rolph, where he could find the\nanalysis of that vital growth which was the basis of his metaphysic.\nPerhaps he then read again some book by Gobineau (he admired the man\nand his works); one may hazard this conjecture. But what mattered his\nreadings? Nietzsche was forty-two years old. He had passed the age of\nlearning, he had gathered in all his ideas. Reading helped, nourished\nhis meditations, but never directed them.\n\nThe difficulty of his work was great and insomnia overcame him.\nNevertheless he persevered, and denied himself the sad joy of a final\nembrace of his sister Lisbeth, who was about to follow her husband to\nSouth America. \"You will live down there then,\" he wrote to her, \"and I\nhere, in a solitude more unattainable than all the Paraguays. My mother\nwill have to live alone and we must all be courageous. I love you and I\nweep.--FRIEDRICH.\"\n\nA week passed, and he had formed other projects. He was negotiating\nwith his publisher in regard to the repurchase of his books and their\nrepublication. It was a pretext that he grasped for going to Germany.\n\"A business matter, which makes my presence of use, comes to the aid of\nmy desire,\" he wrote, and set out for Naumburg without delay.\n\nThe meeting was a grave one: brother and sister conversed tenderly on\nthe eve of a separation which they knew to be definitive. Nietzsche\nmade no secret of the difficulties of his life. \"Alone I confront a\ntremendous problem,\" he said; \"it is a forest in which I lose myself, a\nvirgin forest--_Wald und Urwald._ I need help. I need disciples, I need\na master. To obey would be sweet! If I had lost myself on a mountain,\nI would obey the man who knew that mountain; sick, I would obey a\ndoctor; and if I should meet a man capable of enlightening me on moral\nideas, I would listen to him, I would follow him; but I find no one,\nno disciples and fewer masters. \"... I am alone.\" His sister repeated\nthe advice which she had constantly given: that Friedrich should return\nto some University; young men had always listened to him, they would\nlisten to him, they would understand him. \"Young men are so stupid!\"\nanswered Nietzsche, \"and professors still more stupid! Besides, all the\nGerman Universities repel me; where could I teach?\" \"In Z\u00fcrich,\" his\nsister suggested. \"There is only one town that I can tolerate, and it\nis Venice.\"\n\nHe went to Leipsic to negotiate with his publisher, who received\nhim without much attention; his books did not sell. He returned to\nNaumburg, said a final farewell, and left.\n\nWhere was he to find a refuge for the winter? On the last occasion\nhe had been irritated by the noisy swarms of Nice. He thinks of\nVallombrosa. Lanzky had recommended this beautiful forest in the\nTuscan Apennines, and was waiting for him at Florence. Before leaving\nGermany, Nietzsche, passing through Munich, visited a former friend,\nthe Baron von Seydlitz, who introduced him to his wife and showed him\nhis Japanese collection. The wife was young and charming, the Japanese\nthings pleased Nietzsche; he discovered this art, he liked these\nstamps, these little gay objects which conformed so little to the sad\nmodern taste, so very little to the sad taste of the Germans. Seydlitz\nunderstood beautiful things, and knew how to live; Nietzsche envied him\na little. \"Perhaps it is time, dear Lisbeth,\" he wrote to his sister,\n\"for you to find me a wife. Let us say, still young, pretty, gay; in\nshort, a courageous little being _\u00e0 la Ir\u00e8ne von Seydlitz_ (we almost\n'thee and thou' each other).\"\n\nHe reached Tuscany. Lanzky received him, accompanied him, and brought\nhim to the observatory of Arcetri, on the heights of San Miniato,\nwhere lived a man of a rare kind--a reader of his books. Leberecht\nTempel kept on his table, near his bizarre instruments, the works of\nHerr Friedrich Nietzsche, many passages of which he knew by heart and\nwillingly recited. Leberecht Tempel was a singularly noble, sincere,\nand disinterested nature. The two men talked for half an hour and, it\nseems, understood each other. When Nietzsche left he was deeply moved.\n\n\"I wish that this man had never known my books,\" said he to Lanzky. \"He\nis too sensible, too good. I shall harm him.\"\n\nFor he knew the terrible consequences of his thoughts and feared for\nthose who read them suffering similar to his own.\n\nHe did not stay in Tuscany: the harsh, cold air which descended from\nthe mountains upon Florence incommoded him. He was recaptured by\nmemories of Nice, the town with two hundred and twenty days of full\nsunshine--it was from Nice that he wrote to his sister, on the 15th of\nNovember, 1885:\n\n\"Do not be astonished, dear sister, if your brother, who has some of\nthe blood of the mole and of Hamlet in his veins, writes to you not\nfrom Vallombrosa, but from Nice. It has been very precious to me to\nexperiment almost simultaneously with the air of Leipsic, of Munich,\nof Florence, of Genoa, and of Nice. You would never believe how much\nNice has triumphed in this group. I have put up, as last year, at the\nPension de Gen\u00e8ve, Petite Rue Saint-Etienne. I find it recarpeted,\nrefurnished, repainted, become very comely. My neighbour at table is a\nbishop, a Monsignor who speaks German. I think of you a great deal. Your\n\n\"PRINCE EICHORN.\"\n\n\"Here I am returned to Nice,\" he wrote in another letter, \"that is\nto say to reason.\" His pleasure is such that he observes with some\nindulgence the cosmopolitan city, and is amused by it. \"My window looks\nout on the square of the Ph\u0153nicians,\" he wrote to Peter Gast. \"What\na prodigious cosmopolitanism in this alliance of words! Don't you\nlaugh? And it's true, Ph\u0153nicians lived here. I hear sounding in the\nair something of the conqueror and the Super-European, a voice which\ngives me confidence and says to me: _Here thou art in thy place ..._.\nHow far one is from Germany here--'_Ausserdeutsch!_' I cannot say it\nwith force enough.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe returned to his habit of walking in the sun over the white roads\nwhich overlook the waves. The memories of seven years linked his\nthought with this sea, these strands, these mountains; his fantasy\nawoke, he listened to it and followed it. Not an hour passed vainly;\neach one was happy, and left, as the souvenir and witness of the\ngladness which it brought, an epigram, a poem in prose, a maxim, some\n_lied_ or song.\n\nHe defamed the moderns; it was his pleasure, and, as he thought, his\nduty as a philosopher, who, speaking for coming times, must contradict\nhis own period. In the sixteenth century a philosopher did well to\npraise obedience and kindliness. In the nineteenth century, in our\nEurope impaired by Parisian decadents and Wagnerian Germans, in this\nfeeble Europe which is ever seeking the co-operation of the masses, the\nline of least effort and the least pain, a philosopher had to praise\nother virtues. He had to affirm: \"That man is great who knows how to\nbe the most solitary, the most hidden, the most distant; who knows how\nto live beyond good and evil, the master of his virtues, powerful in\nhis will. Greatness is there. And he must urgently ask: Is greatness\npossible to-day?\"--_Ist Veredlung m\u00f6glich?_ We never cease to hear this\nquestion which he first put at twenty-six.\n\nHe defamed the Germans; this was his other pleasure, a more intimate\nand lively one. Germanised Europe had unlearned freedom. She\ndissimulated her spites, her immodesties, her cunning. She needed to\nrecover the spirit of the old world, of those Frenchmen of former times\nwho lived in so fine a liberty, with so fine a clear-sightedness and\nforce. \"We must _mediterraneanise_ music,\" wrote he, \"and our taste,\nour manners also.\" Across these pages of Nietzsche, it is easy to hear\nthe counsels of his \"defunct friends,\" Stendhal and the Abb\u00e9 Galiani.\n\n\"Men of profound melancholy,\" he wrote, \"betray themselves when they\nare happy: they seize upon their happiness as though they would\nstrangle it and stifle it out of jealousy.... Alas, they know too well\nthat happiness flies before them!\" December neared its end, and those\nfestivals, the memories of which moved his faithful heart, approached;\nNietzsche had seen his happiness in flight before him. The pleasure\nof lively thoughts, of beautiful images, did not entirely satisfy\nhim. He was no longer amused by the crowd at Nice, the square of the\nPh\u0153nicians diverted him no more. What mattered to him the _Gai\nSaber_ and its precepts--sunlight, wind and Proven\u00e7al song? He was a\nGerman, the son of a pastor, and it was with an oppressed heart that he\nwatched Christmas and Saint Sylvester's day approach--that venerated\ntime.\n\nHe took a disgust for the poor pension in which he lodged: its\nfurniture was touched by too many hands, its sitting-room degraded\nby being common property. Then the cold weather came. Being poor, he\ncould not get the warmth he needed; he froze, bitterly regretting the\nstoves of Germany. Wretched places where he cannot ever be alone! To\nthe right, a child is clattering its scales; above, two amateurs are\npractising on the trumpet and violin. Friedrich Nietzsche, yielding to\nbitterness, wrote to his sister, who was spending a last Christmas at\nNaumburg:\n\n\"How stupid it is that I have no one here who might laugh with me! If I\nwere stronger, and if I were richer, I should set up in Japan, to know\na little gaiety. At Venice I am happy because there one can live in the\nJapanese manner without too great difficulty. All the rest of Europe\nis pessimist and mournful; Wagner's horrible perversion of music is a\nparticular case of the perversion, of the universal trouble.\n\n\"Here is Christmas again, and it is sad to think that I must continue\nto live, as I have done for seven years, like a man proscribed, like a\ncynical contemner of men. No one bothers about my existence any more;\nthe Lama has 'better to do,' and in any case enough to _do...._ Isn't\nit fine, my Christmas letter? Long live the Lama!\n\n\"Your F.\n\n\"Why do you not go to Japan? It is the most sensible life, and so gay.\"\n\nEight days later he wrote a better letter; perhaps he had reproached\nhimself for his confession.\n\n\"_Ch\u00e9rie,_ the weather is magnificent to-day, and your Fritz must\nafresh put on a good face for you, though in these latter times he has\nhad nights and days that were most melancholy. By chance my Christmas\nwas a real festival day. At noon, I receive your kind presents; very\nquickly I pass round my neck your watch-chain, and slide your pretty\nlittle calendar into my waistcoat pocket. As to the 'money,' if there\nwas money in the letter (our mother wrote me that there was), it\nescaped my fingers. Excuse your blind animal who undid his packet in\nthe road; something no doubt fell from it, as I opened your letters\nvery impatiently. Let us hope that a poor old woman, passing there,\nfound her 'little child Jesus' on the pavement. Then I go on foot to\nmy peninsula of Saint Jean, I walk a great round along the coast, and\nfinally install myself not far from the young soldiers who are playing\nat skittles. Fresh-blown roses, geraniums in the hedges, everything\ngreen, everything warm: nothing of the north! There, your Fritz drinks\nthree glasses of a sweet wine of the country, and perhaps gets a trifle\ntipsy; at least he begins to talk to the waves, and, when they foam as\nthey break too strongly against the shore, he says to them, as one does\nto fowl: 'Butsch! Butsch! Butsch!' Finally, I re-enter Nice and, in the\nevening, dine at my pension in princely style in the glitter of a great\nChristmas-tree. Would you believe it, I have found a baker _de luxe_\nwho knows what 'Quackkuchen' is; he told me that the King of W\u00fcrtemburg\nhad ordered some of it, similar to the kind I like, for his birthday. I\nremembered this while I was writing _'in princely style.'_ ... In alter\nliebe,\n\n\"Your F.\n\n\"N.B.--I have begun to sleep again (without narcotics).\"\n\nIn January, February, and March, 1886, his melancholy appeared to\nbe less acute. He gave a form to his work, to those notes which his\nfantasy had dictated to him. For four years he had ceased to publish\nhis aphorisms, his short essays. The matter with which his notebooks\nsupplied him was immense. He proposed to extract a volume from it; his\nwhole task was to arrange and select.\n\nHad he forgotten the systematic work of which he had thought the\nprevious winter? No, for he always felt the heavy necessity and the\nreproach of it. He wished to make peace with his own conscience in\nregard to the delay: he needed a little pleasure, the amusement of a\nlively book, before commencing the immense work. He found a title,\n_Beyond Good and Evil;_ a sub-title, _Prelude to a Philosophy of the\nFuture._ Thus he announced the more important and always deferred work.\nHe deceived himself in connecting by an artificial tie his pleasure and\nhis duty.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRemember how joyously he used to announce the completion of the book;\nhow communicative he was and how confident! Confidence and joy are\ngone. He knows that he will not be read. But his ill-fortune always\nexceeds his expectation, and Nietzsche, once again, has not foreseen\nthe ordeal which he must endure: _Beyond Good and Evil_ finds no\npublisher. He negotiates with a house in Leipsic which declines his\nproposals. He writes to Berlin without better success. Everywhere his\nbook is refused. What is he to do with it? He thinks of cutting it up\ninto pamphlets which will perhaps reach the public more easily. He\nwrites an experimental preface.\n\n\"These pamphlets,\" he is to say, \"form a sequel to the 'Thoughts out of\nSeason' which I published some ten years ago in the hope of drawing to\nme 'my fellows.' I was then young enough to go fishing for associates\nwith an impatient hope. To-day--after a hundred years: I measure the\ntime by my measure--I am not yet old enough to have lost all hope and\nconfidence.\"\n\nBut he soon abandoned this idea too. \"There is nothing else for me to\ndo,\" he wrote to his sister, \"but to tie up my manuscript with a string\nand put it in a drawer.\"\n\nIn the spring he stayed at Venice, as his custom was, but did not\nmeet his friend, who was visiting the German towns in the vain hope\nof \"placing\" his music. Peter Gast had composed an opera, _The Lion\nof Venice,_ which was being rejected by one theatre after another.\nNietzsche wrote to comfort and encourage him. Like Nietzsche, Gast was\na German by birth, a Mediterranean in taste. The one lived at Nice, the\nother at Venice; they had the same ambition, the same unhappy destiny.\n\n\"Come back,\" he wrote to him, \"come back to the solitude in which\nwe both know how to live, in which we alone know how to live! It is\nWagnerism which bars your road, and it's also that German grossness and\nthickness which, since the 'Empire,' goes growing, growing. We must be\ncircumspect and march under arms, you and I, to prevent ourselves from\nbeing forced to die of silence....\"\n\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche felt his solitude alleviated by this comradeship in\na difficult lot. Peter Gast's distress was similar to his own; he spoke\nto him as to a brother. Peter Gast was poor: \"Let us share my purse,\"\nsaid Nietzsche; \"let us share the little that I have.\" Peter Gast grew\ndiscouraged and lost confidence in himself: Nietzsche knew this agony;\nhe knew the great necessity of confidence to the man who worked, and\nhow quickly the contempt of the public must overwhelm him. \"Courage,\"\nhe wrote; \"do not let yourself be cast down; be sure that I, at least,\nbelieve in you; I need your music; without it I could not live.\" We\nneed not doubt that Nietzsche was sincere when he thus expressed\nhimself. All his power of love and admiration, which was immense, he\nbrought to bear upon this last companion who remained to him, and his\nfriendship transfigured the music of Peter Gast.\n\nHe was unhappy, even at Venice; the light hurt the delicate nerves of\nhis eyes. As at Basle in former times, he was obliged to shut himself\nup behind closed shutters, and deny himself the pleasure of the fine\nItalian days. What refuge could he find? He recalled the vast German\nforests, so shady and beneficent to his eyes, and he took to regretting\nhis country. Though she angered him, though he revolted against her,\nhe loved Germany; how could he help loving her? Without her divine\nmusic, which had governed the impulses of his first desires, his soul\nwould have been other; without her tongue, that splendid and difficult\ninstrument, his thought would have been other. Schopenhauer and Wagner,\ntwo Germans, were his real masters, and remained so (he secretly avowed\nit); his true disciples, if ever they were to exist, would be born in\nGermany, that cruel Fatherland which he could not abjure.\n\nThence he received a piece of news which moved him: Rohde was appointed\nprofessor in the University of Leipsic. Nietzsche was happy for his\nfriend, and congratulated him in exquisite terms. Nevertheless, he\ncould not prevent himself from sadly drawing a personal moral. \"At\npresent,\" he wrote to Peter Gast, \"the Faculty of Philosophy is half\ncomposed of my 'good friends' (Zarncke, Heinze, Leskien, Windisch,\nRohde, &c.).\" Suddenly he wished to depart; he wanted to see his\nmother, whom her two children had left; he wished to attend his old\ncomrade's course; lastly, he wished to confront those famous publishers\nwho printed twenty thousand volumes a year, and refused his own. He\nleft Venice and went straight to Leipsic.\n\nHe stepped up to Rohde's rooms; the time was badly chosen. He found\na busy and preoccupied man, who received this unexpected visitor,\nthis too singular personage who had failed in life, with vexation and\nconstraint. \"I saw Nietzsche,\" Rohde wrote later in a few lines in\nwhich he explained his cold welcome. \"All his person was marked with an\nindescribable strangeness, and it disquieted me. There was about him\nsomething that I had never known, and of the Nietzsche whom I had known\nmany features were effaced. He seemed to have come from an uninhabited\nland.\" Nietzsche said: \"I would like to hear you speak.\" Rohde brought\nhim, and put him to sit among young men who were ignorant of his work\nand of his very name. Nietzsche listened, then went away. \"I have heard\nRohde at the University,\" he wrote to his sister briefly. \"I can no\nlonger communicate with any one. Leipsic is, it is clear, no place of\nrefuge or of repose for me.\"\n\nHe would have fled from Leipsic, as he had fled from Venice and Nice;\nbut the difficulty of his negotiations obliged him to remain there.\nHe applied to various publishers, and applied in vain. Finally, his\ndignity revolted. He wished his book to appear, and, however heavy the\ncost, he resolved to pay out of his own pocket the cost of the printing.\n\nHis mother was waiting for him at Naumburg, where since Lisbeth's\ndeparture she lived alone. Nietzsche felt a very lively pity for her;\nhe knew her to be desolated by the loss of her family, and in despair\nover the impieties which he published in his books. \"Don't read them,\nignore them,\" he told her ceaselessly: \"it is not for you that I\nwrite.\" Nevertheless, she could not repress her curiosity, and her\ndiscontent was never appeased. Nietzsche did not wish to leave without\ngiving her a little happiness. He went to spend a week at home; but he\nhad not the strength to keep the secret of his vexations to himself;\nhe bewailed himself, he grew exalted; he saddened the poor woman, whom\nfinally he left in a more unhappy condition than ever.\n\nPassing through Munich, he called on the Baron and Baroness von\nSeydlitz. He wished to snatch a brief repose under the roof of his\namiable host; but Seydlitz was away from home, and his house was shut\nup.\n\nNietzsche, having left this Germany which he was never again to see,\ncontinued on his road towards the Upper Engadine, from which he\nalways expected some benefit. Here in July he found himself among icy\nfogs, and felt the first symptoms of a long crisis of neuralgia and\nmelancholy.\n\n\n\nII\n\n_The Will to Power_\n\nShall we say that he met friends? Is the word suitable to those vague\nfigures, to those Russian, English, Jewish, and Swiss women who,\nseeing this charming man return each season, did not refuse him their\nquick sympathy? We set down their names: Mesdames R\u00f6der and Marasoff;\nMiss Zimmern and Fr\u00e4ulein von Salis Marschlins (this last a friend of\nFr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug); others, whose names remain unknown, may be\nguessed.\n\nHow did they judge him? Carefully he avoided any speech that might have\npained or surprised them. He kept his dangerous thoughts to himself.\nSo far as they were concerned, he wished to be, and knew how to be, an\namiable companion ... learned, refined, and reserved. Still, whatever\nsecret he made of his work, his friends did not fail to get an inkling\ninto the mystery of his reserve. One of them, an Englishwoman in\ndelicate health, whom he often went to visit and distract, broached the\nsubject.\n\n\"I know, Herr Nietzsche, why you won't let us see your books. If one\nwere to believe what you say in them, a poor, suffering creature like\nmyself would have no right to live.\"\n\nNietzsche was apologetic, and warded off the accusation as best he\ncould.\n\nAnother, having said to him one day: \"I have been told about your\nbooks. You've written in one of them, '_If thou goest among women, do\nnot forget thy whip._'\"\n\n\"Dear lady, dear friend,\" answered Nietzsche, in a pained voice, taking\nthe hands of her who reproached him in his own; \"do not misunderstand\nme; it is not thus that I am to be understood.\"\n\nDid they admire him? To dare to admire an unrecognised author a very\nsure judgment is needed; and no doubt they lacked in necessary daring.\nThey esteemed, they liked their hotel companion, and recognised his\nsingular genius in conversation; at the _table d'h\u00f4te_ they looked\nto have the place near his: little enough it seems if one consider\nhis present fame; then it was a great deal to him. He recovered in\nthe Engadine, thanks to them, a little of the confidence which was\nnecessary to his soul and which he had been losing in Germany. During\nthe summer of 1886, some good musicians passed through Sils. In\nNietzsche they discovered a very rare listener, and they liked to be\nheard by him. This courtesy touched him: \"I notice,\" he wrote to Peter\nGast, \"that our artists only sing and play for me. I should be greatly\nspoilt if this continued.\"\n\nA certain Oriental story narrates the adventures of a masked sovereign\nwho travels in his provinces; he is not recognised but divined; an\ninstinct of respect awakes at his approach. In this mountain hotel,\ndoes not Nietzsche appear as a masked, a half-divined sovereign?\n\nNevertheless it was but a poor comfort. Could these women lighten a\ndistress which they could not measure? Nietzsche was traversing that\ngrave moment of life in which a man, however unwilling to be taught,\nmust learn at last what his fate with inexorable constancy gives and\nrefuses him; he had to tear his last hopes from his heart. \"I have been\nunspeakably sad in these latter days,\" he wrote to Peter Gast, \"and\ncares have deprived me of sleep.\" The information is brief. To his\nsister he avows more; he addresses to her pages upon pages that are\nterrible in their power and monotony.\n\n\"Where are they, those old friends, with whom I formerly felt so\nclosely bound? We inhabit different worlds, we no longer speak the\nsame tongue! As a stranger, a proscribed man, I wander among them;\nnever a word, never a look now reaches me. I hold my peace--for none\nunderstands my speech--ah, I can say it, they have never understood\nme! ... It is terrible to be condemned to silence, when one has so\nmany things to say. Am I created for solitude, never to find any\none with whom I may make myself understood? Incommunicability is in\ntruth the most awful of solitudes, to be _different,_ to wear a mask\nof brass harder than any mask of brass--perfect friendship is only\npossible _inter pares. Inter pares!_ a phrase which intoxicates me:\nwhat confidence, what hope, what perfume, what beatitude it promises\nthe man who necessarily and constantly lives alone; to a man who is\n_different_--who has never met any one of his race. And nevertheless\nhe is a good seeker; he has sought much. Ah, the swift folly of those\nhours in which the solitary thinks he has found a friend, embraces him\nand holds him in his arms; it is a present from heaven, an inestimable\ngift. An hour later he rejects him with disgust, he rejects himself\nwith disgust, as though soiled, diminished, sick from his own society.\nA _profound_ man needs friends, unless indeed he has a God. And I have\nneither God nor friend! Ah, my sister, those whom you call by this\nname, once they were friends--but now?\n\n\"Excuse this burst of passion; my last journey is the cause....\n\n\"My health is neither good nor bad; it is only the poor soul which is\nwounded and thirsting. Give me a little circle of men who will listen\nto me and understand--and I am in good health.\n\n\"Here everything takes its course; the two English-women and the old\nRussian lady, the musician, have come back; the latter very ill....\"\n\nNietzsche now went on with his labours on the _Wille zur Macht._ His\nunfortunate passage through Germany had modified his arrangements. He\nthought: \"What use is it my writing warlike books? Without allies,\nwithout readers, I cannot prevent the abasement of Europe; let it\nbe brought about then. One day it will find its goal--a day which I\nshall not see. Then my books will be discovered, then I shall have\nmy readers. For them I should write, for them I should determine my\nfundamental ideas. To-day, I cannot fight, for I have not enemies\neven....\" At the beginning of July, when leaving the Germany which had\ntried him so hardly, he drew up a detailed plan. In September he wrote:\n\n\"I announce, for the next four years, the completion of my work in four\nvolumes. The title alone is alarming: _The Will to Power, an essay\ntowards a Transvaluation of all Values._ For this all is necessary to\nme--health, solitude, good humour--perhaps a wife _(eine Frau)_ also.\"\n\nIn what retirement should he compose this new work? Genoa had inspired\nthe two books which he wrote as a convalescent, _The Dawn of Day_ and\n_The Gay Science;_ Rapallo, Nice, had inspired _Zarathustra._ He now\nthought of Corsica. For long he had been curious about this savage\nisland, and, in the island itself, of a town, Corte--\n\n\"There Napoleon was not born but--what is perhaps more\nimportant--conceived, and is it not the clearly indicated spot in which\nI should undertake the transvaluation of all values? ... For me, too,\nit is a _conception_ that is in question.\"\n\nAlas! this Napoleonic work, the title of which alone should strike\nterror, thus struck its author. Nietzsche was not unaware whither that\n_\"via mala des consequences\"_ which he had been long following led him.\nSince a covetous, conquering force is at the heart of nature, every\nact which does not correspond precisely with this force is inexact and\nfeeble. He said this, he wrote it, and such indeed was his thought:\nman is never so great as when he combines an alertness and refinement\nof mind with a certain native brutality and cruelty of instinct. Thus\nthe Greeks understood _virtu,_ and the Italians _virt\u00f9._ The French\npoliticians, and, after them, Frederick II., Napoleon and Bismarck,\nacted in accordance with these maxims. Troubled by his doubts, lost\nin his problem, Nietzsche firmly grasped this fragmentary but certain\ntruth: _one must have the courage of psychological nudity,_ he was\nto write. He trained himself to it, but remained dissatisfied. His\nmind was too clear, his soul too pensive, and this definition of the\nstrongest men was too curt and icy for his dreams. Formerly he had\nchosen Schiller and Mazzini for masters. Did he admire them no longer?\nNo soul was ever as constant as his. Only he feared that, in following\nthem, he would gratify a certain feebleness, and the masters whom he\nnow wished to prefer were called Napoleon and C\u00e6sar Borgia.\n\nOn this occasion, too, he turned away from his task, shunning harsh\naffirmations. The publisher Fritsch consented, on the condition that he\nreceived pecuniary aid, to publish a second edition of the _Origin of\nTragedy, The Dawn of Day,_ and _The Gay Science._ This had long been\none of Nietzsche's desires: he wished to add prefaces to these old\nworks, to touch them up, and perhaps to add to them. He undertook this\nnew work and became absorbed in it.\n\nInstead of going to Corsica he returned to the Genoese coast, to Ruta,\nnot far from Rapallo, above Portofino, which thrusts its wooded crest\nout into the sea. Again he found the walks and familiar places in\nwhich Zarathustra had spoken to him. How sad he had then been! He had\njust lost his two last friends, Lou Salom\u00e9 and Paul R\u00e9e. Nevertheless\nhe had continued his task and, indeed, created, at the moment of his\nprofoundest sorrow, his bravest book. Friedrich Nietzsche let himself\nbe stirred by these memories of the past.\n\nHe now received a letter which was the first sign of his coming fame.\nIn August, 1886, in despair of being listened to by his compatriots,\nhe had sent his book, _Beyond Good and Evil,_ to two foreign readers,\nto the Dane Georges Brandes, and to the Frenchman Hippolyte Taine.\nGeorges Brandes did not reply. Hippolyte Taine wrote (October 17, 1886)\na letter which gave Nietzsche some joy.\n\n\"On my return from a voyage, I found the book which you were good\nenough to send me; as you say, it is full of 'thoughts from behind'\n(_'pens\u00e9es de derri\u00e8re_'); the form, which is so lively, so literary,\nthe impassioned style, the often paradoxical turn, will open the eyes\nof the reader who wants to understand; I will in particular recommend\nto philosophers your first piece on philosophers and philosophy (pp.\n14, 17, 20, 25); but the historians and critics will also have their\nshare in the booty of new ideas (for example 41, 75, 76, 149, 150, &c).\nWhat you say of national genius and character in your eighth essay\nis infinitely suggestive, and I shall re-read this piece, although I\nfind there a far too flattering word relative to myself. You do me a\ngreat honour in your letter by putting me by the side of M. Burckhardt\nof Basle, whom I greatly admire; I think that I was the first man in\nFrance to announce in the press his great work upon the _Culture of the\nRenaissance in Italy...._ With best thanks, I am,\n\n\"Yours sincerely,\n\n\"H. TAINE.\"\n\nPaul Lanzky rejoined Friedrich Nietzsche at Ruta. Not having seen him\nfor eighteen months, he was struck by the change which he observed\nin him. The body was weighed down, the features altered. But the man\nremained the same; however bitter his life had become, he was still\naffectionate and na\u00efve, quick to laughter like a child. He brought\nLanzky up the mountain which gives at every instant such magnificent\nviews over the snowy Alps and the sea. The two rested in the most\nbeautiful spots; then they gathered up bits of old timber and twigs\nfrom the autumn vines and lit fires, Nietzsche saluting the flames and\nthe rising smoke with cries of joy.\n\nIt was then, it was in this inn at Ruta, that Nietzsche drew up\nthe prefaces to _The Dawn of Day_ and _The Gay Science,_ in which\nhe recounted with so strange a vivacity his spiritual _Odyssey:_\nTriebschen and Wagner's friendship; Metz and the discovery of war;\nBayreuth, hope and mishap; the rupture with Richard Wagner; the\nbruising of his love; the cruel years which he spent deprived of poetry\nand of art; finally Italy, which gave him back both; Venice and Genoa,\nthe two towns which saved him, and the Ligurian coast, Zarathustra's\ncradle.\n\nWhile Nietzsche wrote thus and struggled against depression, may it not\nbe that he was taking drugs to excite himself to work? There is some\nevidence to suggest it. But we shall never have exact information on\nthis point. We know that he was absorbing chloral and an extract of\nIndian hemp which, in small doses, produced an inward calm; in large\ndoses, excitement. Perhaps he handled a more complicated pharmacopoeia\nin secret; it is the habit of nervous persons.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche liked this coast. \"Imagine,\" he wrote to Peter\nGast, \"a little island in the Greek archipelago, pushed down here by\nthe winds. It is a coast of pirates, swift, deceitful, dangerous....\"\nHe proposed to pass the winter there. But soon he modified his plans,\nand wished to return to Nice. Lanzky sought in vain to keep him back.\n\n\"You complain of being abandoned,\" he said to him. \"Whose fault is it?\nYou have disciples and you discourage them. You call me here, you call\nPeter Gast; and you leave.\"\n\n\"I need the light, the air of Nice,\" answered Nietzsche; \"I need the\nBay of the Angels.\"\n\nHe went alone. During this winter, he completed his prefaces, he\nre-read and touched-up his books. He lived, it seems, in a singular\ncondition of relaxation, indecision and melancholy. He sent his\nmanuscripts to Peter Gast, as he always did, but his requests for\nadvice have an unusual accent of unrest and humility. \"Bead me,\" he\nwrote in February, 1887, \"with more distrust than you generally do; say\nsimply: this will do, this won't do I like this, why not alter that,\n&c, &c.\"\n\nHe read, and his readings seemed guided by a queer curiosity and less\nunder the rigorous sway of his prejudices.\n\nHe familiarised himself with the works of the French decadents. He\nappreciated Baudelaire's writings on Richard Wagner, Paul Bourget's\n_Essais de Psychologie Contemporaine._ He read the _Contes_ of\nMaupassant and admired this \"great Latin.\" He ran through some volumes\nby Zola and did not allow himself to be seduced by a merely popular\nstyle of thought, by a merely decorative art. He bought, and commented\nin pencil on the margin, the _Esquisse d'une Morale sans obligation\nni sanction._ Guyau, like Nietzsche and at the same moment, had had\nthe idea of founding a system of morals on the expansive modalities\nof life. But he understood them in another sense and interpreted as\na force of love what Nietzsche understood as a conquering force.\nNevertheless the initial agreement was certain. Nietzsche valued\nhighly the purity and intelligence of idea which he found in the work\nof the French philosopher. The vogue of the Russian novelists was\nthen beginning. Nietzsche took an interest in these poets of a young,\nviolent, and sensitive race, whose charm he always felt. \"Do you know\nDostoievsky?\" he wrote to Peter Gast. \"No one, with the exception of\nStendhal, has so satisfied and ravished me. There is a psychologist\nwith whom I am in agreement!\" He indicated the new author to all\nhis correspondents. The religious fervour of the Slavs interested\nhim and found him indulgent. It was not a symptom of weakness, he\nthought; it was the return of an energy which could not accept the\ncold constraints of modern society and whose insubordination took\nthe form of a revolutionary Christianity. These barbarians, thwarted\nin their instincts, were disconcerted and self-accusatory; they had\nprecipitated a crisis which was still undecided, and Nietzsche wrote:\n\"This bad conscience is a malady, but a malady of the nature of\npregnancy.\" For, hoping always, he obstinately defended his thoughts\nagainst his disgusts. He wished his thoughts to remain free, kindly and\nconfident, and when there rose within him and towards them a hatred of\nEurope and of its debased peoples; when he feared that he might yield\nto his bitter humour, he corrected himself at once: \"No,\" he kept on\nsaying, \"Europe is at present richer than ever in men, in ideas, in\naspirations, better prepared for great tasks, and we must, contrary to\nall semblance, hope everything from these multitudes, though their ugly\ndisposition seems to forbid hope.\"\n\nDuring these early months of 1887, Friedrich Nietzsche became intimate\nwith a certain Madame V. P. They went together to San Remo and Monte\nCarlo. We do not know this woman's name; we have no letter, either\nwritten by her or addressed to her. We may infer some mystery, perhaps\na mystery of love.\n\nMadame V. P. was no doubt Nietzsche's companion[2] when he heard the\nprelude to _Parsifal_ at the concerts in the Casino at Monte Carlo.\nHe listened without any bitterness, with the sudden indulgence of a\nworn-out adversary. \"I loved Wagner,\" he wrote in September to Peter\nGast; \"I still love him.\" Assuredly he still loved him, when he could\nspeak as he did of this symphony which he had just heard.\n\n\"I do not seek to know whether this art can or should serve some end,\"\nhe wrote to Peter Gast, \"I ask myself: Has Wagner ever done better?\nAnd I find this: the most exact conscience and psychological precision\nin the manner of relating, expressing, and communicating emotion; the\nshortest and most direct form; every nuance of sentiment defined with\nan almost epigrammatical brevity: such descriptive clearness that\nin listening to this music one thinks of some buckler of marvellous\nworkmanship; lastly, a sentiment, a musical experience of a soul which\nis extraordinary and sublime; a \"haughtiness,\" in the formidable\nmeaning of the word; ... a sympathy, a penetration, which enters like a\nknife into the soul--and a pity for what he has discovered and judged\nat the bottom of that soul. Such beauties one finds in Dante and\nnowhere else. What painter has ever painted so melancholy a look of\nlove as Wagner in the last accents of his prelude?\"\n\nHow easy it would have been for him to be a great critic, equal in his\ndelicacy, superior in the largeness of his views, to that Sainte-Beuve\nwhom he esteemed so highly! He knew it, and found it hard to resist\nthe seductions of that \"dilettantism of analysis\"--the expression is\nhis own. His best readers of ten remarked this. \"What a historian\nyou are!\" Burckhardt used to say, and Hippolyte Taine repeated it.\nIt did not satisfy Nietzsche. He despised the calling of historian\nor of critic. He was informed by a young German whom he met at Nice\nthat the professors of T\u00fcbingen took him as a merely dissolvent mind,\nradical and nihilistic; it saddened him. He had not torn himself\nfrom the romanticism of pity and love to sink at last in the inverse\nromanticism of violence and energy. He admired Stendhal, but did not\nintend to be a Stendhalian. The Christian belief had nourished his\ninfancy, the disciplines of Pforta had ripened it, Pythagoras, Plato,\nWagner had increased, elevated his desires. He wished to be a poet and\na moralist, an inventor of virtues, venerations, and serenities: none\nof his readers, none of his friends, had understood this intention. In\ncorrecting the proofs of _The Dawn of Day,_ he re-read this old page,\nthe truth of which still held good.\n\n\"We are still on our knees before power--according to the old custom\nof slaves--and yet, when the degree of _venerability_ shall have to be\nfixed, only the degree of _rationality in power_ will be decisive; we\nhave to investigate to what extent power has indeed been overcome by\nsomething higher of which it is now the tool and instrument. But as yet\nthere is an absolute lack of eyes for such investigations; nay, in most\ncases the appraisement of genius is even considered a crime. And thus\nperhaps the most beautiful of all spectacles still takes place in the\ndark and, after bursting into bloom, soon fades into perpetual night--I\nmean the spectacle of that power which a man of genius employs, not\nin his works, but in the development of himself, regarded as a work,\nthat is, in the task of self-mastery, in the purification of his\nimagination, in his deliberate choice and ordering of the course of his\ntasks and inspirations. And yet the great man is still invisible in the\ngreatest thing which claims worship, invisible like a distant star; his\ntriumph over power continues to be without eyes, hence also without\nsong and poets. As yet the order of greatness has not been settled for\nthe sum total of human history....\"\n\nAlas, for victory over force, one must possess some exterior force,\nreason or faith. Nietzsche, denying to the one or to the other all\ntheir rights, has disarmed himself for the combat.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the beginning of March a violent earthquake terrified the\ncosmopolitan _flaneurs_ of Nice. Friedrich Nietzsche admired these\nmovements of nature which reminded man of his nothingness. Two years\nearlier the catastrophe of Krakatoa, which destroyed two thousand\nhuman beings in Java, had filled him with enthusiasm. \"It's grand,\"\nhe said to Lanzky, whom he had asked to read the telegrams to him;\n\"two thousand human beings annihilated at a stroke! It's magnificent.\nThis is how humanity should come to its end--how one day it will end.\"\nAnd he hoped that a tidal wave would at least do away with Nice and\nits peoples. \"But,\" observed Lanzky, \"we should be done away with\nourselves.\" \"What matter!\" answered Nietzsche. His almost realised\ndesire amused him. He did not advance his departure by a single day.\n\n\"Hitherto,\" he wrote on March 7th, \"among these thousands of people in\na condition of folly, I have lived with a sentiment of irony and cold\ncuriosity. But one cannot answer for oneself; perhaps to-morrow I shall\nbe as unreasonable as any one. Here there is an _impr\u00e9vu_ which has its\ncharm.\"\n\nBy the middle of March he would have ended his work on the prefaces;\nand, as he says in one of them: \"What do Herr Nietzsche, his illnesses\nand recoveries, matter to us? Let us speak frankly, let us go straight\nto the problem.\" Yes, surely, let us go straight to the problem;\ndetermine, among the many ends which men propose to themselves, those\nwhich truly elevate and ennoble them; succeed at last in gaining our\n_triumph over power. _ On March 17th he sketched out a plan:\n\n\n    First Book: _European Nihilism._\n    Second Book: _Criticism of Superior Values._\n    Third Book: _Principle of a New Evaluation._\n    Fourth Book: _Discipline and Selection._\n\n\nHe had sketched a very similar programme in July, 1886: two books of\nanalysis and criticism; two books of doctrine and affirmation; in all\nfour books--four volumes.\n\nEvery springtime brought him back to a condition of uncertainty and\nuneasiness; between Nice and the Engadine; he did not know where to\nfind an air which should be bright enough and not too warm; a fine\nlight that would not hurt his eyes. In this year, 1887, he let himself\nbe tempted by the Italian lakes, and, leaving Nice, set out for Lake\nMaggiore. This midget Mediterranean, enclosed in the mountains, pleased\nhim infinitely at first. \"This place strikes me as more beautiful than\nany part of the Mediterranean,\" he wrote, \"and more moving--how is\nit that I took so many years to discover it? The sea, like all huge\nthings, has something stupid and indecent which will not be found\nhere.\" He corrected the proofs of the _Gaya Scienza;_ he re-read\n_Human, Too Human,_ and again paused to contemplate with pity his\nunrecognised work.\n\nBut he recovered possession of himself. The coming work alone mattered.\nHe forced himself to recommence his meditations, and at once became\nenervated and exhausted. He had planned a visit to Venice; suddenly he\ngave it up. \"My health is against it,\" he wrote to Peter Gast. \"I am\nunworthy of seeing such beautiful things.\"\n\nFrom aggravation of ennui, an epistolary quarrel arose between Erwin\nRohde and himself. He had occasion to write a word to the most\nintimate friend of past days, and could not resist the pleasure of\nadding a malicious touch. \"I suit old people only,\" he wrote; \"Taine,\nBurckhardt, and even you are not old enough for me....\" Erwin Rohde\ndid not like this touch. A professor, whereas Nietzsche was nothing; a\nscholar with a reputation among European scholars, whereas Nietzsche\nwas still unknown despite his eccentric books, he would not permit\nirreverence, and defended his dignity. His letter must have been\nstrongly worded, for he had it restored to him later, and destroyed it.\n\nThis misadventure tried Nietzsche. His health was in every respect\nimpaired; he resolved to follow a r\u00e9gime of waters, massage and baths,\nin a special establishment in Switzerland, at Coire. He went there, and\nsurrendered himself to the doctors.\n\nHe kept on working, however, and made an energetic effort to discover\nand define the moral values which he wished to propound. But in vain;\ndo what he would, the problem of his third book--_Principle of a New\nEvaluation_--remained unsolved. \"We may here transcribe the more\nprecise definition with which we are furnished by another draft.\n\n\"_Third Book:_ the problem of the legislator. To bind anew the\nunregulated energies in such a manner that they are not mutually\nannihilated by running foul of one another; to mark the _real\naugmentation_ of force.\"\n\nWhat does this mean? What real augmentation, what real direction of\nthings is indicated us by these words? Is it an augmentation of\nintensity? Then every shade of energy, provided it be intense, will\nbe good. But we must not take it in this sense. Nietzsche selected,\npreferred, excluded. This augmentation is then the sign of an order, of\na natural hierarchy. But in every hierarchy there must be a criterion\nby which the ranks are distributed; what should this criterion be?\nNietzsche would formerly have said: It will be my logical affirmation,\nthe beliefs which I shall have given. Does he still think it?\nDoubtless; his thoughts hardly vary. But his audacity was lessened\nby his sorrows, his critical mind had been rendered more exacting by\nlong indecisions. He desired, he sought, he seemed to ask science, the\n\"doctor-philosopher,\" for a real basis which all his habits of thought\nrefused him.\n\nMournful news completed the ruin of his courage. Heinrich von Stein\ndied, before his thirtieth year, of a heart failure.\n\n\"This has put me out of my senses,\" wrote Nietzsche to Peter Gast; \"I\ntruly loved him. I always thought that he was reserved for me some day.\nHe belonged to that little number of men whose _existence_ rejoiced\nme; and he too had great confidence in me.... In this very place how\nwe laughed! ... He paid a two days' visit to Sils, he had not a glance\nfor Nature or Switzerland--he came straight from Bayreuth; he went back\nstraight to Halle, to his father;--one of the rarest and most delicate\nhomages I have ever received. It made an impression. He had said at the\nhotel: 'If I come, it is not for the Engadine.'\"\n\nThree weeks passed. He complained of bitter inclinations, of\nsusceptibility which lowered his soul. Nevertheless, he announced a\nnew work. What was it?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is not _The Will to Power._ His impatience, which is added to by\nfatigue, does not easily bend to the delays of meditation. Of his old\ngifts, his genius for improvising, his polemical genius alone survive.\nHerr Widmann, a Swiss critic, had just written a study on _Beyond Good\nand Evil_ and saw in this work but a manual of anarchism: \"This is\ndynamite,\" he said. Friedrich Nietzsche wished to reply, and at once\ndrew up at a spurt in fifteen days one, two, three short essays which\nhe entitled as a whole, _A Genealogy of Morals._ \"This work,\" he wrote\non the title-page, \"is destined to complete and elucidate my last book,\n_Beyond Good and Evil._\"\n\n\"I have said,\" he wrote in substance, \"that I place myself beyond Good\nand Evil--_Gut und B\u00f6se._ Does this mean that I wish to liberate myself\nfrom every moral category? No. I challenge the exaltation of meekness\nwhich is called good; the defamation of energy which is called bad; but\nthe history of the human conscience--do the moralists know that such\na history exists?--displays to us a multitude of other moral values,\nother ways of being good, other ways of being bad, numerous shades of\nhonour and of dishonour. Even here the reality is moving, initiative is\nfree; one must seek, one must create.\"\n\nBut Nietzsche developed his thought further: \"I have wished,\" he wrote\nsome months later \u00e0 propos of this little book, \"I have wished to fire\na cannon-shot with more sonorous powder.\" He exposed the distinction\nbetween the two moralities, the one dictated by the masters, the other\nby the slaves; and he thought to recognise in the verbal roots of the\nwords \"good\" and \"evil,\" their old meaning. _Bonus, buonus,_ said he,\ncomes from _duonus,_ which signifies warrior; _malus_ comes from\n\u03bc\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\u03c2, black: the blonde Aryans, the ancestors of the Greek,\nindicated by this word the type of conduct habitual to their slaves\nand subjects, the Mediterraneans crossed with Negro and Semitic blood.\nThese primitive notions of what is noble and what is vile, Friedrich\nNietzsche does not challenge.\n\nOn the 18th of July, writing from Sils-Maria, he announced the new work\nto Peter Gast.\n\n\"I have energetically employed these last days, which were better,\" he\nwrote. \"I have drawn up a little piece of work which, as I think, puts\nthe problem of my last book in a clear light. Every one has complained\nof not having understood me; and the hundred copies sold do not permit\nme to doubt that in effect I am not understood. You know that for three\nyears I have spent about 500 thalers to defray the cost of my books;\nno honorarium, it goes without saying, and I am 43 years old, and I\nhave written fifteen books! Further: experience, and many applications,\nmore painful to me than I care to say, force me to certify, as a fact,\nthat no German editor wants to have anything to do with me (even if\nI abandon my author's rights). Perhaps this little book which I am\ncompleting to-day will help to sell some copies of my last book (it\nalways pains me to think of the poor Fritzsch on whom all the weight of\nmy work rests). Perhaps my publishers will some day benefit from me. As\nfor myself, I know only too well that when people begin to understand\nme, _I shall not benefit from it._\"\n\nOn the 20th of July, he despatched the manuscript to the publisher.\nOn the 24th July, he called it back by telegram in order to add a\nfew features, a few pages. All his summer was spent in discomfort,\nmelancholy, and the correction of his book, which he never ceased to\ntouch up, to draw out, to render more violent and more alive. Towards\nthe end of August, perceiving an empty space on the last page of the\nfirst section, Nietzsche added this curious note, in which he indicated\nthe unstudied problems which he was to have neither strength nor time\nto attack.\n\n\"_Remark._--I take the opportunity presented by this essay to express\npublicly and formally a wish which, so far, I have only mentioned\noccasionally to certain scholars, in chance conversations. Some Faculty\nof Philosophy ought, by a series of academical prize-dissertations, to\nfurther studies in the _history of morality;_ perhaps this book will\nserve to give a vigorous impetus in this direction. I would propose the\nfollowing question:\n\n\"_What hints are furnished by philology, more especially by\netymological research, with reference to the history of the development\nof moral concepts?_\n\n\"On the other hand it will be as necessary to interest physiologists\nand doctors in these problems. In fact and above all, all tables of\nvalues, every 'thou shalt' known to history and ethnological research,\nneed to be explained and elucidated in the first place from their\n_physiological_ side, before any attempt is made to interpret them\nthrough psychology.... The question: What is this or that table of\nvalues and morality _worth?_ must be considered from the most varied\nperspectives. Especially 'the worth for what?' must be considered with\nextraordinary discernment and delicacy. A thing, for instance, which\nhas evident value with reference to the greatest durability of a race\nmight possess quite another value, if it were a question of creating\na higher type. The good of the greatest number and the good of the\nsmallest number are antithetical points of view in valuation; we shall\nlet the simplicity of English biologists suppose that the former is\n_by itself_ of higher value. All sciences must prepare the way for\nthe philosopher of the future, whose task will consist in solving the\n_problem of values_ and determining _their hierarchy_.\"\n\nSeptember came. The proofs were corrected, the Engadine became cold.\nThe wandering philosopher had to find new quarters and new work.\n\n\"To tell the truth,\" he wrote to Peter Gast, \"I hesitate between Venice\nand Leipsic; I should go there to work, I still have a lot to learn,\nmany questions to ask and much to read for the great thought of my\nlife of which I must now acquit myself. It would not be a matter of\nan autumn, but of a _whole winter_ spent in Germany. And, weighing\neverything together, my health dissuades me very strongly from essaying\na like experience this year. It will be then Venice or Nice; and from\na quite personal point of view, that is better perhaps. Moreover, I\nneed solitude and contemplation rather than study and inquiry into five\nthousand problems.\"\n\nPeter Gast was at Venice, and Venice, as one might have foreseen,\ncarried the day. Nietzsche lived for some weeks, a _flaneur_ and all\nbut happy, in the town with a \"hundred profound solitudes.\" He scarcely\nwrote: his days, according to Peter Gast, were idle or seemed to be\nso. It was not to shut himself up in a room in Venice that he gave up\nthe libraries of Leipsic. He walked, frequented the poor \"trattoria,\"\nwhere at midday the humblest, the most courteous of lower classes sit\ndown to eat; when the light was too strong he went to rest his eyes in\nthe shade of the basilica; when day began to decline he recommenced\nhis perpetual walks. Then he could look at St. Mark, with its flocks\nof familiar pigeons, without suffering, at the lagoon with its islands\nand temples. He kept on thinking of his work. He imagined it logical\nand free, simple in its plan, numerous in its details, luminous with\na little mystery, a little shade on every line; he wished in short\nthat it should resemble that city which he loved, that Venice whose\nsovereign will allied itself to the play of all fantasy and grace.\n\nLet us read this page of notes, written in November, 1887; L'_Ombra di\nVenezia,_ is it not obvious there?\n\n\"_A perfect_ book to consider:\n\n\"(1) Form. Style. _An ideal monologue,_ all that has a learned\nappearance, absorbed in the depths. All the accents of profound\npassion, of unrest and also of weakness. Alleviations, sun tasks--short\nhappiness, sublime serenity. To go beyond demonstration; to be\nabsolutely personal, without employing the first person. Memoirs as\nit were; to say the most abstract things in the most concrete, in the\nmost cutting manner. The whole history as if it had been _lived_ and\n_personally suffered._ Visible things, precise things, examples, as\nmany as possible. No description; all the problems transposed into\nsentiment as far as passion.\n\n\"(2) Expressive terms. Advantage of military terms. To find expressions\nto replace philosophical terms.\"\n\nOn the 22nd of October he was at Nice.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwo events (the word is assuredly not too strong) occupied the first\ntwo weeks of his stay. He lost his oldest friend; he acquired a reader.\n\nThe lost friend was Erwin Rohde. The quarrel begun in the previous\nspring was then consummated. Nietzsche wrote to Rohde, and his first\nintention was not to wound. \"Do not withdraw from me too lightly,\" he\nwrote in announcing the despatch of his last book, _The Genealogy of\nMorals;_ \"at my age and in my solitude I can hardly bear to lose the\nfew men in whom I formerly confided.\" But he could not limit himself to\nthese words. He had received a second note, a very amiable one, from\nHippolyte Taine,[3] whom Erwin Rohde had criticised disrespectfully in\nhis letter of May. Nietzsche wished to defend his French correspondent,\nand continued:\n\n\"N.B.--I beg that you judge M. Taine more sensibly. The scurrilities\nthat you express and think about him irritate me. I pardon them to the\nprince Napoleon, not to friend Rohde. It is difficult to me to think\nthat any one who misunderstands this great-hearted and severe-minded\nrace can understand anything of my task. Besides, you have never\nwritten me a word which shows that you have the least suspicion of the\ndestiny which weighs me down. I have forty-three years behind me and am\nas alone as if I were a child.\"\n\nAll relations were broken off.\n\nThe new reader acquired was Georges Brandes, who acknowledged the\ndespatch of the _Genealogy_ in an extraordinarily intelligent and vivid\nletter.\n\n\"I get the breath of a new mind from your books,\" he wrote: \"I do not\nalways entirely understand what I read, I do not always see whither\nyou are bound, but many features are in accord with my thoughts\nand sympathies; like you I hold the ascetic ideal in poor esteem;\ndemocratic mediocrity inspires in me, as in you, a profound repugnance;\nI appreciate your aristocratic radicalism. I am not quite clear with\nregard to your contempt for the ethic of pity ...\n\n\"Of you I know nothing. I see with astonishment that you are a\nprofessor. In any case I offer you my best compliments on being,\nintellectually, so little of a professor.... You are of the small\nnumber of men with whom I would like to talk.\"\n\nIt would seem as if Nietzsche ought to have felt very strongly the\ncomfort of having found two witnesses to his work, and of so rare a\nquality: Brandes and Taine. Did he not learn, about this time, that\nBrahms was reading _Beyond, Good and Evil_ with much relish? But the\niron had entered into his soul, and the faculty of receiving happy\nimpressions was, as it were, extinguished in him. He had lost that\ninterior joy, that resistant serenity of which he was formerly so\nproud, and his letters displayed only melancholy.\n\nWith this disaster there survived the activity of his mind alone,\nwhich worked with singular energy. We can with difficulty enumerate\nthe objects which occupied his attention. Peter Gast transcribed his\n_Hymn to Life_ for the orchestra; Nietzsche superintended, sometimes\ncorrected, always na\u00efvely admired, this new form of his work.\n\nThe journal of the Goncourts appeared; he read this \"very interesting\nnovelty,\" and sat down to table at Magny's with Flaubert, Sainte-Beuve,\nGautier, Taine, Gavarri and Renan. All these distractions did not\nprevent him from embarking resolutely on his new work, the decisive\nwork in which his wisdom and not his rage would speak; the calm work\nin which polemics would be without rights. He defined in six lines the\ndesign which he had formed.\n\n\"To have run through every chamber of the modern soul, to have eaten\nin each of its corners: my pride, my torture, and my joy. To transcend\npessimism effectively, and, in short, a Goethean regard full of love\nand good-will.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche in this note designated the inspirer of his last\nwork; it was to be Goethe. No nature differed so much from his own, and\nthis very difference determined his choice. Goethe had humiliated no\nmode of human activity, he had excluded no idea from his intellectual\nworld; he had received and administered as a benevolent lord the\nimmense heritage of human culture. Such was Friedrich Nietzsche's last\nideal, his last dream. He wished, in this extremity of life (he knew\nhis destiny), to spread, like the sinking sun, his softest lights; to\npenetrate everywhere, to justify and illumine everything, so that not\none shadow should exist upon the surface of things, not one sorrow in\nthe privacy of souls.\n\nHe easily determined the directing ideas of his first two volumes:\n_European Nihilism, The Criticism of Higher Values._ For four years\nhe had not written a line which was not a part of this analysis or\ncriticism. He wrote rapidly, angrily. \"A little fresh air,\" he cried;\n\"this absurd state of Europe cannot last much longer.\" It was only a\ncry, and very quickly suppressed. Nietzsche put patience behind him,\nlike a weakness; with a song of love that he would answer the attacks\nof life. He wished to return, and did, in fact, return, to calmer\nthoughts. He put this question: \"Is it true that the condition of\nEurope is absurd? Perhaps a reason for the facts exists, and escapes\nus. Perhaps in this debility of the will, in this democratic abasement,\none should rightly recognise a certain utility, a certain value of\nconservation. They seem irrepressible; perhaps they are necessary,\nperhaps in the long run salutary, though to-day, and, so far as we are\nconcerned, they must be deplored.\n\n\"_Reflexion:_ It is madness to suppose that all this victory of values\ncan be anti-biological; one must seek to explain it by a _vital_\ninterest for the maintenance of the type _man,_ even though it must\nbe attained by the preponderance of the feeble and the disinherited.\nPerhaps if things went differently, man would cease to exist?--Problem.\n\n\"The elevation of the type is dangerous to the conservation of the\nspecies. Why?\n\n\"The strong races are the prodigal races.... Here we are confronted by\na problem of economy....\"\n\nHe repressed all disgust, refused to allow himself the use of abusive\nspeech, tried to consider, and did consider, serenely, those tendencies\nwhich he condemned. He asked: Must we deny to the masses the right to\nseek their truths, their vital beliefs? The masses are the basis of\nall humanity, the foundation of all cultures. Without them, what would\nbecome of the masters? They require that the masses be happy. We must\nbe patient; we must suffer our insurgent slaves (for the moment our\nmasters) to invent the illusions which are favourable to them. Let them\nbelieve in the dignity of work! If they thus become more docile in\nwork, their belief is salutary.\n\n\"The problem,\" he writes, \"is to render man as utilisable as possible,\nand make him approximate, as far as may be done, as closely as possible\nto the machine which never makes a mistake; for this, he must be armed\nwith the virtues of the machine, he must be taught to endure ennui, to\nlend to ennui a superior charm ...; the _agreeable_ sentiments must\nbe put back to a lower rank.... The mechanical form of existence,\nconsidered as the noblest, the highest, should adore itself.\n\n\"A high culture can only be raised on a vast site, over a firm and\nwell-consolidated mediocrity....\n\n\"The sole end must, for a long while yet, be the _lessening_ of man:\nfor there must first be created a large foundation on which the race of\nstrong men may be raised....\n\n\"The _lessening_ of the European man is the great process which may\nnot be impeded; it should be accelerated again. It is the active\nforce which allows one to hope for the arrival of a stronger race, of\na race which should possess to excess those very qualities which the\nimpoverished species lack (will, responsibility, certitude, the faculty\nof fixing an end for oneself).\"\n\nThus at the end of 1887, Nietzsche had succeeded in drawing up a first\nsketch of the work of synthesis which he had proposed to himself. He\nconcedes a certain right, a certain dignity, to those motives which he\nformerly reviled. The final rough drafts of _Zarathustra_ had already\ngiven us similar indications. \"The disciples of Zarathustra,\" wrote\nNietzsche, \"give to the humblest, not to themselves, the expectation\nof happiness. ... They distribute religions and systems, according to\na hierarchy.\" Nietzsche now writes, and the intention is similar: \"The\nhumanitarian tendencies are not anti-vital, they suit the masses who\nlive slowly, and thus suit humanity which needs the satisfaction of the\nmasses. The Christian tendencies are also benevolent, and nothing is so\ndesirable,\" writes Nietzsche, \"as their permanence; for they suit all\nthose who suffer, all the feeble, and it is necessary for the health\nof human societies that suffering, that inevitable weaknesses, be\naccepted without revolt, with submission, and, if possible, with love.\"\n\"Whatever I may happen to say of Christianity,\" wrote Nietzsche in 1881\nto Peter Gast, \"I cannot forget that I owe to it the best experiences\nof my spiritual life; and I hope never to be ungrateful to it at the\nbottom of my heart.\" This thought, this hope, has never left him; and\nhe rejoices to have found a word of justice for the religion of his\nchildhood, the only one which still offers itself to souls.\n\nOn December 14, 1887, he addressed a letter to an old correspondent of\nthe Basle days, Carl Fuchs. The accent is a proud one.\n\n\"Almost all that I have written should be erased. During these latter\nyears the vehemence of my internal agitations has been terrible.\nTo-day, at the moment when I should be rising higher, my first task is\nto modify myself, to _depersonalise_ myself towards higher forms.\n\n\"Am I old? I do not know, and moreover I do not know what kind of youth\nis necessary to me.\n\n\"In Germany, people complain strongly of my 'eccentricities.' But as\nthey do not know where my centre is, they can hardly discern when or\nhow I happen to be eccentric.\"\n\nFrom the dates of his notes, it seems that Nietzsche approached\na different problem in the month of January, 1888. Those humble\nmultitudes whose rights he admits and measures would not deserve to\nlive, if their activity were not, in the last instance, governed by an\n\u00e9lite, utilised for glorious ends. What would be the virtues of this\n\u00e9lite, what ends would it serve? Nietzsche was thus brought back to the\nproblem which was his torment. Would he define at length this unknown,\nand perhaps unattainable grandeur, towards which his soul had for so\nlong aspired? He was again a prey to sadness. He complained of his\nsensibility, of his irritability, which had become such that each day,\non the arrival of the post, he hesitated and shivered before opening\nhis letters.\n\n\"Never has life appeared so difficult to me,\" he wrote to Peter Gast on\nJanuary 15th. \"I can no longer keep on terms with any sort of reality:\nwhen I do not succeed in forgetting them, they break me.... There are\nnights when I am overwhelmed with distress. And so much remains to be\ndone--all, so to say!--Therefore I must hold out. To this wisdom I\napply myself, at least in the mornings. Music, these days, gives me\nsensations which I had never known. It frees me, it lets me recover\nfrom the intoxication of myself; I seem to consider myself from a\ngreat height, to _feel_ myself from a great height; thus it renders\nme stronger, and regularly, after an evening's music (I have heard\n_Carmen_ four times), I have a morning full of energetic perceptions\nand lucky discoveries. It is quite admirable. It is as though I had\nbathed myself in a _more natural_ element. Without music life is merely\na mistake, a weariness, an exile.\"\n\nLet us try to follow the course of his work. He subjected himself to\nan historical research and attempted to discover the social class, the\nnation, the race or the party which authorised the hope of a more noble\nhumanity. Here was the modern European:\n\n\"How could a race of strong men disengage itself from it? a race\nwith the classical taste? The classical taste, that is, the will to\nsimplification, to accentuation ... the courage of psychological\nnudity.... To raise oneself from this chaos to this organisation, one\nmust be constrained by a _necessity._ One must be without choice;\ndisappear or impose oneself. A dominant race can only have terrible and\nviolent origins. Problem: where are the _barbarians_ of the twentieth\ncentury? Evidently they will only be able to appear and impose\nthemselves after huge socialistic crises--these will be the elements\nmost capable of the most persistent hardness in respect of themselves,\nand who will be able to become the guarantees of _the most persistent\nwill._\"\n\nIs it possible to discern in modern Europe these elements predestined\nto victory? Nietzsche busied himself with this problem, and wrote down\nthe results of his researches in his notebook.\n\n\"The most favourable impediments and remedies against modernity.\n\n\"And first:\n\n\"1. _Obligatory military service,_ with genuine wars which put an end\nto all lightness of mind.\n\n\"2. _National narrowness_ which simplifies and concentrates.\"\n\nOther indications corroborate the above.\n\n\"The maintenance of the _military state,_ which is the only means left\nto us, whether for the maintenance of the great traditions, or for the\ninstitution of the superior type of man. And all circumstances which\nperpetuate unfriendliness, distance between states, find themselves\nthus justified.\"\n\nWhat an unforeseen conclusion to Nietzschean polemics! He had\ndishonoured nationalism; and for the support which he sought in this\ngrave hour he fell back on nationalism. A yet more unexpected discovery\nwas to come. Nietzsche, proceeding with his researches, foresaw,\ndefined, and approved of a party which can be but a form or a reform of\nPositivist democracy. He discerned the lineaments of the two vigorous\nand sane groupings which suffice to discipline man.\n\n\"_A party of peace,_ not sentimental, which denies war to itself and\nits members, which also denies them recourse to the courts of law;\nwhich provokes against itself, struggle, contradiction, persecution:\na party of the oppressed, at least for a time; soon the great party\nopposed to sentiments of rancour and vengeance.\n\n\"A _party of war,_ which with the same logic and severity against\nitself, proceeds in an opposite sense.\"\n\nShould we recognise in these two parties the organised forces\nwhich will produce that _tragical era of Europe_ which Nietzsche\nannounces? Perhaps; but let us be careful not to exaggerate the\nvalue of these notes. They are rapidly written; as they surged and\npassed in Nietzsche's mind, they should surge and pass before us. His\nview pierces in every direction: it never settles upon one object.\nNo working-class Puritanism can satisfy him, for he knows that the\nbrilliancy of human culture stands or falls with the freedom of the\naristocracies. No nationalism can satisfy him, for he loves Europe and\nher innumerable traditions.\n\nWhat resource is left to him? He has bound himself to seek in his\nown time the points of support for a higher culture. For a moment he\nthinks he has found them; he has deceived himself, and turns away,\nfor these supports impose a narrowness of direction which his mind\ncannot tolerate. \"There is this that is extraordinary in the life of a\nthinker,\" he wrote in 1875--the age of the text proves the permanence\nof the conflict--\" that two contrary inclinations oblige him to follow,\nat the same moment, two different directions and hold him under their\nyokes; on the one hand he wishes to know and, abandoning without\nweariness the firm ground which sustains the life of men, he adventures\ninto unknown regions; on the other hand he wishes to live, and, without\never wearying, he seeks a place in which to five....\" Nietzsche had\nabandoned Wagner, wandered in uncertain regions. He seeks a final\nsecurity; what does he find? The narrow refuge of nationalism. He\nwithdraws from it: it may be a vulgar recourse, a useful artifice for\nmaintaining some solidity in the crowds, a certain principle of taste\nand of severity; it may not be, it must not be, the doctrine of the\nEuropean \u00e9lite, a scattered and, no doubt, non-existent \u00e9lite to whom\nhis thoughts are addressed.\n\nNietzsche put the idea of nationalism out of his mind; it was the\nexpedient of a weak century. He ceased to devote himself to his\nsearch. What mattered to him the beliefs which should be beneficent to\nthe humble? He thought of Napoleon and of Goethe, both of whom rose\nsuperior to their times, and to the prejudices of their countries.\nNapoleon was contemptuous of the Revolution, but artfully turned its\nenergy to advantage; he despised France, but ruled her. Goethe held\nGermany in poor esteem and took little interest in her struggles: he\nwished to possess and reanimate all the ideas, all the dreams of men,\nto conserve and enrich the vast heritage of moral riches which Europe\nhad created. Napoleon knew the grandeur of Goethe, and Goethe joyfully\nobserved the life of the conqueror, _ens realissimum._ The soldier,\nthe poet, the one who kept men in submission and silence, held them\nto effort, the other who watched, meditated, and glorified, such is\nthe ideal couple that reappear at every decisive instant in Friedrich\nNietzsche's life. He had admired the Greece of Theognis and Pindar,\nthe Germany of Bismarck and Wagner; a long winding course led him\nback towards his dream, towards that unrealised Europe of strength\nand beauty of which Goethe and Napoleon were, upon the morrow of the\nRevolution, the solitary representatives.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe can tell, from a letter addressed to Peter Gast (February 13, 1887),\nthat Nietzsche was at this date by no means satisfied with his work. \"I\nam still in the tentative, the introductory, the expectant stage ...\"\nhe wrote, and he added: \"The first rough draft of my _Essay towards a\nTransvaluation_ is ready; it has been, on the whole, a torture, and\nI have no longer the courage to think of it. In ten years I shall do\nbetter.\" What was the cause of this dissatisfaction? Was he weary of\nthat tolerance, that condescension to the needs of the feeble and of\nthe crowd which he had imposed on himself for three months? Was he\nimpatient to express his anger?\n\nThe letters which he then addressed to his mother and sister let\nus approach him in a more intimate manner. (They have not all been\npublished.) He wrote to these two women from whom he was separated with\na tenderness which rendered difficult dissimulation and even courage\nitself. He let himself go, as though it pleased him to find himself at\ntheir knees a child again. He was gentle, obedient with his mother;\nhe signed himself humbly: _ta vieille cr\u00e9ature._ With his sister he\ntalked like a comrade; he seemed to have forgotten all the grievances\nhe had had against her in other times; he knew that she would never\nreturn from far-off Paraguay: he regretted her, he loved her because\nshe was lost. She is energetic, is Lisbeth, and valiantly risks her\nlife. Nietzsche admired in her the virtues which he esteemed above\nall virtues, and which are, he thinks, the virtues of his race, the\nnoble race of the Counts Nietzki. \"How strongly I feel,\" he wrote her,\n\"in all you do and say, that the same blood runs in our veins.\" He\nhearkened to her, but she did not cease to offer him overwise advice.\nAs he complains of being alone, why does he not get made a professor,\nwhy does he not marry? Nietzsche answered too easily: \"Where would I\nfind a wife? and if by chance I did find one, would I have the right to\nask her to share my life?\" He knew nevertheless, and said so, that a\nwife would be sweet to him.\n\n\"NICE, _January_ 25, 1888. \"I must relate a little adventure to you:\nyesterday, as I was taking my usual walk, I heard, not far off, a warm\nand frank laugh (I thought that I heard your laugh); and when this\nlaughing person came near me--I saw a very charming girl, with brown\neyes, delicate as a deer. The sight warmed my heart, my old solitary\nphilosopher's heart--I thought of your matrimonial advice, and for the\nrest of my walk, I could not rid myself of the image of this young and\ngracious girl. Assuredly it would do me good to have so gracious a\nthing by me--but would it do her good? Would not I, with my ideas, make\nthis girl unhappy? And would not my heart break (we assume that I love\nher) if I saw so amiable a creature suffering? No, no marriage!\"\n\nWas it not now that a singular and unwholesome idea fixed itself in his\nthought? At every moment he was picturing to himself the joys of which\nhe was deprived: fame, love, and friendship; he thought rancourously\nof those who possessed them, and above all of Richard Wagner, whose\ngenius had been always so sumptuously rewarded. How beautiful she had\nbeen, when he knew her at Triebschen, this incomparable woman Cosima\nLizst, come, while yet married, to the scandal of the world, to live\nwith Wagner and help in his work! Attentive and clear-minded, active\nand helpful, she assured him the security which he had hitherto lacked.\nWithout her, what would have become of him? Could he have mastered his\nimpatient, restless, excitable temperament? would he have been capable\nof realising those great works which he was for ever announcing? Cosima\nappeased him, directed him; thanks to her, he achieved the Tetralogy,\nhe reared Bayreuth, he wrote _Parsifal...._ Nietzsche recalled those\nfine days at Triebschen. Cosima welcomed him, listened to his ideas and\nprojects, read his manuscripts, was benevolent, talked brightly to him.\nSuffering and irritation deformed his memories; he became infatuated\nwith the thought that he had loved Cosima Wagner and that she, perhaps,\nhad loved him. Nietzsche wished to believe this, and came to believe\nit. Yes, there had been love between them, and Cosima would have saved\nhim, as she saved Wagner, if, by lucky chance, she had only known him\na few years earlier. But every circumstance had been unfavourable to\nNietzsche. Here again Wagner had robbed him. He had taken all, fame,\nlove, friendship.\n\nWe can divine this strange romance in the last works of Friedrich\nNietzsche. A Greek myth helps him to express and veil his thoughts; it\nis the myth of Ariadne, Theseus, and Bacchus. Theseus was lost; Ariadne\nhas met him and led him to the exit from the labyrinth; but Theseus is\ntreacherous: he abandons upon the rock the woman who has saved him;\nAriadne would die alone and in despair if Bacchus did not intervene,\nBacchus-Dionysios who loves her. The enigma of these three names may\nbe solved: Ariadne is Cosima; Theseus, Wagner; Bacchus-Dionysios,\nNietzsche.\n\nOn the 31st of March he wrote again, and his language was that of a\nlost soul.\n\n\"Night and day, I am in a state of unbearable tension and oppression,\nby reason of the duty imposed upon me and also on account of my\nconditions of life, which are absolutely opposed to the accomplishment\nof this duty; here no doubt the cause of my distress must be sought.\n\n\"... My health, thanks to an extraordinarily fine winter, to good\nnourishment, to long walks, has remained sufficiently good. Nothing is\nsick, but the poor soul. Besides, I will not conceal the fact that my\nwinter has been very rich in spiritual acquisitions for my great work:\nso the mind is not sick; nothing is sick, but the poor soul.\"\n\nNietzsche left Nice next day. He wished, before going up to the\nEngadine, to make the experiment of a stay in Turin. Its dry air and\nspacious streets had been praised in his hearing. He travelled with\ndifficulty; he lost his luggage and his temper, quarrelled with the\nporters, and remained for two days ill at Sampiedarena, near Genoa;\nin Genoa itself, he spent three days of rest, fully occupied with the\nhappy memories which he found again. \"I thank my luck,\" he wrote to\nPeter Gast, \"that it led me back to this town, where the will rises,\nwhere one cannot be cowardly. I have never felt more gratitude than\nduring this pilgrimage to Genoa....\" On Saturday, April 6th, he arrived\nat Turin, broken with fatigue. \"I am no longer capable of travelling\nalone,\" he said to Peter Gast in the same letter. \"It agitates me too\nmuch, everything affects me stupidly.\"\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\n_Towards the Darkness_\n\n\nHere we should discontinue our story to forewarn the reader. Hitherto,\nwe have been following the history of Nietzsche's thought. Nietzsche's\nthought has now no longer a history, for an influence, come not from\nthe mind, but from the body, has affected it. People sometimes say that\nNietzsche was mad long before this. It may be that they are right; it\nis impossible to reach an assured diagnosis. At least he had retained\nhis power of reflection, his will. He could still hold himself and his\njudgments in check. In the spring of 1888 he lost this faculty. His\nintelligence is not yet darkened; there is not a word he writes but is\npenetrating and trenchant. His lucidity is extreme, but disastrous,\nsince it exercises itself only to destroy. As one studies the last\nmonths of this life, one feels as though one were watching the work of\nsome engine of war which is no longer governed by the hand of man.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche abandoned those moral researches which had\nstrengthened his work till now, enriched and elevated it. Let us recall\na letter addressed to Peter Gast in February, 1888: \"I am in a state\nof chronic irritability which allows me, in my better moments, a sort\nof revenge, not the finest sort--it takes the form of an excess of\nhardness.\" These words shed light on the three coming books: _The Case\nof Wagner, The Twilight of the Idols, The Antichrist._\n\nWe shall hurry on with the story of those months in which Nietzsche is\nno longer quite himself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAbout the 7th of April he received an unexpected letter at Turin.\nGeorges Brandes wrote informing him of a projected series of\nconferences which were to be devoted to his philosophy. \"It annoys\nme,\" wrote Brandes, \"to think that no one knows you here, and I wish\nto make you known all of a sudden.\" Nietzsche replied: \"Truly, dear\nsir, this is a surprise. Where did you get such courage that you can\nspeak in public of a _vir obscurissimus?.._. Perhaps you imagine that\nI am known in my own country. They treat me as something singular and\nabsurd, which it is not at all necessary _to take seriously\"_ He ended\nby remarking, \"The long resistance has exasperated my pride a little.\nAm I a philosopher? What does it matter?\"\n\nThe letter should have been an occasion of great joy; and, perhaps, had\nit been possible to save him, the occasion of his salvation. Assuredly\nhe felt some happiness, but we scarcely discern it. The hour was late,\nand Nietzsche now followed the tracks whither his destiny had drawn him.\n\nDuring these days of weariness and tension, he procured a translation\nof the _Laws of Manu,_ for he wished to become familiar with the\nmodel of those hierarchic societies for whose renovation he hoped. He\nread, and his expectations were not deceived; this, the last study\nof his life, turned out to be one of the most important he had ever\nundertaken. It delighted him to ecstasy--here was a code on which were\nestablished the customs and the order of four castes, a language that\nwas beautiful, simple, human in its very severity, a constant nobleness\nof thought. And the impression of security, of sweetness which detached\nitself from the book as a whole! Here are some commandments from its\nearlier pages:\n\n\"Before the cutting of the navel string, a ceremony is prescribed\nat the birth of a male; he must be made, while sacred texts are\npronounced, to taste a little honey and clarified butter from a golden\ndish.\n\n\"Let the father fulfil the ceremony of the giving of a name, on the\ntenth or twelfth day after birth, on a propitious lunary day, at a\nfavourable moment, under a star of happy influence.\n\n\"Let the first name in the compound name of a Brahman express the\npropitious favour; that of a Kshatriya, power; that of a Vaisya,\nriches: that of a Sudra, abjection.\n\n\"Let the name of a girl be soft, clear, agreeable, propitious and\neasily spoken, terminating in long vowels, and resembling words of\nbenediction.\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche read and admired. He copied out many a passage,\nrecognising in the old Hindu text that _Goethean gaze, full of love and\nof good will,_ hearing in its pages that _canto d' amore,_ which he had\nhimself wished to sing.\n\nBut if he admired, he also judged. That Hindu order had as basis a\nmythology of which the priests who interpreted it were not the dupes.\n\"These sages,\" wrote Nietzsche, \"do not believe in all this--or\nthey would not have found it....\" The laws of Manu were clever and\nbeautiful lies. Necessarily so, since Nature is a chaos, a derision of\nall thought and of all order, and whoever aspires to the foundation of\nan order, must turn away from her and conceive an illusory world. Those\nmaster builders, the Hindoo lawgivers, are masters also in the art of\nlying. If Nietzsche were not careful, their genius would drag him into\nthe path of falsehoods.\n\nHere was the instant of a crisis of which we know nothing but the\norigin and the term. Nietzsche was alone at Turin, no one was by him\nas he worked, he had no confidant. What was he thinking? Doubtless he\nwas studying, meditating continually over the old Aryan book which gave\nhim the model of his dreams, that book which was the finest monument of\n\u00e6sthetic and social perfection, and, at the same time, of intellectual\nknavery. How he must have loved and yet hated it! He mused, was amazed,\nand suspended his work. Four years earlier a similar difficulty had\nprevented him from completing his _Zarathustra._ It was no longer\na question of the _Superman,_ of an _Eternal Return._ These na\u00efve\nformul\u00e6 were abandoned, but the tendencies which they cloaked--the one,\nlyrical, avid of construction and of order, even though illusory; the\nother, avid of destruction and of lucidity--these unvarying tendencies\nagain exercised their influence at this point. Nietzsche hesitated:\nshould he finally listen to these Brahmins, these priests, these crafty\nleaders of men. No; loyalty is the virtue upon which he can never\ncompound. Later perhaps, much later, when a few centuries are gone by,\nhumanity, more learned in the meaning of its life, in the origins and\nvalues of its instincts, in the mechanism of heredities, may essay\nnew lawgivings. To-day it cannot: it would only add falsehoods and\nhypocrisies to the old lies, the old hypocrisies, which already fetter\nit. Nietzsche turned away from the thoughts which he had followed with\nsuch energy for six months, and suddenly found himself exactly as he\nhad been in his thirtieth year, indifferent to all that was not in the\nservice of truth.\n\n\"All that is suspect and false must be brought into the light!\" he had\nthen written. \"We do not wish to build prematurely, we do not know that\nwe can build, and that it may not be better to build nothing. There are\npessimists who are cowardly and resigned--of those we do not wish to\nbe.\"\n\nWhen he had thus expressed himself, Nietzsche still possessed strength\nenough to consider calmly a labour made the easier by hope. But in ten\nyears he has lost his old force, his old calm, and all hope has left\nhim. His sick soul can no longer offer any resistance--irritability\novercomes it. He gives up the composition of his great work,\nrelinquishes it to write a pamphlet. By this circumstance our\nconjectures are solved and, indeed, terminated.\n\nThe days of serenity have gone by. Wounded to the death, Nietzsche\nwishes to return blow for blow. Richard Wagner is his mark, the false\napostle of _Parsifal,_ the illusionist who has seduced his period. If\nhe formerly served Wagner, now he will disserve him, out of passion\nas out of a sense of duty. He thinks: \"It is I who made Wagnerism;\nit is I who must unmake it.\" He wishes to liberate, by means of a\nviolent attack, those of his contemporaries who, weaker than himself,\nstill submit to the prestige of this art. He wants to humiliate this\nman whom he has loved, whom he still loves; he wishes to defame this\nmaster who was the benefactor of his youth; in short, if we do not\nmistake, he wishes to take vengeance on a lost happiness. So he insults\nWagner; calls him a decadent, a low comedian, a modern Cagliostro. This\nindelicacy--an unheard-of thing in Nietzsche's life--suffices to prove\nthe presence of the evil.\n\nNo scruple haunted him. A happy excitement favoured and hastened on\nhis work. Alienists are familiar with those singular conditions which\nprecede the last crises of general paralysis, and Friedrich Nietzsche\nseemed to abandon himself to an afflux of joy. He attributed the\nbenefit to the climate of Turin, which he was now trying.\n\n\"Turin, dear friend,\" wrote he to Peter Gast, \"is a capital discovery.\nI tell you with the idea at the back of my mind that you may perhaps\nalso profit from it. My humour is good, I work from morning to night--a\nlittle pamphlet on music occupies my fingers--I digest like a demi-god,\nI sleep in spite of the nocturnal noises of carriages: so many symptoms\nof the eminent suitability of Turin to Nietzsche.\"\n\nIn July, in the Engadine, some damp and cold weeks did him a great\ndeal of harm. He lost his sleep. His happy excitement disappeared, or\ntransformed itself into bitter and febrile humours. It was then that\nFr\u00e4ulein von Salis-Marschlins, who has recounted her recollections in\nan interesting brochure, saw him, after a separation of ten months.\nShe remarked the change in his condition; how he walked alone, his\nhurried carriage, his sharp salute--he would stop scarcely or not at\nall, in such a hurry was he to get back to his inn and put down the\nthoughts which his walk had inspired in him. On the visits he paid her\nhe did not conceal his preoccupations. He was in dread of pecuniary\nembarrassments: the capital which had constituted his little fortune\nwas almost gone; and could he, with the three thousand francs which\nthe University of Basle allowed him as a pension, provide for his\neveryday needs and for the publication, always onerous, of his books?\nIt was in vain that he regulated his journeys and restricted himself\nto the simplest lodgings and food. He was reaching the limits of his\nresources.\n\n_The Case of Wagner_ was completed; to the text, a preliminary\ndiscourse, a postscript, a second postscript, and an epilogue were\nadded. He could not cease extending his work, and making it more\nbitter. Nevertheless he was not satisfied, and felt, after having\nwritten it, some remorse.\n\n\"I hope that this very _risqu\u00e9_ pamphlet has pleased you,\" he wrote to\nPeter Gast on the 11th of August, 1888. \"That would be for me a comfort\nby no means negligible. There are certain hours, above all, certain\nevenings, when I do not feel enough courage in myself for so many\nfollies, for so much hardheartedness; I am in doubt over some passages.\nPerhaps I went too far (not in the matter, but in my manner of\nexpressing the matter). Perhaps the note in which I speak of Wagner's\nfamily origins could be suppressed.\"\n\nA letter addressed about this time to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug gives food\nfor thought.\n\n\"I have given to men the most profound book,\" he writes; \"one pays\ndearly for that. The price of being immortal is sometimes life! ... And\nalways on my road that cretinism of Bayreuth! The old seducer Wagner,\ndead though he be, continues to draw away from me just those few men\nwhom my influence might touch. But in Denmark--how absurd to think!--I\nhave been celebrated this winter. Dr. Georges Brandes, whose mind is\nso full of vitality, has dared to talk about me before the University\nof Copenhagen. And with brilliant success! Always more than three\nhundred listeners! And a final ovation!--And something similar is being\narranged in New York. I am the most _independent_ mind in Europe and\nthe _only_ German writer--which is something!\"\n\nHe added in a postscript: \"Only a great soul can endure my writings.\nThus I have had the good luck to provoke against myself all that is\nfeeble and virtuous.\" No doubt the indulgent Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug\nsaw in these lines a point directed against herself. She answered,\nas usual, in her kindly manner: \"You say that everything feeble and\nvirtuous is against you? Do not be so paradoxical. Virtue is not\nweakness but strength, words say it plainly enough. And are you\nnot yourself the living contradiction of what you say? For you are\nvirtuous, and the example of your life, if men could only know it,\nwould, as I am assured, be more persuasive than your books.\" Nietzsche\nreplied: \"I have read your charming letter, dear lady and dear friend,\nwith real emotion; no doubt you are right--so am I.\"\n\nHow headlong a thing is his life! Days spent in walking, in getting the\nrhythm of phrases, in sharpening thoughts. Often he works through the\ndawn and is writing still when the innkeeper rises and goes noiselessly\nout to follow the traces of the chamois among the mountains. \"Am I not\nmyself a hunter of chamois?\" thinks Nietzsche, and goes on with his\nwork.\n\nThe _Case of Wagner_ being completed, Nietzsche began a new pamphlet,\ndirected not against a man, but against ideas--against all ideas that\nmen have found whereby to guide their acts. There is no metaphysical\nworld, and the rationalists are dreamers; there is no moral world,\nand the moralists are dreamers. What then remains? \"The world of\nappearances, perhaps? But no; for with the world of truth we have\nabolished the world of appearances!\" Nothing exists but energy, renewed\nat every instant. \"Incipiet Zarathustra.\" Friedrich Nietzsche looked\nfor a title for his new pamphlet: _Leisure Hours of a Psychologist_ was\nhis first idea; then, _The Twilight of the Idols, or The Philosophy\nof the Hammer. _ On September 7th he sent his manuscript to the\npublisher. This little book--he wrote--must strike, scandalise, and\nstrain people's minds, and prepare them for the reception of his great\nwork.\n\nOf it he is always thinking, and his second pamphlet is scarcely\nfinished when he starts on this labour. But we no longer recognise the\ncalm and Goethean work which it had been his desire to write. He tries\nnew titles: _We other Immoralists, We other Hyperboreans:_ then returns\nto his old title and keeps to it--_The Will to Power: An Essay towards\nthe Transvaluation of all Values._ Between September 3rd and September\n30th he draws up a first section: _The Antichrist;_ and it is a third\npamphlet. This time he speaks outright, he indicates his Yea and his\nNay, his straight line and his goal: he exalts the most brutal energy.\nAll moral imperatives, whether dictated by Moses or by Manu, by the\npeople or by the aristocracy, are lies. \"Europe was near to greatness,\"\nhe writes, \"when, during the first years of the sixteenth century, it\nwas possible to hope that C\u00e6sar Borgia would seize the Papacy.\" Are we\nbound to accept these thoughts as definitive, because they are the last\nthat Nietzsche expressed?\n\nWhile he was drawing up _The Antichrist,_ he returned again to his\n_Dionysian Songs,_ outlined in 1884, and completed them. Here we find\nthe sure expression of the presentiments that then agitated him.\n\n\n    \"The sun sets,\n    Soon thy thirst shall be quenched,\n    Burning heart!\n    A freshness is in the air,\n    I breathe the breath of unknown mouths,\n    The great cold comes....\n\n    The sun is in its place, and burns upon my head at noon.\n    I salute ye, ye who come,\n    O swift winds,\n    O fresh spirits of the afternoon\n\n    The air stirs, peaceable and pure.\n    Has it not darted towards me a sidelong glance,\n    A seductive glance,\n    To-night?\n\n    Be strong, brave heart!\n    Ask not: why?\n\n    Eve of my life!\n    The sun sets.\"\n\n\nOn the 21st September we find him at Turin. On the 22nd _The Case of\nWagner_ was published. Here at last was a book of which the newspapers\nspoke a little. But Nietzsche was exasperated by their comments. With\nthe exception of a Swiss author, Carl Spiteler, no one had understood\nhim. Every word gave him the measure of the public ignorance as regards\nhis work. For ten years he had been seeking and following ideas found\nby him alone: of this the German critics knew nothing; they knew only\nthat a certain Herr Nietzsche, a disciple of Wagner's, had been an\nauthor; they read _The Case of Wagner_ and surmised that Herr Nietzsche\nwas just fallen out with his master. Besides, he felt that he had\nincurred the blame of some of his later friends. Jacob Burckhardt,\nalways so precise, did not acknowledge the receipt of the pamphlet; the\ngood Meysenbug wrote an indignant and severe letter.\n\n\"These are subjects,\" Nietzsche answered him, \"with regard to which I\ncannot permit any contradiction. Upon the question of _decadence_ I am\nthe highest authority (instance) in the world: the men of to-day, with\ntheir querulous and degenerate instinct, should consider themselves\nfortunate that they have by them some one who offers them a generous\nwine in their most sombre moments. That Wagner succeeded in making\nhimself believed in, assuredly proves genius; but the genius of\nfalsehood. I have the honour to be his opposite--a genius of truth.\"\n\nIn spite of the agitation thus displayed, his letters expressed an\nunheard-of happiness. There is nothing which he does not admire. The\nautumn is splendid; the roads, the galleries, the palaces, the caf\u00e9s\nof Turin, are magnificent; repasts are succulent and prices modest. He\ndigests well, sleeps marvellously. He hears French operettas: there is\nnothing as perfect as their buoyant manner, \"the paradise of all the\nrefinements.\" He listens to a concert: each piece, whether Beethoven,\nSchubert, Bossaro, Goldmarck, Vibac, or Bizet be its author, seems to\nhim equally sublime. \"I was in tears,\" he wrote to Peter Gast. \"I think\nthat Turin, from the point of view of the musical sense, as from every\nother point of view, is the _most solid_ town that I know.\"\n\nOne might hope that this intoxication of spirit kept Nietzsche from\nknowledge of his destiny. But a rare word sufficiently indicates his\nclairvoyance. He has a sense of the approaching disaster. His reason\nescapes from him and he measures its flight. On the 13th of November,\n1888, he expressed to Peter Gast a desire to have him near, his\nregret that he could not come; this was his constant plaint, the very\nconstancy of which indeed diminished its significance. Nietzsche, who\nknew this, warned his friend: \"What I tell you, take tragically,\" he\nwrote. On the 18th of November he sent a letter which seemed quite\nhappy. He spoke of operettas which he had just heard, of Judic, and of\nMilly Meyer. \"For our bodies and for our souls, dear friend,\" he wrote,\n\"a light Parisian intoxication, 'tis salvation.\" He concluded: \"This\nletter also, I pray you to take tragically.\"\n\nThus the condition of physical jubilation to which imminent madness\nbrought him let him escape neither presentiment nor anguish. He wished\nto reassemble for the last time the memories and impressions which\nlife had left to him, and to compose a work which should be bizarre,\ntriumphant, and desperate. Look at the titles of the chapters: \"Why\nI am so prudent.--Why I am so wise.--Why I have written such good\nbooks.--Why I am a fatality.--Glory and eternity....\" He calls his\nlast work: _Ecce Homo._ What does he mean? Is he Antichrist or another\nChrist? He is both together. Like Christ, he has sacrificed himself.\nChrist is man and God: He has conquered the temptations to which He\nmade Himself accessible. Nietzsche is man and Superman: he has known\nevery feeble desire, every cowardly thought, and has cast them from\nhim. None before him was so tender or so hard; no reality has alarmed\nhim. He has taken upon himself not the sins of men, but all their\npassions in their greatest force. \"Jesus on the Cross,\" he writes,\n\"is an anathema upon life; Dionysos broken in bits is a _promise_ of\nlife, of life indestructible and ever-renewed.\" The solitary Christian\nhad his God: Nietzsche lives alone and without God. The sage of old\nhad his friends: Nietzsche lives alone and without friends. He lives\nnevertheless, and can sing, in his cruel extremity, the Dionysian\nhymn. \"I am not a saint,\" he writes, \"but a satyr.\" And again, \"I have\nwritten so many books, and such beautiful ones: how should I not be\ngrateful to life?\"\n\nNo; Nietzsche was a saint, not a satyr, and a wounded saint who aspired\nto die. He said that he felt grateful to life; it was false, for his\nsoul was quite embittered. He lied, but sometimes man has no other way\nto victory. When Arria, dying from the blow she had given herself, said\nto her husband as she passed him her weapon: _\"P\u0153te, non dolet._..\"\nshe lied, and it was to her glory that she lied. And here, may we not\npass on Nietzsche himself the judgment that he had passed upon her? \"Her\nholy falsehood,\" he wrote in 1879, \"obscures all the truths that have\never been said by the dying.\" Nietzsche had not triumphed. _Ecce Homo:_\nhe was broken but would not avow it. A poet, he wished that his cry of\nagony should be a song; a last lyrical transport uplifted his soul and\ngave him the force to lie.\n\n\n\n    Thou sinkst to eve!\n    Thine eye already\n    Gleams half-bruised;\n    Drops from thy dew,\n    Like tears outstrewn,\n    Stream; the purple of thy love\n    Goes silent over the milky sea,\n    Thy ultimate, tardy blessedness....\n\n    All around, only the waves and their mirth.\n    What once was hard\n    Has foundered in a blue oblivion--\n    My boat lies idle now.\n    Tempest and travel--how unlearnt\n    Hope and desire are drowned,\n    The soul and the sea he sleek.\n\n    _Seventh_ solitude\n    Never felt I\n    Closer to me the sweet serenity,\n    Warmer the rays of the sun.\n    --Shines not even the ice of my summit?\n\n    A rapid, silvery fish,\n    My bark glides away, afar.\"\n\n\nNevertheless he was conscious that the fame, so long desired,\napproached. Georges Brandes, who was going to repeat and publish his\nlectures, found him a new reader, the Swede Auguste Strindberg. Very\npleased, Nietzsche announced it to Peter Gast. \"Strindberg has written\nto me,\" he said, \"and for the first time I receive a letter in which\nI find a world-historic _(Welthistorik)_ accent.\" In St. Petersburg\nthey were getting ready to translate his _Case of Wagner._ In Paris,\nHippolyte Taine sought and found him a correspondent: Jean Bordeau,\ncontributor to the _D\u00e9bats_ and the _Revue des Deux Mondes._ \"At last,\"\nwrote Nietzsche, \"the grand Panama Canal towards France has been\nopened.\" His old comrade Deussen handed him two thousand francs, the\noffering of an unknown who wished to subscribe to an edition of his\nworks. Madame de Salis Marschlins offered him a thousand. Friedrich\nNietzsche should have been happy, but it was too late.\n\nHow were his last days spent? We do not know. He lived in a furnished\napartment, the guest of a humble family, which lodged him and, if he\nwished, fed him. He corrected the proofs of _Ecce Homo,_ adding a\npostscript to the early text, then a dithyrambic poem; meanwhile he\nprepared a new pamphlet for publication, _Nietzsche contra Wagner._\n\"Before launching the first edition of my great work,\" he wrote to\nhis publisher, \"we must prepare the public, we must create a genuine\ntension--or it will be _Zarathustra_ over again.\" On the 8th of\nDecember he wrote to Peter Gast: \"I have re-read _Ecce Homo,_ I have\nweighed every word in scales of gold: literally it cuts the history of\nhumanity into two sections--the highest superlative of dynamite.\" On\nthe 29th of December he wrote to his publisher: \"I am of your opinion,\nas to _Ecce Homo;_ let us not exceed 1,000 copies; a thousand copies\nfor Germany of a book, written in the grand style, is indeed rather\nmore than reasonable. But in France, I say it quite seriously, I count\non an issue of 80,000--or 40,000 copies.\" On the 2nd of January another\nletter (in a rough and deformed hand): \"Return me the poem--on with\n_Ecce!_\"\n\nThere exists a tradition, difficult to verify, that, during these\nlatter days, Nietzsche often played fragments of Wagner to his hosts.\nHe would say to them: \"I knew him,\" and talk of Triebschen. The\nthing does not seem improbable, for now his memories of his greatest\nhappiness may well have visited him, and he may have found delight in\nrecounting them to simple people ignorant of his life. Had he not just\nwritten in _Ecce Homo:_\n\n\"Since I am here recalling the consolations of my life, I ought to\nexpress in a word my gratitude for what was by far my most profound and\nbest-loved joy--my intimacy with Richard Wagner. I wish to be just with\nregard to the rest of my human relationships; but I absolutely cannot\nefface from my life the days at Triebschen, days of confidence, of\ngaiety; of sublime flashes--days of _profound_ happiness. I do not know\nwhat Wagner was for others: our sky was never darkened by a cloud.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the 9th of January, 1889, Franz Overbeck was sitting, with his\nwife, at the window of his quiet house in Basle, when he saw old\nBurckhardt stop and ring at his door. He was surprised: Burckhardt was\nnot an intimate, and some intuition warned him that Nietzsche, their\ncommon friend, was the cause of this visit. For some weeks he had had\ndisquieting notes from Turin. Burckhardt brought him a long letter\nwhich all too clearly confirmed his presentiments. Nietzsche was mad.\n\"I am Ferdinand de Lesseps,\" he wrote, \"I am Prado, I am Chambige [the\ntwo assassins with whom the Paris newspapers were then occupied]; I\nhave been buried twice this autumn.\"\n\nA few moments later Overbeck received a similar letter, and all\nNietzsche's friends were likewise advised. He had written to each of\nthem.\n\n\"Friend Georges,\" he wrote to Brandes, \"since you have discovered me,\nit is not wonderful to find me: what is now difficult is to lose me.\n\n\"THE CRUCIFIED.\"\n\nPeter Gast received a message the tragic significance of which he did\nnot understand:\n\n\n    _\"A mon maestro Pietro._\n\n    \"Sing me a new song. The world is clear and all the skies\n    rejoice.\"\n\n\n\n\"Ariadne, I love you,\" he wrote to Cosima Wagner.\n\nOverbeck started immediately. He found Nietzsche, watched over by his\nhosts, ploughing the piano with his elbow, singing and crying his\nDionysian glory. He was able to bring him back to Basle, and introduce\nhim, without too painful a scene, into a hospital, where his mother\ncame to seek him.\n\nHe lived another ten years. The first of them were cruel, the later\nmore kindly; sometimes even there seemed to be hope. He would recall\nhis work.\n\n\"Have I not written fine books?\" he would say.\n\nHe was shown portraits of Wagner.\n\n\"Him,\" he would say, \"I loved much.\"\n\nThese returns of consciousness might have been frightful; it seems that\nthey were not. One day his sister, as she sat by his side, could not\nrestrain her tears.\n\n\"Lisbeth,\" he said, \"why do you cry? Are we not happy?\"\n\nThe ruined intellect could not be saved, but the uncorrupted soul kept\nsweet and charming, open to pure impressions.\n\nOne day a young man who was occupied with the publication of his work\nwas out with him on his short walk. Nietzsche perceived a little girl\nat the side of the road, and was charmed. He went up to her, stopped,\nand with a hand drew back the hair which lay low on her forehead; then,\ncontemplating the frank face with a smile, he said:\n\n\"Is it not the picture of innocence?\"\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche died at Weimar on the 25th of August, 1900.\n\n\n[1] In French in the text.\n\n[2] Morals are free in the pensions on the Mediterranean, and no doubt\nwe are unaware of all the episodes of Friedrich Nietzsche's life. But\nthis reservation must be made. According to evidence which we have\nbeen able to gather, his manner of life, in the Engadine, never gave\noccasion for the least gossip. On the contrary he seems, we are told,\nto have avoided young women.\n\n[3] \"I am very happy,\" wrote Taine, \"that my articles on Napoleon\nhave struck you as true, and nothing can more exactly sum up my\nimpression than the two German words which you use: _Unmensch_ und\n_Uebermensch._\"--Letter of July 12, 1887.\n\n\n\n\n    INDEX\n\n    A\n\n    About\n    \u00c6schylus; Greece of\n    Alexander\n    Alsace\n    Anaxagoras\n    _Anti-Christ, The_\n    Apollo, \"Leader of States\"\n    Apollonian Spirit, The, Nietzsche's definition of\n    Aquila\n    Arabs, The\n    Ariadne\n    Aristotle\n    Athens\n    Attica\n\n    B\n\n    Bacchus-Dionysus\n    Bach, Nietzsche's love of\n    Bahnsen\n    Bashkirtseff, Marie\n    Basle, Nietzsche's appointment at University of;\n      Nietzsche's life at\n    Baudelaire, C.\n    Baumbrach, Professor\n    Baumgarten, Marie\n    Bavaria\n    Bayreuth, theatre of;\n      Wagner at;\n      destiny of;\n      foundation stone of theatre laid;\n      financial difficulties at;\n      Nietzsche's appeal on its behalf;\n      rehearsals at;\n      its \"beautiful souls\";\n      its journal condemns _Human, All Too Human_;\n      _Parsifal_ played at;\n      \"6,000 feet above Bayreuth\"\n    Beethoven;\n    Nietzsche studies life of;\n      centenary of\n    Bellini\n    Bergamo\n    Berlin; Nietzsche in;\n      parliamentary intrigues of\n    Berlioz\n    _Bestimmung der Oper, Die_\n    _Beyond Good and Evil_\n    _Birth of Tragedy_;\n      its Wagnerian tendency\n    Bismarck\n    Bizet\n    Blanc, Louis\n    Bohemia\n    Bonn, University of;\n      Nietzsche at\n    Bordeau, Jean\n    Borgia, C\u00e6sar\n    Bourget, Paul\n    Brahms\n    Brandes, Georges;\n      appreciates _Genealogy of Morals_;\n      lectures on Nietzsche\n    Brenner, A.\n    Brockhaus, Madame\n    Bucharest\n    B\u00fcchner\n    B\u00fclow, Hans von\n    Burckhardt, Jacob Nietzsche's confidant at Basle;\n      shares Nietzsche's grief\n    Byron; Nietzsche's love of\n\n    C\n\n    Carlsruhe\n    _Carmen_\n    _Case of Wagner, The_;\n      publication of\n    Catholicism, Nietzsche's detestation of\n    Cavour\n    Chamfort\n    Chiavari\n    Chillon, Nietzsche at\n    _Choephores_ of \u00c6schylus, The\n    Chopin\n    Christianity, Wagner and; and Nietzsche's spiritual life\n    Cimarosa\n    Cloisters, Nietzsche's project of\n    Coire\n    Cologne\n    Columbus, Christopher\n    Cook, Captain\n    Copenhagen, University of\n    Corsica\n    Culture of _The Renaissance in Italy_ The\n\n    D\n\n    d'Agoult, Madame\n    Dante\n    Darwinism\n    _Dawn of Day, The_;\n      failure of;\n      preface to\n    De Bross\u00e9\n    Democritus\n    Descartes\n    Deussen, Paul, Nietzsche's college comrade;\n      Nietzsche's letter to on becoming Professor at Basle\n    Diogenes Laertius\n    Dionysian Songs\n    Dionysos; Nietzsche as\n    D\u00f6nhoff, Countess\n    Don Quixote\n    Dresden\n    D\u00fchring; _The Value of Life_\n    D\u00fcrer\n\n    E\n\n\n    _Ecce Homo_\n    Eckermann\n    _Educational Institutions, The Future of_\n    Emerson, R. W.\n    Empedocles\n    Engadine, The, Nietzsche in\n    Eternal Return, The, Nietzsche's conception of;\n      his horror of;\n      abandons the idea;\n      re-adopts it;\n    Euripides\n    Europe, condition of;\n      tragical era of;\n    Europe, Goethe, and Napoleon\n\n    F\n\n    Faust, _quoted_\n    Feuerbach\n    Fichte\n    Finland\n    Flaubert, Gustave\n    Flimms\n    Florence\n    F\u00f6rster, marriage with Nietzsche's sister\n    France, Nietzsche in\n    Franco-German War\n    Frankfurt, Peace of\n    Frederick the Great\n    Frederick II\n    Frederick William of Prussia\n    Freiligrath\n    Friburg\n    Friedrich von Hohenstaufen\n    Friendship, Nietzsche's view of\n    Fritzsch\n    Froeschw\u00fcler\n    Fuchs, Carl\n\n    G\n\n    Galiani, Abb\u00e9, The\n    Garda, Lake of, Nietzsche at\n    Garibaldi\n    Gast, Peter;\n      with Nietzsche at Venice;\n      aids Nietzsche;\n    Nietzsche's correspondence with\n    Gautier\n    Gavarri\n    _Gay Science, The_;\n      preface to\n    _Genealogy of Morals,_\n    Geneva\n    Genoa, Nietzsche at\n    Germany, Nietzsche's hopes of;\n      its \"delirium of conceit after Metz,\";\n      fails to celebrate Beethoven;\n      Nietzsche abandons;\n      the mission of the German Empire;\n      the \"two Germanys\";\n      Nietzsche's projected mission to;\n      Nietzsche \"spits out lava on\";\n      Nietzsche's summons to\n      the \"sombre Empire,\";\n      defaming the Germans\n    Gersdorff, Baron von, Nietzsche's correspondence with\n    Gobineau, Count\n    Goethe;\n      quoted by Mazzini;\n      to inspire Nietzsche's great work\n    Goldmarck\n    Goncourts, Journal of the\n    Greek poets, Nietzsche's love of\n    Greeks, The, genius of;\n    Germanic Hellenism;\n      the Homeric problem;\n      Goethe, Wagner, and;\n      and tragedy;\n    Nietzsche's lectures on \u00e6sthetic of Greek tragedy;\n      the Greek genius and war;\n      of the sixth and seventh centuries;\n      the two Greeces;\n      tragic philosophers of\n    Grunewald\n    Guyau\n\n    H\n\n    Hamburg\n    Hartmann, E. von\n    Hasse\n    Hegel\n    Heidelberg, Union of\n    Heinze\n    Helen\n    _Hellenism and Pessimism_\n    Heraclitus\n    Herodotus\n    Herzen\n    Hildebrant, Karl\n    H\u00f6lderlin, read by Nietzsche;\n      life and work of;\n      similarity to Nietzsche\n    Homer\n    _Human, All Too Human_\n    Humboldt\n    Hymn to Friendship\n    Hymn to Life\n    Hymn to Solitude\n\n    I\n\n    _Iliad, The_\n    Italy\n\n    J\n\n    Java, Earthquake of\n    Jena\n    Judic\n\n    K\n\n    Kant\n    Kief\n    Kiel\n    Klingenbrunn\n    K\u00f6selitz, _see_ Peter Gast\n\n    L\n\n    Lange\n    Lanzky, Paul\n      with Nietzsche at Nice;\n      with Nietzsche at Ruta\n    _Laws of Manu, The_\n    Leipsic;\n    Nietzsche at\n    Lenbach\n    Leopardi\n    Leskien\n    Lessing\n    _Letters of an Heretical esthete, The_\n    Liszt\n    _Litterarisches Centralblatt, The_\n    _Lohengrin,_\n    _L'Ombra di Venezia_\n    London\n    Louis of Bavaria; Wagner writes\n    treatise for; saves Bayreuth\n    Louvre, The, burning of\n    Lucerne\n    Lucretius\n    Lugano; Nietzsche among the Germans at\n    Lun\u00e9ville\n    Luther; Nietzsche's Lutheranism\n\n    M\n\n    Maggiori, Lake\n    Manfred\n    Mannheim\n    Marasoff, Madame\n    Marguerite of Savoy\n    Marienbad\n    Maupassant, Guy de\n    Mazzini, meeting with Nietzsche;\n    Nietzsche's veneration for\n    Meiningen\n    _Meistersingers,_\n    Mendelssohn\n    Mentone\n    M\u00e9rim\u00e9e, Prosper\n    Messina\n    Metz\n    Meyer, Milly\n    Meysenbug, Fr\u00e4ulein von;\n      her _Memoirs of an Idealist_;\n      correspondence with Nietzsche;\n      at Naples with Nietzsche\n    Michelet\n    Mill, S.\n    _Miscellaneous Opinions and Apothegms_\n    Moltke, von\n    Monaco\n    Mond, G.\n    Montaigne\n    Mozart\n    Mucius Sc\u00e6vola\n    Munich\n    _Music of the Future, The_\n\n    N\n\n    Nancy\n    Naples, Nietzsche at\n    Napoleon the Great\n    Napoleon III\n    Naumburg-sur-Saale, Nietzsche's home at;\n      provinciality of;\n      Nietzsche spends Christmas of 1873 at\n    Newton\n    New York\n    _Nibelungen, The,_\n    Nice, Nietzsche at\n    Nietzki, Counts\n    Nietzsche, Frau, goes to Naumburg with her family\n      Nietzsche's tender letters to\n    Nietzsche, Friedrich, birth of;\n      death of his father and brother;\n      his journal;\n      residence at Naumburg;\n      desires to become a clergyman;\n      first composition;\n      enters college at Naumburg;\n      writes history of childhood;\n      scholarship at Pforta; life at Pforta;\n      weakening of religious faith;\n      question of his future;\n      address to his masters and comrades;\n      leaves Pforta; enters University of Bonn;\n      his new life; fights a duel;\n      dislike of Bonn; studies philology;\n      love of the Greek poets;\n      letter to his sister on Christianity;\n      flies from Bonn; completes his studies at Leipsic;\n      reads _The World as Will end Representation_;\n      researches on Theognis of Megara;\n      as Prussian patriot; second year at Leipsic;\n      enthusiasm for art and the classics; style;\n      friendship with Rohde;\n      as conscript; falls from horse;\n      opinion of German politics;\n      discovery of Wagner;\n      meeting with Wagner;\n      appointed Professor at Basle;\n      visits Wagner at Triebschen;\n      lectures on the \"Homeric Problem\";\n      his admiration for Wagner;\n      _The Birth of Tragedy_; Hellenism;\n      aids Wagner; on Socrates;\n      serves as ambulancer in Franco-Prussian War;\n      illness of; distrust of Prussian power;\n      returns to Basle and sees Wagner again;\n      project of a cloister; on War;\n      at Lugano; his horror at the burning of the Louvre;\n      Wagner's guest; publishes _The Birth of Tragedy,_;\n      ill-success of the book; farewell to Triebschen;\n      at Bayreuth; wishes to fight for Wagner;\n      and Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug;\n      in North Italy; at Spl\u00fcgen;\n      return to Basle; how to found a culture;\n      holidays at Naumburg;\n      philosophical formulas;\n      goes to Bayreuth; attack on Strauss;\n      his friendship with Gersdorff;\n      _Thoughts Out of Season_;\n      proposed series of twenty pamphlets;\n      begins to distrust Wagnerian art;\n      _Schopenhauer as Educator_;\n      visits the Wagners with his sister;\n      depression; serious illness;\n      with his sister at Basle;\n      at Ch\u00fclon;\n      letter to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug on her\n      _Memoirs of an Idealist_;\n      his book on Wagner;\n      absence from Bayreuth rehearsals;\n      at Bayreuth festivals;\n      his distress; failure of eyesight;\n      visit to Fr\u00e4ulein von Meysenbug at Naples;\n      sees Wagner at Sorrento; isolates himself;\n      life at Naples;\n      his veneration for Mazzini; leaves Naples;\n      takes cure at Rosenlaui;\n      friendship with R\u00e9e;\n      _Human, All Too Human,_;\n      impression of _Parsifal,_;\n      his grief over Wagner;\n      resigns professorship;\n      awaits death in Engadine;\n      returns to Naumburg;\n      terrible sufferings;\n      first visit to Venice and convalescence; at Genoa;\n      publication of _The Dawn of Day,_; at Sils-Maria;\n      conceives the Eternal Return at Sils-Maria;\n      the discovery of _Carmen_;\n      Nietzsche and Lou Salom\u00e9;\n      his quarrel with R\u00e9e and Lou;\n      the poem of Zarathustra;\n      the principle of the Superman;\n      attempts to complete his poem;\n      friendship with Heinrich von Stein;\n      joined by Lanzky at Nice;\n      failure to win Stein from Wagnerism;\n      abandons his lyrical work;\n      says farewell to his sister at Naumburg;\n      at Nice;\n      _Beyond Good and Evil,_;\n      his kindness to Peter Gast;\n      visits Rohde at Leipsic;\n      visits his mother at Naumburg;\n      returns to the Engadine;\n      the _Will to Power,_;\n      Taine's letter of praise;\n      prefaces to the _Dawn of Day_ and _The Gay Science_;\n      returns to Nice; as a critic;\n      _The Genealogy of Morals,_;\n      returns to Venice;\n      relations with Rohde;\n      Georges Brandes's letter;\n      design for new work;\n      arrival at Turin;\n      reads _The Laws of Manu_;\n      attack on Wagner;\n      the _Antichrist_:\n      _Ecce Homo_;\n      his opinion of Strindberg;\n      loss of reason; death of\n    Nietzsche, Lisbeth (F\u00f6rster-Nietzsche);\n      with Nietzsche at Naumburg;\n      with Nietzsche at Lugano;\n      with Nietzsche at Flimms;\n      with Nietzsche at Basle;\n      accompanies Nietzsche to Engadine;\n      marriage of;\n      reconciliation with Nietzsche;\n      correspondence with Nietzsche\n    _Nietzsche contra Wagner_\n    Novalis\n\n    O\n\n    O., Madame\n    _Odyssey_\n    \u0152dipus\n    _Of the State and Religion,_ Wagner's\n    _Old Faith and the New, The,_\n    Overbeck, Professor\n\n    P\n\n    Paraguay\n    Paris\n    Parmenides\n    _Parsifal_\n    Pascal\n    Pforta\n    Philadelphia\n    _Philology of the Future, The_\n    _Philosophers of Tragic Greece, The_\n    Pindar\n    Plato\n    Plutarch\n    Pobles\n    Poland\n    Portofino\n    Port Royal des Champs\n    Prague\n    Prussia\n    Puccini\n    Pythagoras\n    Pythagoreans, The\n\n    R\n\n    Rapallo\n    Recoaro\n    _Reden Eines Hoffenden_\n    R\u00e9e, Paul;\n      rupture with Nietzsche\n    Renan\n    _Rhinegold, The_\n    Ritschl, Nietzsche's master at Bonn\n    _Rivista Europa, La_\n    R\u00f6cken\n    R\u00f6der, Madame\n    Rohde, Erwin, friendship with Nietzsche;\n      spends holiday with Nietzsche;\n      project of travel with Nietzsche;\n      defends _Birth of Tragedy_;\n      appointed Professor at Leipsic;\n      quarrel with Nietzsche;\n      correspondence with Nietzsche\n    Rolph\n    Rome; Nietzsche at,\n    Romundt;\n      enters orders\n    Rosenlaui\n    Rossaro\n    Rossini\n    Rousseau\n    Russians, The, Nietzsche's view of\n    Ruten\n\n    S\n\n    Sadowa, Battle of\n    Sainte-Beuve\n    Salis-Marschlins, Fr\u00e4ulein von\n    Salom\u00e9, Lou;\n      poems to Nietzsche;\n      her description of Nietzsche;\n      quarrel with Nietzsche\n    San Remo\n    Santa Margherita\n    Schaffler, Herr\n    Schelling\n    Schiller\n    Schlegels, The\n    Schmeitzner, Herr\n    Schopenhauer, Arthur,\n      _The World as Will and Representation_;\n      Nietzsche's admiration of;\n      truest philosopher\n      _Schopenhauer as Educator,_\n    Schubert\n    Schumann\n    Sch\u00fcre, E., his description of Nietzsche\n    Scott, Walter\n    Sedan\n    Semiramis\n    Seydlitz, Baron von\n    Seydlitz, Irene von\n    Sicily\n    _Siegfried,_ \"Idyll\" performed at Triebschen\n    Sienna\n    Sils-Maria, Nietzsche at\n    Simonides\n    Singer, Herr\n    Slavery, Nietzsche's view of its necessity\n    Socialism\n    Socrates;\n    Nietzsche's condemnation of;\n    Socratic Greece;\n    ranked above \u00c6schylus\n    Sophocles\n    Sparta\n    Spencer, Herbert\n    Spinoza\n    Spiteler, Carl\n    Spl\u00fcgen\n    State, The\n    Stendhal\n    Stein, H. von;\n      mission to Nietzsche;\n      visit to Sils;\n      death of\n    Steinabad, Nietzsche at\n    \"Stellar Friendship\"\n    Stewart, B.\n    Strassbourg; University of\n    Strauss, D.\n    Stresa\n    Strindberg, A.\n    Sulzer\n    Superman, The\n    Surlei\n    _Sutta Nipata, The,_\n    \"Swiss, The Loyal\"\n    Switzerland\n\n    T\n\n    Tacitus\n    Taine, H., letter to Nietzsche\n    Tautenberg\n    Tempel Leborecht, meeting with Nietzsche\n    Thales\n    Theognis of Megara\n    Theseus\n    _Thoughts out of Season_\n    Thucydides\n    _Thus Spake Zarathustra_;\n      publication of; second part of;\n      Nietzsche's attempt to complete poem;\n      its perfection of language; failure with public;\n      the fourth section\n    _Traveller and his Shadow, The_\n    Treischke, Herr, German historian\n    Triebschen, Wagner at;\n      Christmas festivals at;\n      changed life of;\n      Wagner's departure from\n    _Tristan_\n    T\u00fcbingen\n    Turgenieff, Ivan\n    Turin; Nietzsche at\n    Tuscany\n    _Twilight of the Gods_\n    _Twilight of the Idols_\n\n    U\n\n    Universities, prestige of in Germany\n    _Use and Abuse of History, The_\n\n    V\n\n    V. P., Madame\n    _Valkyrie, The,_ Nietzsche's criticism of\n    Vallambrosa\n    Vauvenargues\n    Venice;\n      Nietzsche's visit to;\n      Nietzsche with Gast at\n    Vibac\n    Voltaire\n\n    W\n\n    Wagner, Cosima;\n      Nietzsche and\n    Wagner, Richard, Nietzsche's discovery\n      of and acquaintance with;\n      and Schopenhauer; at Triebschen;\n      his treatise _On the State and Religion_;\n      interest in Nietzsche and correspondence;\n      the \"poet of Germany\";\n      and the Beethoven centenary;\n      and the German victories;\n      buffoonery of;\n      advises Nietzsche on his work;\n      his intimates;\n      visits Mannheim with Nietzsche;\n      Nietzsche spends Christmas with;\n      praises _The Birth of Tragedy_;\n      leaves Triebschen;\n      lays foundation-stone of Bayreuth Theatre;\n      his distrust; the Wagnerian cult;\n      renewed intimacy with Nietzsche;\n      mention of;\n      difficulties at Bayreuth;\n      as an \"art\";\n      his liking for Nietzsche;\n      relations with Nietzsche;\n      letters to Nietzsche;\n      Nietzsche's book on;\n      his neo-Christianity;\n      triumphs of; at Sorrento;\n      and _Human, All Too Human_;\n      references to;\n      death of;\n      further references to;\n      _Case of Wagner_;\n      _Nietzsche contra Wagner_\n    Wahnfried\n    War, Nietzsche's views on\n    Weimar; Nietzsche's death at\n    _Will to Power, The_\n    Willamowitz\n    William, Emperor\n    Windisch\n    Wissenberg\n    Wolf, F. A.\n    _World as Will and Representation, The_\n    W\u00f6rth\n\n    Z\n\n    Zarathustra;\n      \"the lawgiver\"\n    Zarncke\n    Zimmern, Miss\n    Zoagli\n    Zola\n    Z\u00fcrich, Nietzsche at","title":"The life of Friedrich Nietzsche","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":111230}